Encounters of the Adorably Awkward Kind

(Two months ago, I wrote this as a fictional introductory piece for a creative writing course. Ultimately I concluded that I hated it, & ended up submitting a poem instead. Now that I come back to it, & am no longer interested in the person I wrote it about, it actually seems kinda cute, & only a little bit crap.)

“Um… So, tell me about yourself!” he chirped, a little too cheerfully. “I mean, I know you do improv, obviously, but… what else do you do?”

I giggled nervously and readjusted myself in my seat. “I play music. Guitar, piano, ukulele, singing, writing my own songs… And I like to hula hoop, and write…”

“Do you write about me?” he asked, and suddenly my body filled with guilt as I realized it was a serious question.

I sipped my latte to stall for time. “I write about everyone in my life. It’s not a big deal. I don’t write anything bad about you. I mean, obviously I think you’re pretty great, so…” Another unattractive nervous laugh. This was not going well. “Uh, you tell me about yourself now!” Smooth.

He looked so cute. It was extremely difficult to listen because I was too busy staring. I nodded periodically to make sure he felt I was keeping up, but mostly I was thinking back to the terror I’d experienced when, a week before, I’d finally gathered the courage to march up to him and ask him if he’d maybe, um, I dunno, like to get, like, a coffee or something sometime, or whatever. And he’d said yes. Simple, like it was nothing. And here we were.

“That’s so interesting. You’re so interesting,” I replied enthusiastically. I meant it, even though I hadn’t heard a word. I mean, there’s a reason I asked him out, other than his obvious physical charms.

He took a big bite out of his espresso-flavoured brownie and I glanced surreptitiously at the clock. A few long seconds ticked by.

“So… Are you my girlfriend now?”

My stomach pretty much fell to the bottom of my abdominal cavity. I swallowed. “Uh. Do you want me to be?”

Just as he went to speak, more words poured unstoppably out of my mouth: “Because I’d be into that. But only if you are. I mean, I know we’re both super busy. So I don’t know if it’s for sure the best idea. Even though I want to. I guess. Do you?”

“Yes.”

And just like that, my lungs filled up with happy and my blood was pumping happy and my pores were dripping happy. It hurt to breathe and all I could do was smile, and then I started to laugh, and then so did he, and it was, hands down, the best date I’ve ever been on.

three little poems about the same person

1. disorienting

oh funny freak i find you sooooo
disorienting & you don't even know it.
that eye contact you thought was
nothing? it was so much. those few
words you thought were empty? they were
overflowing with meaning - for me.
mid-conversation i spot you peripherally
& i'm gone. my sentence ends whether it was
finished or not. that's your effect on me.
i hope you know. i hope you never know.
i hope you feel it too even if i
know you don't. i hope you
feel it too. i hope. i
feel.

2. something terribly interesting

you walk by
& i
pretend to do
something terribly interesting
so you won't know
that what really interests me
is (of course) you

3. haircuts help my heart to heal

(so far) every time someone
has bruised, broken or betrayed
my little heart, i've spent a day & a night
swaddled in bedsheets & dripping in tears,
& the next time i saw
the criminal in question,
they'd changed their hair
(colors, cuts - why?)
& it looked so different
it was hard to imagine
they were the same
person i'd been so
affixed on
for so damn long.

Guest Profile: Arena

My name is... Arena, Thommie, Creature, That Weird Girl Who Sits Behind Me In Math... I'm known to respond to pretty much everything.

I indentify as... Bisexual.

I am attracted to... Humans. Especially the Ellen Page kind.

As for hobbies/interests... I love reading, acting, flirting, writing poetry and prose, singing my heart out, sending emails that no one will ever read, chairing my school's GSA, avidly reading PostSecrets and avidly sending in secrets of my own.

I usually hang around... Kabbyo's basement, bookstores, my school's art hall, Katherine's kitchen, the library, the library, Black Market, Alice's bedroom, Criminal Records, Mr Beans, and - although very rarely - my own home.

About my future... It's sort of undecided because my plans shift constantly. Currently, I have a desperate longing to go to U of T for Sexual Diversity Studies, After that, I plan on living in New York for a year because of an Allan Rickman pact I made when I was thirteen. I think after that I'd like to live in the village and hopefully get a job in queer rights activism.

10 adjectives to describe me... Awkward, Nostalgic, Nervous, inquisitive, Romantic, Capricious, Nosy, Humble, Zealous, and Childish.

sometimes i am ugly

sometimes i have dreams where
my teeth are crooked & my
skin crumples like old paper & my eyes
sink into my skull &
i am as ugly as you
make me feel;

sometimes i shuffle around the house
in old sweaters & sagging pants
& i can't remember that i could ever have been
a blushing beauty queen
in pink & green taffeta ruffles;

sometimes i see you walking by
eyes apprising a prettier girl than i
with her thin arms & flat belly &
simple, nonconfrontational curvature
so boring but i can tell you
are loving it;

sometimes i sit by the window
away from the mirror
& pretend all the birds & swaying trees
are my face, my hips
my smile...

Things to be grateful for

(I make a gratitude list at the end of every day. Here are some of my favorite items from the lists made over the past two months.)

insane, stomach-scrambling, hopeful nervousness

allowing myself to experience pure untainted joy

pretty gay boys who awkwardly compliment me

excessively physical improv games

eye contact from across the room (or closer)

waking up slowly, gradually, & lazily with the help of music & sunlight

Dustin Hoffman

having a clean creative space

men who roll up the sleeves of their formal shirts

playing chess with my best friend in her hippietastic living room while blasting Fleet Foxes

elaborate kissing fantasies

meditating on the roof

singing in the shower

moving forward

Sex Matters by Osho, which is fascinating

optimism springing eternal

cashmere sweaters

waiting at bus stops in brisk, early autumn weather

the phrase "go steady with me"

feeling like a part of a whole

the realization that more enthusiasm is always better

people who don't know that their hair is sticking up

making funny people laugh

giving people silly nicknames (e.g. "Sexy Irish Boy")

noticing that cute people are watching me

prattling on about The Boy to anyone who'll listen

improv improv improv improv forever

independent pizzerias

silently sitting really really close

big toothy childish grins

intellectual debates on the subway

laughing so hard I start to cry & can't breathe

the all-consuming bliss of unity

people who say, "Tell me everything"

chocolate peanut butter ice cream

unabashed vulva worship

the ways in which we all inspire one another

moments where I realize that something I previously considered a hindrance is now a blessing

nervous laughter

walking home in the dark holding a teddy bear

when other people's happiness rubs off on me

smelling so awesome I make myself swoon a little

pizza

freaky universal serendipity

whimsical typography

channeling nervous energy into something great

if sex were as simple...

if sex were as simple
as seeking & finding & fucking
& leaving & living & dying
then life would be less
& i wouldn't worry
or wonder what might have been.

but it's not that simple:
it's yearning & wanting & crying
& finding & losing & lying
& hoping & begging & wishing
& fucking & touching & kissing
& losing & hurting & meeting
& stabbing & yelling & cheating
& all this expected, protected
by standards so solid that no one remembers
what love & sex mean
when they're all by themselves
with no hectic pressure -
just primitive pleasure.

so seeking & finding & fucking
& leaving & living & dying
is honest, is simple, is better
than making these messes together.

The Truth:

When I consciously like someone, when I stick them with the label "crush," & define them as such & talk about them as such & tell other people that this is what they are to me, I mess something up in the chemistry & rhythm of our building budding relationship. I make myself act nervous around them because now every encounter must count, every word or glance exchanged must mean something dreadfully important. This disrupts the formerly effortless flow of whatever could happen next.

This is not to say that I shouldn't flirt, or admit that I like someone (to myself, friends, even the person in question), or picture myself dating them or whatever. But I should avoid putting all my eggs in one basket. I shouldn't rely on just one person for all my romantic euphoria. It's not fair to me, because it means I have to work harder to meet the daily love-rush quota I crave, & it's not fair to them, because it puts a lot of silent pressure on them to reciprocate when they might not. So if I spread myself out, not fixating on one person but allowing multiple people to make me infinitely romantically gleeful, I can have much more fun during these periods of coasting between serious interests.

miscellaneous crushsick haikus

hurt-me-boy: heart thief,
improv'er extraordinaire,
catalyst of joy.

i miss kissing like
an old friend i never quite
got to know fully.

the love in my heart
bursts, screeches, spins, flies, adores
you, you, you, & you.

optimistic girl
ventures blindly into him,
knowing it will hurt.

i trust him not to
hurt me anymore. i trust
me not to hurt me.

all the love on earth
percolates through my body
for you, only you.

i dream of waking
next to you, my favorite
goofy grey-eyed boy.

hungry for your eyes,
always. look at me, cutie.
that's all i need now.

all the world conspires
to bring what i want to me.
it's coming; just trust.

(i was inspired to
write most of these by mr.
tyler knott's haikus.)

a flawed epiphany about unconventional beauty

he said he wasn't
attracted to me. it hurt, i admit.
i did that girly cliché of staring
in the mirror pulling at skin
& peering at pores. there is so much
that can be wrong with a girl, & he made
the wrongs seem heavier, bigger.

but truth always comes when we listen to
our own deepest words, sentiments
that speak quiet but persistent. & when i
took the time to listen, i heard
what i already knew:
i am exquisite,
i am enchanting,
i am attractive,
but only to the wise.

& ultimately, this
is the best kind of attractive
to be.

heart burn

When I miss you, it feels like acid in my lungs. It feels like my blood is poison and this insatiable urge fills every hair on my body, every capillary. When I stay up all night all I feel is frantic to see you because once I do, the toxin will spill out.