enfin's reality

i could use a handkerchief

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let me just say, i’m so glad that i don’t have too many friends.  seeing as my world is prone to being tumultuous, i can’t imagine what it would be like if i were great friends with a group of girls. drama is drama, i’ll give it that much, and as far as her past effects on me, i’ll also say that i do react when drama strikes.  and typically when the pot is stirred, i wouldn’t say im in a good mood, but i am in an alert mood, and that makes me feel accomplished, because i usually spend a lot of time deep in thought.

i’ve grown up with the idea that girls are catty and that there are not many exceptions to this rule. true. i am a girl. and in addition to that fact, i can also tell you, honestly, that i am catty. i just don’t lash out often, because of my lack of social life. anyway, getting back to the rant: my female friends, sure they’re nice, if they weren’t they wouldn’t be my friends now, would they? but they too, have their catty moments, and who can blame them?

one thing however, that makes me smile, out of satisfaction for being rather anti-social, is that i don’t have to deal with the boy drama, ie, omg you cannot be kidding me. you stole my boyfriend? you broke the girl code? AS IF i could ever look at you the same way again. then comes social warfare, the blocking from facebook and the unsubscribing from tumblr.  what is with the fellow females of the world and their immaturity? sure… rage i can handle, and rash decisions go hand and hand with anger, but come on, we’re all human beings, naming warfare is not the way to go.

and as for the girl that “deserves” what’s coming for her. sure thing. it’ll come for her, but who says you ought to speed along the process? yeah i know… she’s a bitch, and yer mad because yer boyfriend is gone, or whatever the hell your little dispute is about. but come fucking on, leave it be. why would you try to make the drama bigger? why would you drag it out for another day? to the did-wrong girl. you’re a fucking idiot. we know that, but we are not having a pity party for you. sure you can apologize all you want, cry all you want, and do whatever else it is yer doing to make it seem as though you feel remorse. truth is, you don’t feel it. drop it. stop playing the victim. leave the whole situation be, and next time? don’t be so thick.

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Uncategorized, writing

inside the head of robert c. plum

i saw her walk in, alone, arms overflowing with bags of all sorts, books of all genres, and her teal blue jacket was resting on top, just a like a cherry on a sundae.  she plopped her stuff down on the barstool next to her, she sighed loudly, and the bartender smiled and said, “the usual i presume?” she nodded, lazily and expectedly, and she placed her head in her hands.  i’m standing around the corner, supposed to be waiting on table two, but her entrance was a distraction.  she’s not a mystery to me- her name i’m aware of, in fact, i believe i even have her number.  we’re social networking friends, and maybe even once she’s come over my house to drink a beer or two with me.  but i don’t know her like i wish to know her, and she doesn’t know me how i wish her to know me either.  her head raises from her hands, and she spins around, examining the mostly empty bar.  she spots me and waves. a smile is painted on her face.  i grimace and wave back.  she saw me…staring.  thats no good. what to do, what to do.  i go behind the half-hearted wall separating the diner from the bar.  i feel as though i’m slowly creeping towards the reception area again- just so i can see her.  table two calls to me, “two more bud lights, kay buddy?” im faced with. stupid fucking patrons. never show any respect. they ask questions that are unheard of. can’t they just function normally? i make my way to the bar. i stand there, face to face with her- although technically she is on the other end.  the bartender asks if he can fill my order? i stand there, no words coming from my mouth.  did they want allagash? heiniken? pbr? blank. my mind is blank. my eyes are observing every part of her easily discerned face.  “hey, what can i help you with?” bartender asks pushily once again. he thinks hes so high and mighty because he pours the motherfucking drinks. that’s a load of shit as far as im concerned. benefit of his job? he gets to talk to her! and they talk.. a lot.  he drives her home every once and a while.  he pats her hand gently when she pays him too much, he has his inside jokes with her. they text before she gets to the bar to ensure a seat will be saved. me? i talk to her, but not nearly enough as i’d like to.  “hi,” i hear her say from across the bar. say hello back! “um how are you?” i hear myself call. “oh yknow….how are you?” she smiles back… how am i? terrible, really, but that’s not what she wants to hear. wait. how do i know that. i don’t know that. instead of verbally responding i shrug. i send her the wrong message. she looks disappointed, and ends up turning to her fellow patron and strikes up a conversation there.  what the fuck was my problem? and what the fuck was i supposed to get table two?

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