Regretfully Hilarious

Sup, tumblr. Been a while. (From this particular outlet, at least.)

Took a Girl’s character test and surprise, surprise, I’m Jessa. I’m also a lot of Hannah, too, but that’s okay because I’m going to choose to ignore that in what I consider to be a very Jessa way (although I won’t deny there are similarities). While I’m aware that I’m a far cry from being truly Jessa, I suppose I’m of the watered-down Notre Dame variety. I’ll take it. Reasons/life experiences to support this include the following: (And if any of them more support my Hannah habits, well, just keep that to yourself.)

1. I’m kind of a fucking weirdo when it comes to guys. Getting a guy to drive you back to campus just so you can ditch him to meet up with another guy (who you only persuaded to come by exaggerating that the situation was a lot worse than it actually was) is pretty much the definition of bitch move. And then I just kind of cried on a bench next to him as he just put his head on my lap. To be fair, I apologized. A lot. ‘We’re not even friends,’ I said, and that’s the saddest part - it’s true. We’re sometimes weekend friends, which is fine except for when it’s not because I feel all this pressure to text him but I don’t want to seem needy and desperate. I think I crossed that line a while ago with his friend group, actually, but I’m too self-conscious to just take a full leap of faith at this point.

Fuck fuck fuck. I want too much. I want to keep hooking up with him but I also want to be friends, and at that point isn’t that just a relationship? I get too confused between those two points because even though I was so sure I didn’t want a relationship, I’m starting to think I actually do. I haven’t liked anyone in a really long time. To be fair, I don’t think I like him that much, I just have an overactive imagination and sense of paranoia. If I was really Jessa, I’d have thrown all my cards on the table two nights ago. And the year’s almost over. Fuck you, Camille. Just suck it up and keep it there and focus on summer.

Update: hahahahahahaha it’s his birthday FUCK THAT

2. I suck at internships/interviews/jobs which is lame because I’m actually a very good worker - a damn sight better than some of these other kids who get internships with Jimmy Fallon - but when it comes to selling myself, I’m the worst. That’s the opposite of Jessa, kind of. That girl can sell herself. Not even Azealia Banks or Iggy Azalea were enough to help me overcome internet connection problems. At least I’ll be coming home, even if it means returning as something of a failure.

3. Is there a 3? At this point I’m way too focussed on issue 1. Oh, well, I suppose there’s another issue I could throw out there. I’ve been so much better at socializing this semester that I guess I got a little too good at it. There’s one person I wish I could reach out to and fix things with. I kind of tried a few weeks ago, but that was a fail of epic proportions on my part and eventually I just fell asleep because there comes a point around 3 am when sleep becomes an easy obsession and then a reality. Almost summer. Suck it up, baby. Suck it up.

4. Literally failing a course right now. Lied to administration to keep the 20% late penalty for a very important paper (which I probably bombed anyway) and then lied some more to provide documentation for the first lie. Aren’tcha proud of me, mama?

5. Fuck this, I need a shower and then some library time. Basket case out.

Note: Reposted from a class blog discussing The Belly of the Atlantic by Fatou Diome because I’m homesick and complicated and a special little snowflake, all right?

I never expected to relate to The Belly of the Atlantic anywhere near as much as I have, but the last section of the book struck a chord within me that was intensely intimate. True, the time of year has heightened my awareness of how far I am from home, but some of the Fatou Diome’s lines rang too true for me to simply be projecting my homesickness onto everything I come in contact with (although I can be guilty of that, as well). Although I have not experienced the specific types of racial and religious tension that she touches upon, other themes such as introversion and exile are definitely appropriate.

Salie’s discomfort in her native Senegal as well as France is very similar to my relationship with Hawaii and Chile. Although I love Hawaii and proudly call it home, I do not fit the demographic that makes up the majority of the population and I am most definitely not Pacific Islander. As an obvious white female, or even as a not-so-obvious Latina, I have always dwelled on the outskirts. Although my brother - who was blessed with my mother’s darker tone - can blend in, I am unable to do so in a society that arguably revolves around life on the beach where swimsuits are designed to maximize the amount of skin shown. There is a certain shame I associate with being white due to the history between capitalistic white men and missionaries who claimed the islands for themselves, which I am especially reminded of whenever I see the shirts and signs of nativist organizations like Kau Inoa. However, it has been through my travels that I have realized that there is no other place that has a hold on me quite like Hawaii does. It was actually heart-breaking for me to realize how much it means to me because I know that I cannot stay there. Comparatively, Salie is an outsider in her own home and thus travels often, either to work or for an occasional vacation.

And yet even on the mainland, especially in places as heavily Caucasian as Notre Dame, I feel an obligation to my Chilean heritage as well. There is a guilt that also comes with not being able to speak fluent Spanish, which renders me relatively mute at family gatherings at my maternal grandparent’s house (not that I mind). Although I have done my best to assimilate as many traditions as possible into my life, such as traditional recipes, I will never be able to have the skin-deep connection to that side of my family that would identify me as one of them at first glance. They have had experiences that I will never have because of my pale body and red hair. It sounds ludicrous to wish for occurrences of racism against oneself, but then at least I might be able to identify with whatever specific struggles ‘my people’ have gone through. The closest I will ever come to that is when one of my closest friends, surprised to learn of my ethnicity, commented that I would be the exception to her rule of not associating with Mexicans. Although Salie typically differs from me in the respect that she is obviously African, which is emphasized time and time again in France, she experiences something like this when she is identified as French, and not Sengalese, by the hotel owner.

Salie and I both travel often between our home and distant locations, although I agree with her in that this has made us both independent. One particularly resonant quote was, “Leaving means having the courage necessary to go and give birth to oneself; being born of oneself is the most legitimate of births. Too bad for the painful separations and the kilometres of sorrow…To leave is to die of absence. You return, of course, but you return a different person.” Although we both have a specific home, we are forced to be strong enough to carry it within us for all the times when we are not there. Doing so is not easy; it separates you from your surroundings in a way that often catches up with you late at night. We seek our home where the fragmentation of identity blurs.

I may not go home for a very long time if I get an internship on the mainland this summer. My room will become a second storage area and my dog will forget that I love him more than anyone else in my family. My brother will grow up and my parents will cry when they take the time to finally go through the pictures hiding in plain sight in the corner of their room. No, my mother will cry more often, but she will cry hardest looking through the photos from when we were young. We’re not old now, not any of us, but it won’t be long before we are.

I may not go home this summer, but if I don’t then I will have a roommate. According to him, he will ‘go wherever I go’, which he didn’t even realize sounded ridiculously cheesy until I started laughing. We’re very different - he’s unapologetically loud and obnoxious and honest, while I am quiet and passive and often dishonest - but the fact of the matter is that I love him the way I incorrectly thought I loved my ex. I don’t know how to say “I love you, man” without saying it in those exact words, because the ‘man’ makes it sound insincere but is actually the most essential part of the sentence. I don’t love him the way I want to love my husband/soulmate, although I’d be lying if I said I haven’t tried thinking about him in a romantic light. I’ve only tried because in an ideal world I would be in love with my best friend who knew me better than anyone else, and for the first time ever that is undoubtedly him. That being said, any romantic/sexual inclinations would be forced on both of our sides.

Still, I do love him. I want to know where he is in a few years, even if we don’t talk for the rest of our lives starting…now. That won’t happen, though. We Skype weekly, which is 4x more than I do with my family. We text every day, but with the frequency and content of a real life conversation. Without glancing at the screen, I know when a text is from him because I’ll hear two or three consecutive bzzzs indicating an incoming paragraph of reactions, ideas, and questions. 

The three days I ignored him earlier this semester were lonely. Granted, it was partly due to the stressful amount of things I had to accomplish that week, but having a support system (which I knew was available to me, but nonetheless rejected) would have been nice. The main reason I halted our communication was due to my insecurities about our relationship. It occurred to me, though not for the first time, just how much I’ve shared with him and how well he knows me. I have a horrible suspicion about how I must appear to people who know me well, probably because that may be who I actually am. I strongly dislike that perception of myself beyond description. That version of me is meek and ambitious but too unoriginal and pretentious to achieve anything. Similarly, having some kind of idea about who I am prevents people from allowing me room to surprise them (and myself). I hate being boxed in just as much as Bullet Tillerman. 

So when I began to suspect that I had shared too much and that that was how he must see me, I instinctively retreated. I thought I’d reign it in and be much more stingy and selective with what I told him. Fortunately for me, I went back on this promise and embraced our friendship and this was one of the smarter decisions I’ve ever made in any of my relationships ever. Good for me, Camille. Good job.

Anyway, long story short, he’s my best friend and he’s not entirely aware of it because for some reason it seems horribly embarrassing to me that the person who knows me best in the world is someone I’ve met once face-to-face. We’re going to be indie darlings together and take the world by storm blah blah blah he calls me on my bullshit and I try to do the same for him blah blah blah he calls me a cheeky cunt because I am and I like that blah blah blah blah blah. Whenever I get really depressed, I imagine hugging him because he’s the only person I would feel comfortable hugging in real life if I was ever really sad (besides maybe my parents and, of course, Jaco Pastorius). I hope we end up rooming together. I swear it’s platonic and so if I ever mention him in real life and blush it’s only because it’s still a little weird to mention him in the real world to my real friends because I almost wonder if maybe I imagined him up in my head.

These are just about all my thoughts on him. Maybe one day he’ll be famous and then you’ll have your own thoughts on him, too. Just thought you ought to know.

Like, shit, man. I literally reassured someone like three days ago that it was totally platonic. I’m not your type, you’re not mine. That’s fine. And then I’m forced into asking you if you like me and I get a kind of yes answer. It’s flattering and really nice but at the same time kind of screws things over because now I don’t know if I can be comfortable with that. I want to be comfortable with that, but something inside me just instinctively retreats from anyone who likes me. 

The ironic thing is that I was just getting nervous about how much I told him and how well he knows me. It’s really fucking scary to think that someone knows you for multiple reasons, none of which sit well with me. I mean yeah, he was basically my best friend this past semester just in terms of having someone to talk to and laugh with and whatever. But that’s a very limited kind of friendship restricted to texting and the occasional skype convo. I’m not the same person I am in real life as I am in writing, so the possibility of actually hanging out this winter break is pretty scary.

Because I do want him to like me. A part of me wants every guy to like me. But I kind of don’t want him to like me because I don’t know if I like him, and I figure that if I don’t know then that’s probably my answer right there. 

It doesn’t matter anyway. I will never meet him and if I do, it will be for a few hours. If he still “sometimes” likes me after that, fine. And if not, fine. He said himself that he’s not trying to pressure me into anything because he values our friendship which is ten times more than any other guy has ever offered me. Except I’m worried that our friendship is really just a pity party focussed on me. It’s strange to think that all anyone can ever do is state something or ask a question. It makes me feel boring.

The more I think about it the more I question whether he really likes me or not, and I say that 100% seriously, not in a “oh gee there’s no way he could like me even though everyone else told me he liked me and then he told me he liked me because it just can’t be true” annoying bullshitty way. He admitted before that he wanted a girlfriend and he’s just so genuinely interested in people that it’s probably just a natural side effect to have the occasional feeling of something more than platonic friendship. Besides, “sometimes”. Yeah, “sometimes” sure sounded like “I don’t want to do long distance”, but the fact that “sometimes” is just “sometimes” is also pretty sketchy.

Whatever. None of this really matters because nothing is going to come of it. Unless this is me jinxing myself and I just created a new timeline where we end up having a child so we get married and then make a suicide pact and leave the kid to be an orphan so he/she/it can have an interesting life like Suzie wanted in Moonrise Kingdom.

I’m just really tired and jet-lagged and indulging in Hot Pockets is not helping so I’m just going to keep texting him until I collapse into bed. 

In a student programs meeting today, I made a joke. Last weekend’s movie - The Dark Knight Rises - made at least 2x the money of any other movie we’ve shown this semester. As the movie programmer, it was my job to inform the 50+ people of SUB how the movies did.

Typically, the conversation goes like this:

“How did movies do last weekend?”

“Good.”

“Good.”

 But this weekend was The Dark Knight Rises and I felt rich after counting all of the money and I was sitting at the center of the table (rather than my usual seat off to one forgotten side) and so I decided to go for it. I would do it.

“How did movies do last weekend?”

“Let’s just say…” oh god okay “…the Dark Knight wasn’t the only thing rising.”

For a horrible two seconds, people stared in surprise and confusion. The beginnings of a pity giggle could be heard from the corners of the room behind me.

I began to blush, but it was too late to back out now. I cast my eyes downward as my voice trailed off: “That wasn’t a sex joke, it was a ‘we made a lot of money’ joke”.

All of a sudden the pity giggles couldn’t be held in anymore, turning into genuine belly laughter. I was awkward and it was funny and I was funny and so they laughed at me and I laughed at myself and we all laughed. I think part of it had to do with the fact that I’m hardly well known or recognized among the group - although, granted, few are - and so it was surprising that such a strange, vaguely lewd comment could come from my mouth. More than a few people must have been wondering about my gender for a few seconds. I couldn’t stop the blood from rushing to my face but it was unavoidable, and I was too giddy to mind. I felt the boy next to me glancing at me with appreciative interest as he chuckled. My other movie programmer was surprised at my random outburst, but leaned over and smiled: “I’m so not going to let you forget this!”

The boy in charge who usually asks me about how the movies did would bend over, face contorted with unrestrained mirth, then try and regain his composure before it fell again. Later that night he would repost the quote on the Facebook group, but not before coming up to me and telling me how funny he found that.

Writing it like this makes it sound like much more than it actually was. The room wasn’t gasping from side pain from laughing, and a few minutes later (if that) we moved on. But making a room full of people laugh, especially as a shy introvert, was a really great experience because of the simple happiness those short moments contained. 

Things wrong with you:

1. You’re travel-sick. You’re jealous of everyone on every plane that flies overhead. There are a lot of planes flying overhead. If travel was cheaper and you were close to some kind of fucking civilization, you would not be here right now. You also keep dreaming about an island with one road going all the way around it, so obviously that’s not a sign of wishing you were in Hawaii.
2. You wish you had your parents here so you could mute them and just have them hug you.
3. You are so fucking sick and tired of teachers telling you to stop being so shy and reserved and quiet in class. You should be braver and just try to jump in! Because despite ten years of meetings and report card comments all saying the same thing, obviously you’re just shy and that’s easily correctable and it’s totally fine to judge you on the same scale as other kids for whom talking comes so naturally that it would actually be hard for them to shut the fuck up. Crying uncontrollably after every meeting with your Irish teacher is so normal. Also, breaking into Hollywood’s going to be super fun, considering it’s all about contacts - and obviously you’re fucking amazing at socializing.
4. Grades. Good job staying motivated, Camille. Good job caring about your future. Good job.
5. Your best - only? - friend is someone you’ve never met who lives on practically the other side of the country. (So that just basically says it all with regards to how you’ve been keeping up with everyone. Even people living in the same fucking dorm.) Actually, the only reason you’re friends with him is because you just whine about yourself all the time through writing, without having to worry about face-to-face interaction.
6. Part of your mouth feels like your teeth are going to fall out. So that’s fun.
There’s more. But that’s most of it and you have class in ten minutes.

I can’t decide what to do about this blog. I’m fairly certain no one’s checking in on it anymore, considering how long it’s been since I last wrote anything, so that’s some relief. Is what I’m even doing on here considered writing? It’s more the degenerate cousin of writing that is emotional venting. 

I just got a letter that made me cry a bit and made me laugh a lot and now I don’t want to give up on writing even though at this point it’s just kind of like, well…why not? I’ve given up on a lot lately. That’s okay as much as it isn’t, but as long as I haven’t given up completely on myself, then that’s all right. I’m not sure what the theme of last year was, but I think this year it’s being okay with falling short. As I’m learning, that can be really dangerous in terms of academics, but it’s necessary in terms of not expecting absolute perfection. Or even greatness. Or even, sometimes, just adequacy. Sometimes I’m not adequate, but more often than not I am. And that should be enough. I should be enough.

I’m going to stop screwing up with what I can and try to do better. I’m not going to manipulate my boss into asking me out on a date. I’m not going to lie to my teachers (as much) to make up for missing work. I’m really going to try to stop binging. And I’m going to try to stop pity partying for myself so much, especially at 3 in the morning, because there’s no way my roommate can’t hear me sobbing over my realization (5 years too late) that my grandfather must have known he was saying goodbye to me when he said he loved me over the phone the last time we spoke. I’m going to kind of try to not get so disconnected from people. 

Just one more month…

…until the HOBBIT.

Steve Holt! Camille Muth!

I don’t have any problems except that I’m a narcissistic, self-pitying, self-indulgent bitch.

I blame music. 

I think my music is better than yours, and I think I have a deeper connection/attachment to it than you do.