Revision is difficult if there isn't enough time to reflect on what works and what needs work in the piece. I wrote about six nonfiction pieces and finally wrote one that satisfied me yesterday, and it's hard to revise because I haven't had enough time away from it. However, the fiction piece is easy to revise, because I've had a span of time where I didn't change or read it. Because of that, I was able to go back and add/delete things that needed changing.
"Asphyxiation" isn't perfect by any means, but it seems as though with every revision, it is developing into something greater and greater. I don't mean in length, but I mean in meaning. It feels as though the message is becoming clearer and stronger, and I'm happy about that.
As for the nonfiction piece, it's not where I want it to be. I'm not really sure if it will ever get to a point where I'll be somewhat satisfied with it. Maybe it's because I don't like writing about myself; I always find it hard not to trip on my own words and sound either incredibly angry or self-deprecating. For some people, writing nonfiction comes easily, but for me, I can't seem to do it. I also don't like talking about myself to other people in normal conversation, so maybe that's part of it too. In any case, nonfiction is killing me.
As for the poetry, I'm pretending I never wrote that. It feels sappy and leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I wish I could write poetry like Billy Collins, but I can't boil down my emotions to concentrate and mold it into poetry.
I hope to edit the nonfiction as best I can, but I may change my mind again. I've been doing that a lot recently.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
The Revision Process
I am tackling the revision process the same way I would most things in my life in as organized a fashion that I can muster so I won’t miss anything and not rush myself through the process. I’m a terrible procrastinator (though sometimes my best work comes from instances where I waited until a few days prior to put my final touches on something). I don’t, however want to take that approach now because I’ve learned that there will be times when I sit down to write and will only come up with a blank sheet of paper. I always felt like that was some major flaw in my writing and something I could correct. I realize if I start out by giving myself an adequate amount of time it will be okay to have those glitches in my writing process. I will be revising my short story, Finding Mother where I was fairly happy with the first draft and my poem Give It a Rest which I thought was very bad. Maybe not so much “bad” as in it is likely the draft that will need the most work and be the hardest to come to a final decision (and right now I’m thinking of starting from scratch) so that my readers can really appreciate it and enjoy it.
This past weekend I read through all the comments that were provided in workshop and put them in order of the ones where similar items were called out and the one or two comments that only a couple of individuals brought to my attention. This week I plan on summarizing the issues into a condensed format that I can have on hand as I start working on each draft and then start to mark up my drafts with the hope to have a second draft ready by next class, then work over the weekend and hopefully have a decent finished product early next week for both the short story and the poem.
Cindy Davis
This past weekend I read through all the comments that were provided in workshop and put them in order of the ones where similar items were called out and the one or two comments that only a couple of individuals brought to my attention. This week I plan on summarizing the issues into a condensed format that I can have on hand as I start working on each draft and then start to mark up my drafts with the hope to have a second draft ready by next class, then work over the weekend and hopefully have a decent finished product early next week for both the short story and the poem.
Cindy Davis
Revision
I have mixed emotions about the revisions. I want to revise my papers so that I can improve them and get a deeper idea for myself so that I can clearly and concisely get my point across to my audience. However, I am not exactly looking forward to sitting down and critiquing these papers with everything else that I have to attend to at this time. I am revising my creative nonfiction piece and my flash nonfiction piece. I chose these two-pieces because I believe that I enjoyed reading them the most so I figured why not make them better so that maybe other people might enjoy reading them also. I believe what is going well for me is the fact that I am considering many different aspect for my revision. I am including many other ideas for improvement to my papers. My revising is allowing me the opportunity to make adjustments that I might not have made before. For example, I can make a better description for a character or I can edit a character by taking some features that he has and giving him other ones that will make him more understandable and enjoyable to the readers. I think the difficult part of the revision is trying to improve the story and the character without taking out specific parts of the story that I loved although it might not be the best fit for the story. After, I have put a story together that I completely love it is hard to scratch a specific part that I was excited I thought of when I first wrote the story. It is also hard to add parts to the story that I don't particularly enjoy and wouldn't relate to the story but I know will help the reader get a better understanding. But I know that when I am done revising my story should be much more exciting, enjoyable, and understanding to the reader.
Jaaziah Bethea.
Jaaziah Bethea.
Friday, December 3, 2010
Grow
I hear a faint ringing. It’s still there form a few nights ago. I remember the concert. Taking a high school friend I liked, Jen, to go see a Spanish synthpop band in a venue whose sole distinguishing factors were the cramped quarters and the emptied cans and sticky residue of Pabst Blue Ribbon on the floor. The wall of sound, the thick Spanish accent of the singer being overwhelmed by the lush, decadent instrumentation, sounded like 90’s club music with an 80’s alt-rock band thrown in for good measure. Layer after layer of synthesizer being added as songs went on, made it feel like those songs could go on infinitely. Dancing, strobe lights, waves of people, plaid shirts or not, jumping to the beat of the drum machine. We left very satisfied and excited and soon realized that we could barely hear each other speak. That post-concert ear ringing, more of a combination of high-pitch noise and a whoosh that stays stuck in your head after one too many hours standing next to the speakers. We laughed about it, holding each other up by arm as we walked back to th—
“Dude, dunk your nuts in that shit.”
Startled, I stop intensely staring at the salt shaker I was involuntarily handling and put it down. Steve, whose bearded face and gruff demeanor paralleled his speech pattern, spoke up. Pete sat there, laughing at the comment as he chowed down on his kebab sandwich. We were at Moby Dick House of Kebab. It was near closing time, so the place was, for the most part, empty. I realize that we were all talking… or something. “Uh, excuse me?”
“The hipster chick?”
“Uh… Jen or Sara?”
“Whoever was with us when we were at the pizza joint the other night.”
“Sara. She’s not a hipster. She listens to fucking Ricky Martin for god’s sake. Anyways, she has a boyfriend, remember? I’d rather not go around and try to compromise that by messing around with her anything…” Furrowed eyebrows glared at me. I remember talking to him about this before. Dammit. “…more than I already have already. Dammit dude, I’m not evil!”
“Stop being a pussy, man. He live around here?”
“…think he goes to JMU—“
“Then hit that shit like… like... like Chris Brown!” Pete and I cringe. He’s not very good with the similes.
“Oh, come on dude. What about Lisa, huh? Don’t tell me that didn’t suck completely. Especially her with that jackass.” For a split second, he held a sullen expression that betrayed his entire persona.
“Dude, that ogre? I can’t believe I actually tapped that! Or that anyone else would.” A wide smile on his face. He was back to normal.
“Well, whatever. I seriously can’t see myself with her anyways. We don’t exactly have much in common, and the 80’s pop star fascination and refusal to take anything seriously is… well, kind of a dealbreaker.” I tried to list the exact opposite traits Jen had to get Steve’s sometimes simplistically boorish sense of the world from intruding on my life once. I wonder if he ever plans to grow up.
Pete chimes in after finishing his sandwich in a sing-song voice “Fuck buddieeeees!”
Oh, Pete. “I fucking hate you. So anyways, I dunno. I want something to actually last this time? With someone I can actually envision myself being around on a regular basis.”
Steve, still laughing from Pete’s , picks up a doogh from the drink fridge, pays the cashier, and sits himself back down, chugging it down. That damn thing tastes like a watered down bottle of carbonated salty yogurt. Which it is. I never did understand why he always gets that when we’re here. He continues. “Anyways, I should call back that chick I met at that pizza place. Total freak, but man…”
“Weren’t you dating Mallorie?”
“Yeah, she’s all the way in Oregon now though. We decided to take a break. I’ll see her in December though, maybe get it on with her.
“Wait. Isn’t she Mormon?”
“Not like that’s gonna stop me from trying. Anyways, we gotta go. This place is about to close and Pete needs to get home. His parents are bitching about him getting home early tonight. And every fucking night from now on. Asshole.”
Pete speaks up. “Hey! Not my fault.”
“You’re the one who crashed their fucking car, retard.”
We walk back to Steve’s car, dropping off Pete before eventually driving me back, with little interesting occurring in between the few hours. I immediately head towards my bed and fell face first on the mattress. I have to close my ears now to hear the ringing again. It was starting to grow faint, as it usually does after a fairly long while. I might as well appreciate that haze of excitement, the energy that I associated with, absurdly enough, temporary hearing damage. It, after all, might not last.
“Dude, dunk your nuts in that shit.”
Startled, I stop intensely staring at the salt shaker I was involuntarily handling and put it down. Steve, whose bearded face and gruff demeanor paralleled his speech pattern, spoke up. Pete sat there, laughing at the comment as he chowed down on his kebab sandwich. We were at Moby Dick House of Kebab. It was near closing time, so the place was, for the most part, empty. I realize that we were all talking… or something. “Uh, excuse me?”
“The hipster chick?”
“Uh… Jen or Sara?”
“Whoever was with us when we were at the pizza joint the other night.”
“Sara. She’s not a hipster. She listens to fucking Ricky Martin for god’s sake. Anyways, she has a boyfriend, remember? I’d rather not go around and try to compromise that by messing around with her anything…” Furrowed eyebrows glared at me. I remember talking to him about this before. Dammit. “…more than I already have already. Dammit dude, I’m not evil!”
“Stop being a pussy, man. He live around here?”
“…think he goes to JMU—“
“Then hit that shit like… like... like Chris Brown!” Pete and I cringe. He’s not very good with the similes.
“Oh, come on dude. What about Lisa, huh? Don’t tell me that didn’t suck completely. Especially her with that jackass.” For a split second, he held a sullen expression that betrayed his entire persona.
“Dude, that ogre? I can’t believe I actually tapped that! Or that anyone else would.” A wide smile on his face. He was back to normal.
“Well, whatever. I seriously can’t see myself with her anyways. We don’t exactly have much in common, and the 80’s pop star fascination and refusal to take anything seriously is… well, kind of a dealbreaker.” I tried to list the exact opposite traits Jen had to get Steve’s sometimes simplistically boorish sense of the world from intruding on my life once. I wonder if he ever plans to grow up.
Pete chimes in after finishing his sandwich in a sing-song voice “Fuck buddieeeees!”
Oh, Pete. “I fucking hate you. So anyways, I dunno. I want something to actually last this time? With someone I can actually envision myself being around on a regular basis.”
Steve, still laughing from Pete’s , picks up a doogh from the drink fridge, pays the cashier, and sits himself back down, chugging it down. That damn thing tastes like a watered down bottle of carbonated salty yogurt. Which it is. I never did understand why he always gets that when we’re here. He continues. “Anyways, I should call back that chick I met at that pizza place. Total freak, but man…”
“Weren’t you dating Mallorie?”
“Yeah, she’s all the way in Oregon now though. We decided to take a break. I’ll see her in December though, maybe get it on with her.
“Wait. Isn’t she Mormon?”
“Not like that’s gonna stop me from trying. Anyways, we gotta go. This place is about to close and Pete needs to get home. His parents are bitching about him getting home early tonight. And every fucking night from now on. Asshole.”
Pete speaks up. “Hey! Not my fault.”
“You’re the one who crashed their fucking car, retard.”
We walk back to Steve’s car, dropping off Pete before eventually driving me back, with little interesting occurring in between the few hours. I immediately head towards my bed and fell face first on the mattress. I have to close my ears now to hear the ringing again. It was starting to grow faint, as it usually does after a fairly long while. I might as well appreciate that haze of excitement, the energy that I associated with, absurdly enough, temporary hearing damage. It, after all, might not last.
Nitesh Arora, Non-fiction
Dearest Roommate, Goodbye
Sitting at the large rectangular desk at the end of my hall, I heard the voices of all of my floormates enjoying their Saturday night. Apparently my hall had been unofficially dubbed as one of the party floors on campus, obvious to everyone but me. My floormates were squeezed into tiny dorm rooms blasting music through portable speakers, floors shaking because of the dancing and the large bass that had suddenly turned our ancient dorm rooms into covert dance clubs. Smuggling alcohol in juice bottles, they ran through our hall, nauseating odor of cheap booze wafting through the air. I sat alone at the end of the hall, studying. I wanted to go back into my room and sit in front of a desk that was actually mine, not a broken legged discolored chair in front of a desk meant for the hall. I wanted to have some peace and quiet while I was awake later than I wanted studying for tests that I was to have in slightly over twenty-four hours. I had paid just as much as my two other roommates to share our shoebox, with sane and mature roommates I would have been able to assert my right over my measly amount of space, allotted as my home for the year.
Since I became aware of the significance of August 27, 2009 as being Freshman Move-In Day I accepted that I’d have to share a room smaller than a prisoner’s cell with two other people. I hoped that my amicable nature would allow me to quickly become friends with my roommates. One of the few truly American pastimes I had enjoyed drilled into my head that roommates are legendary. These quintessential TV shows and movies showed guys meeting each other for the first time as they move in and growing to know each other so well that they would be chief characters through the entirety of each others’ lives, careers, weddings, children and all. My good fortune, however, had not struck. Freshman Move-In Day became another strike of reality for me.
My two roommates were John and Jake, the two Js. John became known as the tiny, adorable, stereotypical gay guy. Jake was the tall, came from military school, and said he hailed from Boston but his broken-English made us think differently. Whereas I awoke by 7:30 every morning both Jake and John slept in until the very last moment. While I finished my classes and returned to my room, John and I found Jake to occasionally return to the room and go to sleep around 6:00 AM. We had no idea where he went; sometimes we would just find army issued duffel bag missing and knew that we were safe. Jake had an eerie presence and lying about his background on multiple occasions had led us further away from trusting or feeling safe around him. Soon after classes began I noticed that Jake began to show dominance over both John and I and our room. Jake would mandate when the door could be open or closed, when music could be playing, and that any snacks in the room weren’t just the owner’s but to be shared by Jake. John would leave the room, drive home on weekends and sometimes sleep in friends’ rooms just to get away. With my parents four hours away, I did not have that privilege. No, Jake began to show his disdain for my “book-smart” personality, making cutting jokes about my not wanting to go to strange parties with him, not wanting to stay awake until the sunlight poked out of the sky, and not wanting to speak vulgarly. When Jake wanted to sleep he did and we were not allowed to get in his way. When I wanted to sleep, his music came streaming out of his amplifier and external speakers blasting until 4:00 AM meaning I had the opportunity to doze off in the first row of a twenty-three-person class. When I started to snore Jake started poking me, tapping me, pushing me, and hitting me. He leaned over from his top bunk and stretched his arm until it had reached the wall where I tried to hide from his “poking” and get sleep. Thus, I found myself a new home. The floor desk became known as my desk, where I could be expected to be reading, studying, emailing, and listening to music--anything to get away from Jake and avoid that room.
Every day, I would repeat to myself “Goodbye, dearest roommate, I hope to never see you again.” The day Jake was taken away by the police for assault became the last day I uttered my mantra and the first day that I started to breathe again.
Sitting at the large rectangular desk at the end of my hall, I heard the voices of all of my floormates enjoying their Saturday night. Apparently my hall had been unofficially dubbed as one of the party floors on campus, obvious to everyone but me. My floormates were squeezed into tiny dorm rooms blasting music through portable speakers, floors shaking because of the dancing and the large bass that had suddenly turned our ancient dorm rooms into covert dance clubs. Smuggling alcohol in juice bottles, they ran through our hall, nauseating odor of cheap booze wafting through the air. I sat alone at the end of the hall, studying. I wanted to go back into my room and sit in front of a desk that was actually mine, not a broken legged discolored chair in front of a desk meant for the hall. I wanted to have some peace and quiet while I was awake later than I wanted studying for tests that I was to have in slightly over twenty-four hours. I had paid just as much as my two other roommates to share our shoebox, with sane and mature roommates I would have been able to assert my right over my measly amount of space, allotted as my home for the year.
Since I became aware of the significance of August 27, 2009 as being Freshman Move-In Day I accepted that I’d have to share a room smaller than a prisoner’s cell with two other people. I hoped that my amicable nature would allow me to quickly become friends with my roommates. One of the few truly American pastimes I had enjoyed drilled into my head that roommates are legendary. These quintessential TV shows and movies showed guys meeting each other for the first time as they move in and growing to know each other so well that they would be chief characters through the entirety of each others’ lives, careers, weddings, children and all. My good fortune, however, had not struck. Freshman Move-In Day became another strike of reality for me.
My two roommates were John and Jake, the two Js. John became known as the tiny, adorable, stereotypical gay guy. Jake was the tall, came from military school, and said he hailed from Boston but his broken-English made us think differently. Whereas I awoke by 7:30 every morning both Jake and John slept in until the very last moment. While I finished my classes and returned to my room, John and I found Jake to occasionally return to the room and go to sleep around 6:00 AM. We had no idea where he went; sometimes we would just find army issued duffel bag missing and knew that we were safe. Jake had an eerie presence and lying about his background on multiple occasions had led us further away from trusting or feeling safe around him. Soon after classes began I noticed that Jake began to show dominance over both John and I and our room. Jake would mandate when the door could be open or closed, when music could be playing, and that any snacks in the room weren’t just the owner’s but to be shared by Jake. John would leave the room, drive home on weekends and sometimes sleep in friends’ rooms just to get away. With my parents four hours away, I did not have that privilege. No, Jake began to show his disdain for my “book-smart” personality, making cutting jokes about my not wanting to go to strange parties with him, not wanting to stay awake until the sunlight poked out of the sky, and not wanting to speak vulgarly. When Jake wanted to sleep he did and we were not allowed to get in his way. When I wanted to sleep, his music came streaming out of his amplifier and external speakers blasting until 4:00 AM meaning I had the opportunity to doze off in the first row of a twenty-three-person class. When I started to snore Jake started poking me, tapping me, pushing me, and hitting me. He leaned over from his top bunk and stretched his arm until it had reached the wall where I tried to hide from his “poking” and get sleep. Thus, I found myself a new home. The floor desk became known as my desk, where I could be expected to be reading, studying, emailing, and listening to music--anything to get away from Jake and avoid that room.
Every day, I would repeat to myself “Goodbye, dearest roommate, I hope to never see you again.” The day Jake was taken away by the police for assault became the last day I uttered my mantra and the first day that I started to breathe again.
Changing of the Guard
She was the “hip” Aunt. Aunt Mildred, the life of the party, the “fun” Aunt. Did it matter that she abandoned her son to live it up while her older sister took up her parental responsibilities? Did it matter that she drank too much and too often and spilled the beans about my hidden paternity in a drunken, laughing frenzy when I was only 13 years old? Every family has skeletons but I’m sure my parents didn’t want that one to jump out the closet at that moment. I’m sure my Mom wanted more time. I could tell because it was the first time I saw Mom cry.
Since she was the one to inform me that my Dad was my Dad in name only and that another man was actually my sperm donor, it was only fitting that when it came time to look him up that I would go to her. Sure enough, she was able to track him down and we all went to see him, this tall, larger than life man, so full of himself (and I wonder where I get it from). Looking at him was like looking at me, only with less hair. I didn’t want a relationship with the guy, only to know he existed and Aunt Mildred helped me fulfill that desire and she never told my Mom of our visit, she knew it would break her heart.
I remember one time I asked her what a speak easy was, she simply responded, “drugs, fun and funk,” and proceeded to take me across the street to the establishment that my parents always turned their nose up at as we drove by to get to her house. It really was nothing but a juke joint with tattered wooden floors and worn out stools next to the make-shift bar….it did smell pretty bad in there, I’m sure there was drug activity but it was too dark to see and if this was someone’s idea of fun, well, I pity them. The thing is I got to see it. Aunt Mildred was always willing to allow me to see the truth in life, the truth that I never would have learned growing up in suburbia where manicured lawns and dinner parties were standard.
When I heard she’d had a stroke I knew it had to be bad. She was always petite and 6 months in the hospital in recovery whittled her away to nothing. But unlike the other stroke victims I had known in my family, she can’t speak, all she can muster these days are mere grunts. I would imagine her lifestyle didn’t lend to having the best options in healthcare.
She exists now a shell of the fun and hip Aunt that I grew to love. That sly grin that was her trademark is the only thing the stroke didn’t take from her. Oh, and her appetite. I wonder did she ever imagine that this is how she would live out her later years? Does she have any regrets? What would she say to me if she could regain her speech, what advice would she give?
The one thing that befuddles me and probably will until the day I die is that my Mother is her caretaker. The sister who revealed her deepest, darkest secret and shattered her world when she thought a marriage and quick adoption could hide her teenage error. Obviously all is forgiven, right? In life we all experience the changing of the guard, but could either one of them imagine that their roles would morph into caregiver and invalid? One day I will have to ask both of them just that.
Cindy Davis
Since she was the one to inform me that my Dad was my Dad in name only and that another man was actually my sperm donor, it was only fitting that when it came time to look him up that I would go to her. Sure enough, she was able to track him down and we all went to see him, this tall, larger than life man, so full of himself (and I wonder where I get it from). Looking at him was like looking at me, only with less hair. I didn’t want a relationship with the guy, only to know he existed and Aunt Mildred helped me fulfill that desire and she never told my Mom of our visit, she knew it would break her heart.
I remember one time I asked her what a speak easy was, she simply responded, “drugs, fun and funk,” and proceeded to take me across the street to the establishment that my parents always turned their nose up at as we drove by to get to her house. It really was nothing but a juke joint with tattered wooden floors and worn out stools next to the make-shift bar….it did smell pretty bad in there, I’m sure there was drug activity but it was too dark to see and if this was someone’s idea of fun, well, I pity them. The thing is I got to see it. Aunt Mildred was always willing to allow me to see the truth in life, the truth that I never would have learned growing up in suburbia where manicured lawns and dinner parties were standard.
When I heard she’d had a stroke I knew it had to be bad. She was always petite and 6 months in the hospital in recovery whittled her away to nothing. But unlike the other stroke victims I had known in my family, she can’t speak, all she can muster these days are mere grunts. I would imagine her lifestyle didn’t lend to having the best options in healthcare.
She exists now a shell of the fun and hip Aunt that I grew to love. That sly grin that was her trademark is the only thing the stroke didn’t take from her. Oh, and her appetite. I wonder did she ever imagine that this is how she would live out her later years? Does she have any regrets? What would she say to me if she could regain her speech, what advice would she give?
The one thing that befuddles me and probably will until the day I die is that my Mother is her caretaker. The sister who revealed her deepest, darkest secret and shattered her world when she thought a marriage and quick adoption could hide her teenage error. Obviously all is forgiven, right? In life we all experience the changing of the guard, but could either one of them imagine that their roles would morph into caregiver and invalid? One day I will have to ask both of them just that.
Cindy Davis
Ashley's nonfiction
Ashley Sumpter
Non Fiction
Just get Over it!
Isn’t it funny how sometimes you get that feeling? That feeling of this girl is nothing but trouble and I better keep my eyes on her. I had what I thought to be an amazing circle of friends. I had met them when my boyfriend and I started dating. We all hung out at least twice a week if not more. We had thirsty Thursday at Mike’s dorm every Thursday and often hung out on Saturdays for two years. We all had our own personalities we brought to the group. Mike my boyfriend the thoughtful one always trying to please and kept the cool, Magnaughty, the super comedic hippie, Josh our ghetto Asian, Megan joshes girlfriend that annoyed the hell out of us and that none of us could stand, Chelsea the people pleaser, I guess I would be the one who would do anything for you until you crossed me, and the playboy bunny tattooed stupid slut Amber.
We were all wonderful friends who at times had their moments but for the most part got along. The girls would often try to have girl outings. I considered Stupid Bitch Amber and Chelsea to be my best friends. Then I started noticing that I was being left out of things. Thanks to this stupid thing called Facebook I was able to pry into my best friends’ lives and see that I wasn’t invited to go to Kings Dominion, county fairs, shopping, movies, dinners, and many other things. I would always confront them when alcohol was involved, not my best moments nor the best time to bring up something that was upsetting to me. While in the bathroom with dumb whore Amber and Chelsea I got the courage to ask.
“I saw that you guys went to Kings Dominion…when did you go?” I asked
“Umm.. Last Saturday.” Chelsea would say
“Ya, It was like so much fun.” Amber would add
“Great” with sarcasm I would say “How come you guys didn’t call me?”
“It was last minute.” Or “We didn’t think you would want to come.” Or “We thought you were working.” Or “We just didn’t think to call you” were some of their many responses as to why I was not invited to come.
It really sounds so pathetic really, who nags their friends to spend time with them? But I thought these girls were my best friends’ one would think that friends usually would want to spend time together. Well this was not the case with my so called friends.
Then one night while drinking with my “friends” I started noticing that this white trash Amber was flirting with my Mike. I couldn’t believe it and it took every ounce of me not to go up to the both of them and take care of the situation but I like to think of myself as somewhat of a classy girl who would not start a verbal fight with her flirting boyfriend and an all out cat fight with a stupid bitch. So I kept my cool.
“Chelsea, cigarette?” I don’t smoke so she knew that I needed to talk.
We take the elevator down and go outside “to have a cigarette” and I am just fuming.
“Did you see Amber and Mike?” I asked
“Yea, they really seem to be flirting”
“I KNOW! I can’t believe this bull shit! What the fuck I thought she was my friend, friends don’t do that shit to each other. Oh, and don’t think he’s all off the hook. It takes two to tango.”
“Well I probably shouldn’t tell you this but I think Amber likes Mike.”
THAT FUCKING BITCH! I want to scream. I want to explode. I’m not the physical type but I want to slap the bitch. I need everyone to go home but most of all I need to keep my cool. Eventually everyone leaves way too drunk to drive and I try to let it out to my boyfriend without seeming insane.
While climbing into bed I say, “You seemed to be talking to Amber a lot tonight.”
“I was just being friendly.” He says
“Well it seemed like you guys were flirting to me.”
“I wasn’t flirting.”
“Well it seemed like you were”
“I wasn’t Ashley”
“Well, Chelsea said that she thinks Amber likes you, so can you be a little less ‘friendly’?”
“Sure but I wasn’t flirting with her.”
Growing more agitated I say, “well it sure seemed like it Mike, sometimes it not what you do but how others see it. So why all of a sudden you are being so ‘friendly’ with her.”
“Ashley I love you. She’s not my type not to mention she’s the typical air head, I like a girl with brains” he says as he kisses my forehead.
I really want to believe him but deep down I have this feeling in my stomach. “She’s not my type” keeps running in my head and then I start to think but wait I’m not really his type either. I have brown hair all of his girlfriends before were blonde. I’m a big family person and extraverted all of his other girlfriends came from small families and introverted. He also mentioned how he could never date a girl who was as trashy as she is, also he hates tattoos and she has two too many. So I let it go. Things seem to become consistent; we keep partying, she being “friendly” with him, him not being as “friendly” with her, and me being left out by the girls I considered my best friends.
So somewhere after two and a half years Mike and I break up on decent terms. He chooses not to do the whole “let’s be friends” thing because it would be “too hard to see you with someone else.” We don’t talk for two months, then one night I call him drunk while out with my rugby gals.
“Mike, come pick me up.” I say in my drunkenness.
“Ashley, no”
“Please Mike I miss you.” I say being a good manipulator I know what to say to get him to come get me.
“No you don’t”
“Yes I do” and I ramble, I ‘remind’ him about the good times, I cry and I say some other stuff I will never remember.
Sure enough he comes and gets me.
The next morning comes and it’s awkward. God why did I call him I think. As awkward as it was I was somewhat happy. I always wanted things to work with me and Mike, here could be our second chance I thought and deep down I wanted him to think that too. I get my stuff together we get into the car and he drives me to my car.
“What’s wrong?” I ask seeing his I’m thinking, confused face
“Nothing.”
“Mike you can’t fool me what’s up?”
“I just feel bad”
“bad about what?”
“Well I’m kinda seeing someone and I feel bad.”
Ok, deep breath. what did you expect? You haven’t talked to him in two months, what did you think things would go back the way they were? Do you want things the way they were? God why did I call him? I think to myself.
“Oh…well…umm” God this is so awkward! How much longer til we get to my car, oh thank God we’re almost here.
We pull up to my car. Before I get out I give him a hug say my goodbyes and tell him to call me if he wants. As he pulls off and I get into my car, I cry. Why was I so stupid?
Slowly Mike and I patched things up. November and December we see each other twice; great we’re a booty call. January once a month turns into every two weeks; ok we’re kind of working things out. February and March once a week to twice a week; we’re dating again? April, guess we are working it out we are “facebook official”.
While Mike and I were broken up I really learned who my true friends were, not once did any of our circle of friends try to contact me. It didn’t take long for facebook to inform me as to why.
I can’t help but get angry. So that person Mike was seeing and felt bad about was fucking Amber. I felt like I was in the movie Mean Girls. Amber was my Regina George! I wanted to throw her in front of a bus. Here was this girl I thought was my friend! I felt so betrayed by her and by him. How could they do that to me!
I tried to keep it in. Things we going good and I really didn’t want to fight especially about something that happened while we were broken up but how was I to get past this betrayal? It kept eating at me; I was balloon about to bust. After a night of drinking BOOM! I had exploded.
“You fucked Amber”
“Who told you?”
“No one had to fucking tell me! I’m not an idiot! She was the one you felt bad about! Don’t even fucking lie to me about it! She was my fucking friend!”
“ It happened while we were broken up. It only happened once, I was lonely and she was there.”
“What that’s your excuse ‘she was there’ really that’s your answer! It doesn’t matter that it happened when we we’re broken up! Out of respect for me! I knew it! I knew you Fucking liked her!”
“I didn’t like her”
“No, NO, don’t fucking say that to me you did like her! Damn it Mike you were flirting with her while we were still together! ‘No Ashley I could never be with someone like her, she’s dumb, she so trashy, I can’t stand her tattoos.’ Well I guess you changed your mind! you did liked her all along! You gave me such a hard time when I got my tattoo and mine is well done and meaningful! So how was fucking the girl who would fuck anything with a penis! You like her stupid playboy bunny tattoo near her nasty crab infested…..God Mike I hope you got fucking tested!”
“You fucked other people too!”
“Yes but no one from our circle! No one that you thought was your friend! No one you knew! That a little different Mike!”
This shouldn’t matter this is really so stupid! It happened while we were apart, this should not matter! The issue was not that he was having sex with other people but the fact that it was with someone who I thought was my friend. I felt so betrayed and it took me a long time to get over it and even then I’m not completely over it.
Soon after our fight Chelsea calls me wanting to hang out and like an idiot I say yes. It feels so awkward meeting up with her at Hard Times. We sit at the bar drinking our blue moons and discussing things I’d rather not. Then the shit hit the fan.
“Well Amber never really liked you. She always told me not to invite you. I really wanted all of us to be friends.”
“Oh so you knew Amber didn’t like me? And because she didn’t want me to come you agreed with her and didn’t invite me?” my tone almost as strict as an adult talking to a child.
“Well I wanted you to come; I always asked my how you were doing?”
“Chelsea, is that really supposed to make me feel better? You lied to me for two years. You made me feel unthought-of , or unwanted and always made up excesses as to why I wasn’t invited. Why didn’t you just say ‘Amber doesn’t want you to come’?”
“I wanted us all to be friends.”
“So you lied, how could we be friends? You didn’t care about my feelings so for you two years you put my feeling on the back burner for this nonexistent Utopia. All you had to do was tell me that she doesn’t like you and then I’d know that that’s why and not because it was ‘last minute, or we didn’t think to call you.’ I felt so left out and so rejected for two years. Well that’s great you asked Mike how I was doing but really you couldn’t have called, texted, emailed, facebooked…really Chelsea you couldn’t have done any of that.”
I really don’t know why I still hold this anger towards her mostly. Yes it was upsetting to me that she broke ‘girl code’ by hooking up with my Mike. The fact that we were broken up meant nothing to me. He told me he could never be with someone like her and look what happened the first person he is seeing while we are broken up was that stupid girl he was flirting with before. I need to just get over this; it was over a year ago. Why do I still hold this in, why can’t I just let it go? I think a huge part of me is letting it fester because I had to reevaluate everything when I found out about my ‘best friends’ betrays.
I truly believe that a boyfriend should be a best friend. Mike was my best friend and the first to betray me. He told me he could never be with someone like her he assured me that he was just being ‘friendly’ and that I have nothing to worry about. Well who was the girl he say during the break up? The girl he said he could have never been with. He was flirting with her while we were together and because of that I am now insecure about any girl ‘friend’ he has. I feel as if deep down he has some other motive and deep down if we break up she’ll be the first one he calls. Then I would feel like an idiot thinking this girl was my friend, thinking she was just his friend when all along there were other motives. I learned not to be the naïve girlfriend.
Chelsea lied to me for so long, casting my feelings aside in hopes that we could all be friends. I thought we all were friends, I didn’t understand why I was never invited to things. For two years she lied to me and let me feel left out. When I really needed a friend she was not there. She had always told me that, “If something ever happened [between you and Mike] I would choose you, I’ve known him longer, but you’re more of a friend.” Oh yea well I guess not because when something did happen she wasn’t there. I learned not to be the all trusting friend.
Amber just hurt me because I thought she was my friend. She pretended to be my friend and in the end was when she showed her true self. She broke ‘girl code’ and for that being civil around her is impossible. What hurts me the most with Amber was not the fact that she slept with my Mike but the fact that she lied about being my friend and because Of her I had to reevaluate every friend in my life. I thought this girl was my friend for two years and then to be told “I was never your friend, you don’t know who your real friends are.” Devastated me. I couldn’t trust any of my friends and became unsure with myself and my friends. I learned to reevaluate my life and who my true friends were.
Non Fiction
Just get Over it!
Isn’t it funny how sometimes you get that feeling? That feeling of this girl is nothing but trouble and I better keep my eyes on her. I had what I thought to be an amazing circle of friends. I had met them when my boyfriend and I started dating. We all hung out at least twice a week if not more. We had thirsty Thursday at Mike’s dorm every Thursday and often hung out on Saturdays for two years. We all had our own personalities we brought to the group. Mike my boyfriend the thoughtful one always trying to please and kept the cool, Magnaughty, the super comedic hippie, Josh our ghetto Asian, Megan joshes girlfriend that annoyed the hell out of us and that none of us could stand, Chelsea the people pleaser, I guess I would be the one who would do anything for you until you crossed me, and the playboy bunny tattooed stupid slut Amber.
We were all wonderful friends who at times had their moments but for the most part got along. The girls would often try to have girl outings. I considered Stupid Bitch Amber and Chelsea to be my best friends. Then I started noticing that I was being left out of things. Thanks to this stupid thing called Facebook I was able to pry into my best friends’ lives and see that I wasn’t invited to go to Kings Dominion, county fairs, shopping, movies, dinners, and many other things. I would always confront them when alcohol was involved, not my best moments nor the best time to bring up something that was upsetting to me. While in the bathroom with dumb whore Amber and Chelsea I got the courage to ask.
“I saw that you guys went to Kings Dominion…when did you go?” I asked
“Umm.. Last Saturday.” Chelsea would say
“Ya, It was like so much fun.” Amber would add
“Great” with sarcasm I would say “How come you guys didn’t call me?”
“It was last minute.” Or “We didn’t think you would want to come.” Or “We thought you were working.” Or “We just didn’t think to call you” were some of their many responses as to why I was not invited to come.
It really sounds so pathetic really, who nags their friends to spend time with them? But I thought these girls were my best friends’ one would think that friends usually would want to spend time together. Well this was not the case with my so called friends.
Then one night while drinking with my “friends” I started noticing that this white trash Amber was flirting with my Mike. I couldn’t believe it and it took every ounce of me not to go up to the both of them and take care of the situation but I like to think of myself as somewhat of a classy girl who would not start a verbal fight with her flirting boyfriend and an all out cat fight with a stupid bitch. So I kept my cool.
“Chelsea, cigarette?” I don’t smoke so she knew that I needed to talk.
We take the elevator down and go outside “to have a cigarette” and I am just fuming.
“Did you see Amber and Mike?” I asked
“Yea, they really seem to be flirting”
“I KNOW! I can’t believe this bull shit! What the fuck I thought she was my friend, friends don’t do that shit to each other. Oh, and don’t think he’s all off the hook. It takes two to tango.”
“Well I probably shouldn’t tell you this but I think Amber likes Mike.”
THAT FUCKING BITCH! I want to scream. I want to explode. I’m not the physical type but I want to slap the bitch. I need everyone to go home but most of all I need to keep my cool. Eventually everyone leaves way too drunk to drive and I try to let it out to my boyfriend without seeming insane.
While climbing into bed I say, “You seemed to be talking to Amber a lot tonight.”
“I was just being friendly.” He says
“Well it seemed like you guys were flirting to me.”
“I wasn’t flirting.”
“Well it seemed like you were”
“I wasn’t Ashley”
“Well, Chelsea said that she thinks Amber likes you, so can you be a little less ‘friendly’?”
“Sure but I wasn’t flirting with her.”
Growing more agitated I say, “well it sure seemed like it Mike, sometimes it not what you do but how others see it. So why all of a sudden you are being so ‘friendly’ with her.”
“Ashley I love you. She’s not my type not to mention she’s the typical air head, I like a girl with brains” he says as he kisses my forehead.
I really want to believe him but deep down I have this feeling in my stomach. “She’s not my type” keeps running in my head and then I start to think but wait I’m not really his type either. I have brown hair all of his girlfriends before were blonde. I’m a big family person and extraverted all of his other girlfriends came from small families and introverted. He also mentioned how he could never date a girl who was as trashy as she is, also he hates tattoos and she has two too many. So I let it go. Things seem to become consistent; we keep partying, she being “friendly” with him, him not being as “friendly” with her, and me being left out by the girls I considered my best friends.
So somewhere after two and a half years Mike and I break up on decent terms. He chooses not to do the whole “let’s be friends” thing because it would be “too hard to see you with someone else.” We don’t talk for two months, then one night I call him drunk while out with my rugby gals.
“Mike, come pick me up.” I say in my drunkenness.
“Ashley, no”
“Please Mike I miss you.” I say being a good manipulator I know what to say to get him to come get me.
“No you don’t”
“Yes I do” and I ramble, I ‘remind’ him about the good times, I cry and I say some other stuff I will never remember.
Sure enough he comes and gets me.
The next morning comes and it’s awkward. God why did I call him I think. As awkward as it was I was somewhat happy. I always wanted things to work with me and Mike, here could be our second chance I thought and deep down I wanted him to think that too. I get my stuff together we get into the car and he drives me to my car.
“What’s wrong?” I ask seeing his I’m thinking, confused face
“Nothing.”
“Mike you can’t fool me what’s up?”
“I just feel bad”
“bad about what?”
“Well I’m kinda seeing someone and I feel bad.”
Ok, deep breath. what did you expect? You haven’t talked to him in two months, what did you think things would go back the way they were? Do you want things the way they were? God why did I call him? I think to myself.
“Oh…well…umm” God this is so awkward! How much longer til we get to my car, oh thank God we’re almost here.
We pull up to my car. Before I get out I give him a hug say my goodbyes and tell him to call me if he wants. As he pulls off and I get into my car, I cry. Why was I so stupid?
Slowly Mike and I patched things up. November and December we see each other twice; great we’re a booty call. January once a month turns into every two weeks; ok we’re kind of working things out. February and March once a week to twice a week; we’re dating again? April, guess we are working it out we are “facebook official”.
While Mike and I were broken up I really learned who my true friends were, not once did any of our circle of friends try to contact me. It didn’t take long for facebook to inform me as to why.
I can’t help but get angry. So that person Mike was seeing and felt bad about was fucking Amber. I felt like I was in the movie Mean Girls. Amber was my Regina George! I wanted to throw her in front of a bus. Here was this girl I thought was my friend! I felt so betrayed by her and by him. How could they do that to me!
I tried to keep it in. Things we going good and I really didn’t want to fight especially about something that happened while we were broken up but how was I to get past this betrayal? It kept eating at me; I was balloon about to bust. After a night of drinking BOOM! I had exploded.
“You fucked Amber”
“Who told you?”
“No one had to fucking tell me! I’m not an idiot! She was the one you felt bad about! Don’t even fucking lie to me about it! She was my fucking friend!”
“ It happened while we were broken up. It only happened once, I was lonely and she was there.”
“What that’s your excuse ‘she was there’ really that’s your answer! It doesn’t matter that it happened when we we’re broken up! Out of respect for me! I knew it! I knew you Fucking liked her!”
“I didn’t like her”
“No, NO, don’t fucking say that to me you did like her! Damn it Mike you were flirting with her while we were still together! ‘No Ashley I could never be with someone like her, she’s dumb, she so trashy, I can’t stand her tattoos.’ Well I guess you changed your mind! you did liked her all along! You gave me such a hard time when I got my tattoo and mine is well done and meaningful! So how was fucking the girl who would fuck anything with a penis! You like her stupid playboy bunny tattoo near her nasty crab infested…..God Mike I hope you got fucking tested!”
“You fucked other people too!”
“Yes but no one from our circle! No one that you thought was your friend! No one you knew! That a little different Mike!”
This shouldn’t matter this is really so stupid! It happened while we were apart, this should not matter! The issue was not that he was having sex with other people but the fact that it was with someone who I thought was my friend. I felt so betrayed and it took me a long time to get over it and even then I’m not completely over it.
Soon after our fight Chelsea calls me wanting to hang out and like an idiot I say yes. It feels so awkward meeting up with her at Hard Times. We sit at the bar drinking our blue moons and discussing things I’d rather not. Then the shit hit the fan.
“Well Amber never really liked you. She always told me not to invite you. I really wanted all of us to be friends.”
“Oh so you knew Amber didn’t like me? And because she didn’t want me to come you agreed with her and didn’t invite me?” my tone almost as strict as an adult talking to a child.
“Well I wanted you to come; I always asked my how you were doing?”
“Chelsea, is that really supposed to make me feel better? You lied to me for two years. You made me feel unthought-of , or unwanted and always made up excesses as to why I wasn’t invited. Why didn’t you just say ‘Amber doesn’t want you to come’?”
“I wanted us all to be friends.”
“So you lied, how could we be friends? You didn’t care about my feelings so for you two years you put my feeling on the back burner for this nonexistent Utopia. All you had to do was tell me that she doesn’t like you and then I’d know that that’s why and not because it was ‘last minute, or we didn’t think to call you.’ I felt so left out and so rejected for two years. Well that’s great you asked Mike how I was doing but really you couldn’t have called, texted, emailed, facebooked…really Chelsea you couldn’t have done any of that.”
I really don’t know why I still hold this anger towards her mostly. Yes it was upsetting to me that she broke ‘girl code’ by hooking up with my Mike. The fact that we were broken up meant nothing to me. He told me he could never be with someone like her and look what happened the first person he is seeing while we are broken up was that stupid girl he was flirting with before. I need to just get over this; it was over a year ago. Why do I still hold this in, why can’t I just let it go? I think a huge part of me is letting it fester because I had to reevaluate everything when I found out about my ‘best friends’ betrays.
I truly believe that a boyfriend should be a best friend. Mike was my best friend and the first to betray me. He told me he could never be with someone like her he assured me that he was just being ‘friendly’ and that I have nothing to worry about. Well who was the girl he say during the break up? The girl he said he could have never been with. He was flirting with her while we were together and because of that I am now insecure about any girl ‘friend’ he has. I feel as if deep down he has some other motive and deep down if we break up she’ll be the first one he calls. Then I would feel like an idiot thinking this girl was my friend, thinking she was just his friend when all along there were other motives. I learned not to be the naïve girlfriend.
Chelsea lied to me for so long, casting my feelings aside in hopes that we could all be friends. I thought we all were friends, I didn’t understand why I was never invited to things. For two years she lied to me and let me feel left out. When I really needed a friend she was not there. She had always told me that, “If something ever happened [between you and Mike] I would choose you, I’ve known him longer, but you’re more of a friend.” Oh yea well I guess not because when something did happen she wasn’t there. I learned not to be the all trusting friend.
Amber just hurt me because I thought she was my friend. She pretended to be my friend and in the end was when she showed her true self. She broke ‘girl code’ and for that being civil around her is impossible. What hurts me the most with Amber was not the fact that she slept with my Mike but the fact that she lied about being my friend and because Of her I had to reevaluate every friend in my life. I thought this girl was my friend for two years and then to be told “I was never your friend, you don’t know who your real friends are.” Devastated me. I couldn’t trust any of my friends and became unsure with myself and my friends. I learned to reevaluate my life and who my true friends were.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)