Passing thoughts

Staring at a blank screen, cursor flashing, and my mind is just as blank. I’m not where I want to be. Emotionally, physically, career-wise; I just feel lost and disappointed in myself. Like, you could be better than this, you know? You could be doing so much more than this, be more, write more, and feel more. Everything always just starts to feel forced: the smiles, the writing, the laughter.

I want to like him and then I second guess myself. Am I doing that thing that I do again? The over-analyzing the other person because I’m holding them up to that standard, comparing them to him up there on the pedestal? You can’t do that – I tell myself – they’re not the same; they’ll never be the same. So what if he doesn’t make you laugh? So what if you don’t have butterflies in your stomach when you’re kissing? So what? You’re still having a good time, so – what?

Everyone here makes me feel insecure. Everyone is a better writer than me, established better in their careers, has more connections, more notches on their resume, bylines to show for it. I’m a fucking great writer, aren’t I? Why can’t I do that shit? Why can’t anyone seem to see how great I am? Everyone here is more athletic than me, going to the gym every day, running marathons, being active. Why am I just so lazy about it all? Where is the fire I can light under my ass to get me to really want to get out there and bust my ass for it? I feel like everyone my age it doing more than I am and I can’t just seem to get it together.

I keep telling myself I’ll try more, harder, to be better. But then I just get to a screen and everything goes blank. I don’t want to do anything about it. I am stagnant.

I know I can, I know I can, I know I can. But I can’t.

I’m preoccupied at the thought of the future, of not wanting to be here, of him. 

Emmett. 

Of wanting to be with him; like he is the key to make the rest of these pieces fall into place. If he were with me, I would be happy. And then we could go somewhere and live together and be happy together. He would inspire me and motivate me and encourage me. Because he gets me – he gets what I’m about and what I do and what I want to do, where I want to be – because we’re so much the same.

I read through his blog the other day and cried. The way he writes makes me so envious, it’s so beautiful and poetic. His entries are sporadic just like mine. Sometimes they are epic novels and sometimes they are short stories. Sometimes they make a difference and sometimes they are just random thoughts. I want to write my story with him, write the story of our future together.

I hate everything else I have to say. It all seems so trivial. The world is so much bigger than we all are and why make a mountain out of our anthills of problems?

I hate my novel because I hate that it feels phony; I can’t convey all these thoughts of loss of a loved one since I’ve never really lost someone I loved. I based the idea on my loss of him but he never really went away, and he was never really mine to begin with. That’s why it’s so terrible. That’s why I have an ending that was just a cheater’s way out since I couldn’t figure out how to end it since things were never ended. It doesn’t even make any sense and it’s just cheap filler. It’s like when you eat something that makes you feel terrible and bloated right after but then you’re starving again a few hours later. Or if you ate something expensive or something that you hoped would taste great but was bland and flavorless, and you felt guilty about it, about how you were so excited for it and then hated it but you still had to pretend to like it anyway.

To be honest - I’m worried that’s how our relationship would be. Bland and flavorless, even though we hoped it would be mind-blowing.

Win Some, Lose Some

There are words inside my head, struggling to get out. I’ve been trying, but they just don’t seem to want to come. I have demons inside me too that are battling each other. They seem to have no problem slipping past from time to time. But the darker ones, the deeper rooted ones; those are the ones that are the worst. They fight and control me. They are the ones keeping the words inside because they don’t want the truth to come out.

........

We’re all battling something, hiding something, running from something. Most of the times, it’s from our own selves, from our past, our present, our future. We run from the things that scare us and from the things that bring us joy. We hide the person we used to be from the person we want everyone to think that we’ve become. We battle the guilt we feel over doing things, or not doing things, or not doing things the way we wish we had done them, or over the way we did something that did not lead to lifting this guilt.

I’m an Asshole. I’m selfish, egotistical, a sociopath; self-obsessed and un-remorseful. I’m opportunistic.  I do things without thinking of the consequences. I hurt other people without thinking of their feelings. And then I feel guilty about the pain I’ve caused, about the ways I’ve fucked up, about the people I’ve forced out of my life. 

I’ve left a wake of boys and men in my path for 10 years and I have nothing to show for it. 

But why?

I don’t have daddy issues, but I am an only child. I was never given everything and anything I wanted though. My parents made me work for everything I’ve ever had. I could blame the one person who ruined my entire life for me, but it didn’t just start there. I was doing this long before that – this erratic behavior - sometimes manipulation of their feelings, sometimes manipulation of my own. Shutting myself off and acting like I don’t give a fuck one second, then crying and pleading because I realized that I’m ruining, have ruined, a good thing. 

At first, maybe it was just boredom. The first boy I ever dated had an obsession with video games and became more interested in them than with me. So what did I do? I went out and found someone to be obsessed with me instead, while still dating the video game lover; an entire summer spent sneaking around behind his back. And then, when my new paramour ‘cheated’ on me with another girl, I was appalled and cut off contact with him; even though he was doing precisely the same thing I was doing to someone else. Then, he told me he loved me and I threw it back in his face. “You don’t love me. You don’t even know what love is.” And went back to vie for the video game lover’s attention.

I used them both to make myself feel better about myself, and in the end, I was just alone and felt miserable. Several years later, I even found myself with my paramour again, repeating the same cycle. I was obsessed over another boy who wouldn’t give me the time of day – and once again, he was there. So I led him on and baited him, and then dropped him like a bad habit once I had the attention of object of my desires. What a vicious cycle.

I want things my way, on my terms. Seems like a simple request, no? But I guess it borders on selfishness, wanting someone only when you want them, and the way you want them. Pushing them away when they’re too close, then struggling to draw them to you to get the attention you crave when it’s lacking. Pointing out all their flaws, the things that disgust you, finding reasons to leave or to not get close – then grasping at straws for the things you liked and loved, all the good points and great moments you shared while you’re watching them walk away. 

I thought maybe my destructive, abusive relationship may have been the root of this – and ok, maybe it can take the credit for some of it. He had played the game right back to me and he was better at it and he won. He could be blamed for the trust issues, for the not wanting to let anyone get close, to see the real you, for fear that they’ll realize you’re a disappointment and leave. That they’ll see those demons peeking out of your closet, find out who the real you really is, and despise it. Because everyone you let get close to you once at one point in time all turned on you and left you cold. Men who you’ve dragged through the mud, who would have gone to the ends of the Earth and back for you, but you never even bothered to give them the chance that they didn’t even know they never had. You played with their heart strings while playing apathetic.

And then finally, he came along. A person who you didn’t have to play games with, someone who finally understood you as you are and called you out on all your bullshit when you tried to play the game with him once and he wasn’t having it. And you didn’t have to fake it this time, the feeling was real. But he left – but not because of you – but he was still gone. And you reunited a few times and got closer, feelings grew deeper, and you thought to yourself – this is it, the thing people talk about all the time: 

Real Love. Soul mates. A partner for life. 

And you told him you loved him so because you swear you’d see it sparkling in his eyes whenever he looked at you, whenever he smiled that smile he only smiled for you. He did the things that no one else ever did, paying attention to all the tiniest details, and listening, really and truly listening to you. Caring for you, taking everything into consideration that made it worth it and you wanted to reciprocate all those things in the greatest way you knew how. 

And so you said those Three Little Words – words that you had uttered as a teenager without knowing the meaning, as a love sick college girl in the heat of the moment, on a dark winter night with someone you had once thought could have been the one, over the window of a car door while coerced by someone who had played the game back and won, and that one other time where you didn’t even mean it at all - and this time, you really, really meant those words this time. 

But he didn’t say them back. And then, the walls caved in all around you. You’d been waiting so long. It felt so right – how could this not be right!? 

It was time to play the game again. 

You hoped maybe if you played the game long enough, you’d find another him one day. Maybe you’ll find another one of him one day. I mean, you will right? You have to, right? 

So it was back to a string of dates with boys who didn’t make your heart skip a beat the same way, who didn’t send a charge through your body with a single kiss, whose eyes showed you something deeper when you looked into them. Try one on, see if it fits. Don’t like it, but buy it anyway. Regret it later but you’ve already cut off the tags so you can’t take it back now. You wanted to try and like them, to give them a chance instead of always holding them up to him for comparison. You really were trying. You were.

And then you found two pairs that you thought both looked great. One fit one way, and the other fit the other way. You would never be able to wear them to the same things; they both served different purposes and would have been great for different occasions. The first pair was newer, fit tighter, were the kind you wouldn’t want to take out of the closet unless it was important. So you left the first pair in the closet and bought the second pair. The second was more comfortable, an everyday kind of wear; reliable but you over wore them and took them for granted. You kept trying to find problems with the second pair that would give you a reason to wear the first pair, secretly lusting over the first pair, wondering what it would be like to wear those all the time instead. So, you wanted to see if you could try the first pair on for size and the second pair caught you. And then, you were left with none. 

You tried to go double or nothing and came up empty handed. You were greedy and selfish and now, you were alone again. And now you feel guilty. The second pair was great and was really starting to be your favorite. You had fun together. They complimented you and made you feel confident, alive, amazing, like you could have done anything. You could have taken on the world with the second pair by your side. They almost made your forget all about him. As much as you tried to fool yourself into thinking that you would never love them as much as you loved him, you were warming up to the idea. It wasn’t quite the same but it was a different kind of comfort, a different kind of fit. Like switching from a boot cut to a straight leg: They both looked great on you and hugged your curves in all the right places; they just gave you two totally different looks. They could have been your favorite.

I know I can’t make amends for the hurt that I’ve caused in the past, but if I could apologize knowing that my voice would be heard, and that they would accept my apologies, I would. I don’t want it to feel forced or feel like it’s falling on deaf ears. I want it to be genuine and real and honest. I want the other person to accept that I am trying to change here and give me that chance. But I think I’m past the point of repair.

You can’t make someone love you, but you sure as hell can make someone stop. And you can’t make someone stop hating you, but you sure know how to make them start.

I don’t know how to change the past but I think I know how to change my future. I don’t want to play the game anymore. I want to actively change my behavior to avoid this kind of destruction. I want to live without fear of being hurt because I can’t get past my past. I want to give you a chance and I want you to give me one too. Because we all deserve second chances in life – and I think it’s time I got mine.

Biggu Dikku, or My first and only Host Club adventure

If you're at all familiar with Japan's nightlife industry, then you're already aware of the abundance of Hostess bars/clubs that run rampant throughout all parts of the country. And if you're especially familiar with Tokyo's Red Light District, Kabuki-Cho, then you're also aware about the rising trend in Host Clubs. Similar to Hostess clubs, but instead, Guys with over-bleached and highly teased hair, pressed suits and pointy shoes cater to the fantasies of young girls, pouring their drinks, lighting their cigarettes, feigning interest and spewing forced compliments in order to make them feel like Princesses. (And to get them to spend money, of course.) 


My friends, "Malessa" and "Keira Knightly" (names changed for obvious embarrassment coverage reasons) and I decided when I came to visit that we would go see what all this Host Club fuss was all about. We had already picked up a magazine at the bookstore detailing the hottest and best Host Clubs and checked out which ones had the "Hottest Guys". After shopping all day and getting ourselves all dolled up for the evening, we headed over to Kabuki-cho to try and stake out a club with the best First-timer deal. (Most clubs have All you can drink specials for 2 hours for anywhere between ¥3000 and ¥5000) We instant ran across a large gaggle of Hosts in their pretty suits with their perfect hair readying to hand out flyers to girls passing by, but alas, we were overlooked: The perils of being a Gaijin (Foreigner). Since Foreigners are seen as being "dangerous" (plus the problems of the language barrier), we knew it might be hard to find a place to let us in. (Even though my friends were both fairly skilled in Japanese) 


As we got further and further away from the big bright lights and pretty boys into the deep, seedy, smelly underbelly of Kabuki-cho, we were about ready to give up and turn back when from out of the shadows we heard a "Hey! You!". ENGLISH!? Could it be!? And so we turned around and were met with a portly looking Yakuza wannabe guy holding flyers. He said one thing and one thing only as he handed us the flyer with the special: "I have Biggu Dikku". We exchanged nervous giggles and checked it out:the special was ¥500/hr - all you can drink. Sure! Sounded great to us! If all else failed, at least we could get drunk for cheap. So the Manager came out to greet us and ushered us downstairs and inside to the club. We gave our coats to the attendant and were lead to a table.

Wow. That's all I could say. This place was like, the dumpiest version of a host club ever. It was fairly small and everything was covered in pink drapery; There were a few fake cherry blossom trees in the corners and white Christmas lights were hung all around the room for "ambiance". Soon our hosts arrived. I sat in the middle so that my friends could speak with the hosts and translate for me. We were given a bottle of Green Sho-chu (Japanese Whiskey; Well, Korean if you want to get technical) and asked to select a beverage to drink with it. I went with Cola. Our hosts daintily placed coasters with the club's name, CLUB HERO, emblazoned on them in front of each of us. Then they produced small glasses for each of us and a bucket of ice and filled each of our glasses accordingly. Then they produced a set of glasses for themselves and politely asked if it was alright if they had drinks as well. (They have to ask your permission first.) 

We had one attractive host, one semi-attractive host and one host that was ugly as sin. But they all had one thing in common: they were dumb as bricks. As they asked us questions about what we were doing in Japan, where we were from, etc., we were asked such gems as "What language do they speak in England?" (Keira told them she was British) and "Do they have cell phones in America?" We also went around and said what celebrity we thought we looked like: The hot one said Johnny Depp; The Fuggo one answered 'Bart Simpson'. It was pretty accurate - he was tan and had a squished nose, spiky hair and very gaped teeth. We then asked if we could switch guys and were given a menu (or Man-u, if you will. Har Har) to look at. We selected some good looking prospects and Bart Simpson was sent away.... But so was Johnny Depp! WHAT? NO! We didn't want to get rid of the good looking one! Another semi -attractive guy came and a guy who referred to himself as Jack Black. To which, somewhat already intoxicated Keira said "OH HELL NO! SWITCH!" And we were brought another guy in his place. At that point we just didn't even care anymore and were just drinking for the sake of making the whole experience less painful. By the time our 2 hours were up, we had killed 2 big bottles of Sho-chu. 

But we didn't want the night to end yet! It was still early! So Malessa suggested we go to the Host Club she had went to the week before, which just so happened to be the #2 Host Club in all of Kabuki-cho. She was worried she wouldn't get the first time discount because she had just been there and, as much as Foreigners 'all look the same' to the Japanese - her blond & black streaked hair and big boobs pretty much singled her out. Luckily she worked it out with the Manager and it was like "Oh yes, this is your first time right? wink wink nudge nudge" The club was also very busy so they could only give us 1 or 2 hosts at a time, which was fine by us. Malessa found the host she was flirting with the week before and went to work her magic in trying to get him into bed. The hosts at this club were slightly better looking than the dumpy club and just as dumb. They also kept saying they had "Biggu Pen-Is" (Is constantly reciting this phrase supposed to entice girls?) 

We ordered some more Sho-chu and Orange juice, but then our hosts got called away when some chick at the table across from us bought a bottle of champagne. Traditionally at host clubs, when a girl buys a bottle of champagne (which generally runs about ¥30,000), all the hosts in the club come over to her table and do a "Champagne Call" where they pop the bottle and serenade her with their special Host club song. Well, Keira and I were getting pissed! There was no one there to make us feel special and pour our drinks. So we decided to pretend we were hosts and pour our own. "Where from!? Where from!?", we imitated as we sloppily overpoured and proceeded to forget the rest of the events of the evening entirely. The last thing I remember was eating the fake rock chocolate on the table and letting a host in a v-neck and a blazer touch my boob because I said, "It's ok - I know you don't have them here". Keira apparently flashed the entire club and was talking to girls at random tables and got yelled at by the manager. 
.........


Keira and I woke up still drunk/horribly hungover the next morning after apparently suffering through a cab ride that involved us stopping to puke multiple times and ended with me being chased by the taxi driver with napkins as I struggled to maintain my modesty to puke on the sidewalk while my pants were hanging halfway down, exposing my pale white Gaijin ass to the Tokyo streets.


Oh Kabuki-cho. You make glorious memories!