My Mumbling Thoughts

In a circle of friends, everyone has their dedicated role. Whether you recognize it or not, it's true. In my particular circle of friends, I'm considered to be the Story Teller. Crazy things happen to me (generally brought on by myself), and then I relive the stories over and over for my friend's entertainment. And it's a pretty bitchin' role to be honest. I don't mind everyone gathering around and listening to me recap one crazy evening after the other. I like the attention. I crave my friend's laughter. It's one of the nicest feelings in the world. So I do my best to keep them all interested and each time make the stories bigger and crazier.

"And then we all dropped some fat ass MDMA bombs and let the good times roll!"

That was then.

This is now.

I don't live the same crazy nights over and over here in VA. My life is the pure definition of "polar opposite." There are no "fat ass bombs," "crazy sexy times," or staying up until the crack of dawn talking a bunch of shit while tweaked out on cocaine. There's none of that. Instead there's more sleeping time, TV watching and couch potato relaxing. I hardly recognize myself here.

However, just because my two different lives are separated, doesn't mean that they aren't connected. Of course they're connected. By me. I am the single similarity that brings the two of them together, and now I realize that the two overlap each other in a very negative way.

Everything comes with a price, and it all depends on how much you're willing to pay whether or not you'll buy into something. In London I bought into the night life, the drug scene and promiscuous sex with strangers. The price I paid was not simply the mental repercussions, but also the physical dangers putting myself and my body in danger. I was retarded. I was an idiot. I was naive. I was this, and that and all of those other names. I wasn't thinking of the long-term affects that my actions would have on me, because at the time I was all about "living in the now." Isn't that a great mantra to live by? Who cares if there isn't a condom nearby! Let's risk it and see what happens! Why? Because I'm fucked out my face, he resembles someone pretty I recognize and I need this right now.

I need it.

Five months later, I'm still decompressing from the past three years. I went on a complete detox after I arrived (no drinking, no drugs, no cigarettes), and am still rifling through my past emotions of everything that happened in those three years. I don't know if I'll ever completely finish rifling through my three years there, but every day I think about it, and every day I think to myself, "no regrets." Everything was worth it.

Or was it?

I know I shouldn't watch TV all the time, because I'm one of those people that easily gets drawn into what's happening on the screen, and I always put myself in other people's shoes so I can feel what they feel. It's a domino effect and one of the reasons why I cry so uncontrollably just watching the evening news, because MY GOD that person's house was burgled and the intruder killed their cat! How is that fair? I've always been one of those people who takes on other people's problems as my own, and feel the pain so much that I believe it's all actually happening to me rather than the original person. It all may sound really narcissistic, like I believe that the world revolves around me (because it does), but I always think that if I can relate and get a better understanding of what someone is going through, then maybe I can help them figure out a solution.

It's the reason why I cry with my friends when they cry, and when I see them hurt I feel like I can move an entire mountain to make them feel better. It's why I stay up many nights and imagine the worst possible things happening to me and my family, and why my mind never shuts off thinking about the constant, never-ending "what ifs." Because what if it did happen, and I wasn't prepared?

So I was watching TV, and I saw these women on Oprah, who were all HIV positive. They were all older ladies who were recently divorced, but had been in long-term marriages. They all had met this one man and every one of them had unprotected sex with him, resulting in them being infected with HIV.

It was a terrible story and I thought, ain't that a bitch. It would suck to have HIV.

Then Oprah introduced a doctor who was rattling off all of these statistics about people who are at higher risk of contracting HIV, and why these women's story was so rare. Middle-aged, upper class women who all believed that they were in a monogamous relationship don't generally get HIV. Gay men, drug addicts and people who have unprotected sex do.

First off, I didn't really like that doctor. I mean, I know she was trying to prove a point stating that anyone could be at risk to getting infected, but she just made it seem like gay men, drug addicts and people who have unprotected sex were all running rampant spreading the HIV and loving it. I know a lot of gay men, drug addicts and people who have unprotected sex, and they're all lovely people. Sure those groups tend to be at a higher risk, but damn.

Anyway, after she babbled on with her numbers and percentages, I had a flash of all of the unnamed faces I had stupidly slept with and I couldn't remember whether or not there was a condom involved. And then I remembered that one Mtv commercial where these two people are about to have sex, but then their room fills up with all of their past partners and then there's a voiceover person that says something along the lines of, "remember when you sleep with someone, you're also sleeping with everyone they've ever slept with too. Use a condom. Get tested." And then because I'm a masochist, I researched everything there is to know about HIV and every STD under the sun and scared the living shit out of myself. And then I remembered that one time when I slept with SBS, and we definitely didn't use a condom because I had to get the morning after pill the next day when I was on the verge of death, and I vaguely remember him saying something about how he had lost his virginity to a prostitute, and god knows whether he used a condom then! And then the other time I slept with Ando and we also didn't use a condom (stupid! stupid! stupid!) and how six weeks later I got the flu, but how it could also be the first "sign" or symptom of HIV, and how most people don't even know that they're infected until ten years later! And then I thought, god, please, I know I was irresponsible, but if I have anything let it be gonorrhea or something that I can take some antibiotics and clear up within a few weeks. Don't let it be HIV. Please, I don't want HIV. Anything but HIV! And hepatitis. Hepatitis would suck too. Okay, anything but HIV and hepatitis B & C.

After I had my meltdown and convinced myself that I had HIV, I decided to call our local free clinic. I don't know why I didn't just go when I first got back home (or while I was still in London), but I think it's because somewhere in the back of my mind I'm pretty damn sure that I have something. I don't really have any kind of visible symptoms, but I have got to be a carrier of something. I couldn't have done everything that I did (and trust me, that list is pretty fucking long), and come out scot free. If I did, then I might start believing in some kind of higher power, because THAT right there would be a miracle.

So I'm going on Tuesday at 1p.m. to get tested for every kind of known infection, and have a full exam to make sure that I'm not just walking around in blissful ignorance completely unaware of what's happening inside of me. It will give me some much needed peace of mind, and then I can stop thinking horrible thoughts about myself. I piss myself off as well, because there are real people out there who actually do have HIV and live with it every single day. I shouldn't be thinking "what if I have it" when they really do. It's not right, and on a weird level it's really selfish of me, and fucked up.

I'm obviously hoping that I'm fine, things are fine, everything will be fine. I don't want to have to "cross any bridges when we get there." I just want to consider this a major lesson learned, and join the crusade of safe sex and become an advocate of condoms, abstinence and getting regularly tested especially for those of us who are in the "higher risk" category.

I'll make that my new story that I tell all my friends, and while it may not be as wild and crazy as my other ones I have filed away, it will hopefully steer them away from the stress, worry, and paranoia that I'm going through now.

Posted by Sam at 02:52 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

Nowadays I don't step out of bed until I have one pair of socks on, and then my slipper socks on top of them covering my feet. The cold wooden floors are no longer welcomed as much as they were in the summertime. We are in a slight weather limbo, though, because as the day goes on the temperature climbs higher and higher until we're able to open the windows and clear the house out with a nice warm breeze.

But the morning times are what I crave. I find myself waking up earlier and earlier these days just so I can sit on the sofa in my hoodie, fleece pajama pants and two pairs of socks. I sit in the dark and watch as the light slowly begins to fill up our living room like water in a bathtub, enjoying the quiet moment right before the animals start waking up, or the crickets begin chirping. It's one of the familiar changes that I love.

We are right on the brink of autumn, and of course the holiday season. The trees are no longer green, but instead all of those classic autumn colors - rustic red, burnt orange and golden yellow. Every time we step outside we're showered in crunchy leaves. It's as if the trees know that we're watching and feel obliged to look so beautiful and sound so whimsical. It gets me every time. Something about the cold, crisp air feels magical to me and turns me into some kind of festive elf that's always cheery, always wants to make hot cocoa and always has some goofy smile on my face.

I can't get enough of it.

I'm not just on the brink of colder weather, but I'm also on the brink of getting a new job and finally finishing up my degree. I'm halfway there, teeter-tottering right on the edge and all I need is that extra little push over the edge to wrap up some final details and get on with the season. Of course I'm gritting my teeth and getting so anxious from all of the waiting around. I just want it to all be over with so I can start doing things I want to, and sort out things I definitely need to do.

I keep waiting to hear back from this job, though. It's the one that I interviewed with OVER A MONTH AGO. I've since had three more interviews and have spoken to at least ten people, including folks in Human Resources. It's mental, and if I don't get it I will genuinely be so upset, because I love the job, really like the people, and have I mentioned how awesome their benefits are? Because they're pretty damn sweet. It's my first choice in companies that I want to work for, and even though I really shouldn't be banking solely on this job, I am. I haven't been searching for any other places, or applying anywhere else ever since they called me back A MONTH LATER. I want to work for this company. No other company that's even similar to it. Just this one.

So I'll be waiting to hear back from them. Hopefully it'll be good news.

I've been fighting an uphill battle with my university as well. While I have been working on the assignments that were given to me over the summer, I'm still really annoyed with the fact that they waited until after I left the country to tell me that I was 30 credits short, and ON TOP OF THAT expect me to pay more tuition for a mistake that I blame entirely on them.

Entirely on them.

Absolutely. 100%. Entirely on them.

Such assholes.

Once I'm finished with these last bullshit 30 credits, I'm going to compose a letter so intelligent, so inspiring, so poignant, and so mean to the head honcho describing in terrifying details how upset I am with the treatment I received, how let down I am with the education I received and how ashamed he should feel to know that this kind of behavior is happening on his watch. I'm going to point fingers, name names and ask for a full refund since I believe that the standard of services I got were well below acceptable.

And even though I'm sure I won't get anything in return, I'll at least feel a little bit better knowing that I put my angry feelings into a letter and let my final words to that university be a big FUCK YOU.

Then I'll take my diploma, make a photocopy of it and then burn the photocopy in a ceremonial circle that I'll create to release all of that negative juju into the air and out of my life for good. And I'll seal the original copy and keep it in a lock-box for safe keeping.

Right on the brink. It'll feel so good once something is finally not on the brink, but properly finished.

Posted by Sam at 01:44 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I have a piercing on my face.

Just a little one. The technical term is a "labret," but that word tends to scare people for some reason whenever I say it out loud. It rests in between my chin and lower lip, right in the middle looking dainty and not causing any problems or any harm to anyone. It's very small, but for me it holds so much.

Whenever I go on an interview, I always pause and wonder if I'll take it out and temporarily replace it with a clear stud that isn't anywhere near as cute and surprisingly more irritating than my metal studs; the clear ones are more acceptable, though, and what I consider to be a compromise between what I like and what the company considers to be distracting. Sometimes I take it out, and other times I simply leave it in because I can't be bothered to take it out. I think, what's the point? If I do manage to get the job I'm not going to want to take it out every single day and replace it with a clear stud. They should know that I have it and accept it straight away. My argument is, why should I remove something that reflects in no way my abilities to do the job? It's a piercing, not some kind of disability.

This past Saturday, Momma, Mel and myself all went to Cracker Barrel for breakfast with one of Momma's friends, Janet. We were all sitting there eating our breakfast when Mel pointed out to me that one of the chefs had a hair net over his beard, which was very long and Santa-like. I then said that it was cool of the restaurant to give him the option of wearing a "face-net" rather than saying that he had to shave it off, or work in a different part of the restaurant where his long beard wouldn't be as much of a distraction.

That started off a friendly debate between Janet and myself over what is considered appropriate for work/different businesses and what it means for people who must change in some way to conform to a more "society appropriate" look. Mel rolled her eyes and occasionally Momma would pipe in with her two cents, but mostly it was Janet and I going back 'n' forth over people's personal looks and the companies that want to change them.

Janet brought up a lot of good points that I normally wouldn't take on board (because in this case I believe to be right and everyone else is wrong) and assessed that while companies shouldn't "judge a book by its cover" so to speak, everyone knows that first impressions are keen, and not just on interviews. The way people dress, the different kind of styles they have and so forth is an extension to some point of their personality. While a person's piercing(s), tattoo(s), dreadlocks or whatever doesn't necessarily mean that they're incapable of doing a certain kind of job, those looks do normally indicate that perhaps they have a more experimental side to themselves, a wild or radical side even, that a company might want to be aware of.

She then pointed out to me that while 98% of my look suggests that I am conservative, this one tiny piercing on my face says that I'm a risk taker and don't mind living a little dangerously, which to be honest, is very true. Whether we realize it or not, the way we represent ourselves in day-to-day life speaks volumes about who we are as a person. There are many, many, many studies out there that have proven this fact on more than one occasion.

So we continued our chat and she carried on to say that everyone's look changes over time, because we change as people. She knows people who started taking out their piercings as they got older, or would cover up their tattoos and would change because they were leaving their younger self behind and growing up into their adult self who was now accepting all of their new responsibilities. There would be no more partying and living like a crazy heathen (or a lot less of it), and they instead traded it all for the Corporate Office, dry cleaned suits and a more "grown-up" look. It's just that next step that a lot of people take at some point in their life.

I got to thinking about it, and it all made perfect sense. I know it seems so blatantly obvious now, but I was so hell bent on making my point over my tiny piercing that I blocked out all other opinions. I also think that I was so defensive about leaving my piercing in because in all actuality, I don't want to make that next leap into "adulthood." It isn't really about the little stud, because I know what it is for me and I could care less what other people think. It's really about the "growing up" part and saying a final farewell to my Student Self. All summer I could pretend that I wasn't really leaving, but now that university has kicked back into full gear and I'm not apart of it, there's not much I can really do except say goodbye and accept this new phase in my life that I'm entering.

I'm going to be turning twenty-four this week. I'm going to be one year older and no more wiser than I was last year. I am growing up, one day at a time, and I need to get it through my thick skull that my days of lazing around and careless living are over. I'm not a student anymore. I'm going to be a full-time worker at whatever job decides to hire me and have to start acting like an adult. I guess it all has to happen to us at some point.

But I'm leaving my little piercing right where it is, as a reminder of my Peter Pan days, and any company that doesn't accept it can sod off. That part is staying with me, even if it's not who I am anymore.

Posted by Sam at 04:36 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)