Everything Zen

How do you tell people what you have when you’re not proud of it?
There’s no use flaunting something ambiguous, right?
People, they either want a train wreck or fireworks.
Sometimes both.
But never something in between.

I met him when he was with his girlfriend.
This falls under the category of "stupid moment of your life so far" number one.
Come out of a two year relationship.
Scratch that.
Engagement.
Go to some party to announce it, meet the man of your childhood dreams while he’s introducing his new girlfriend, and get his number.
Have him drop you off, too.

Stupid moment number two is invite him to go clubbing, only to show yourself off.

Show yourself at the height of your quasi-rockstardom greatness.
Dance on the amplifiers.
Dance on the table.
When he tries to dance with you, push him off, turn around, grab your guy friend’s cigarette.
The one clipped between his lips. Yes. That one
And smoke it.

Stupid moment number three? Grab beers with him. Go home with him. Cue up sexy music in the background.
Get a free massage.

Let him unclasp your bra to make things easier.

Stupid moment number four is end up kissing after a pillow fight at three in the morning.

This is how Alice starts off with Peter.
This is how we get together.

And there are no real intricacies except that he’s got a girlfriend.
And that I’m too selfish and self-absorbed to ever really love anyone.
And we’re both still in love with our ex-significant others of about, two, three years.
And we both want each other, either way.

So I stick around. God help me, I stick around, looking for a glimpse of something more than a flat line in what we have, whatever we have to make me either stay or go. Because Peter, he can be your Technicolor lover and, or a complete asshole.

Peter, he can take me to the NU107.5 Rock Awards, spend the night with me, and tell me that he’s got to go home early then go to his girlfriend’s house.

Don’t ask me how I know this. I don’t even want to believe that I know this.
But I do.

And someone kill me, I’m tired of knowing but I have to so that people never mean as much as they should.

Because there are days when I think that Peter’s worth loving. When Peter does things without thinking. Things like calling me up at twelve midnight and saying, “So, you wanna step out of your apartment for a sec? Because, you know. I’ll be there in five.” out of nowhere.

Of course this is after he spends the earlier part of the night meeting his girlfriend’s family.

Another flatline.

If Peter were an actor, he’d be Tom Cruise.
Worth loving only in movies where he’s not acting like his total douche bag self.

Like how, when I'm in the midst of crying over how much it hurts that Alex--
Alex my ex-boyfriend.
No.
Ex-fiance, Alex.
Asked me to marry him, just eight months ago.
And how he's long gone now.
How Peter, without asking what's wrong, gives me the ring that he's been keeping safe for the past six years.

But for the most of it, Peter’s the guy that’s either trying to climb up the ladder of fame, fighting to stay there, or trying to get back on top.

Jerry Fucking McGuire.
The Last Goddamn Samurai.

Here’s another thing about people.
We want either a trainwreck or fireworks, but we’re always afraid to start it by ourselves.
We’re always afraid of getting hurt.
Always afraid of getting burnt and blamed and fucked over.

So I’m still here.
I’m here because of one, simple truth.
I’m never going to be girlfriend material.
That’s the trade off for the bad girl image.
Guys, they’ll never take me seriously.
Yeah, they’ll take me out, they’ll buy me stuff, tell me that they love me, but they’ll never call me theirs.
That place? That spot? That’s reserved for the kind of girls that you can bring home to mom without her flinching. The marrying kind. By V.I.P. invite only.
Girls like me, we’re your best kept secret and your biggest mistake.
We’ll teach you all the things that your girlfriend will like.
We’ll make you burn.

Girls like me, we’re your whores, your sluts, your outlets. Your guilty pleasures.
Everything that you find both too beneath and above you to admit to wanting.
We’re your walking, talking, blow-up sex dolls.

But, God.
God.
God.
Girls like me?
We’ve still got the chance to become Angelina Jolie.
We’ve got enough of the guts and the glam to get our Brad Pitt. You know. Our own nice guy.
It’s only a matter of getting through x numbers of Billy Bobs and Whats-His-Names from Hackers.

Sometimes even Toms.

Now, Peter.
Peter I know that he’s lying to me.
But how do I tell him that, right?
He doesn’t even notice when I lie to him.

Maybe.

This is you at four in the morning still reeking of sex and satisfaction.
This is you lying alone in your bed, fresh from his place after smoking up, taking shots of tequila and watching a romantic movie.
A movie that you could’ve watched with someone who deserved projecting each and every emotional moment upon.
A movie that you could’ve had sex to right after with someone whom you could’ve reveled in and dedicated your heart and soul to. Made love to.

Instead I have Peter.
Peter whose bed I was lying in, moments ago, having pillow talk with while the necklace with a lock pendant that his girlfriend gave him lies on his bedside.
“It’s been with me for a long time”, he had told me.
“It’s the same one as Sid Vicious’,” he had added.

I nod, I smile. I go back to nuzzling against him.
Of course this is right before I send a text message to a “friend” to pick me up so we can hit the clubs.

Flat lining. Both of us. Flat lining.

This is what it means to have a real relationship.
It’s when you take the textbook teenage romance that you thought you were happy with.
Add it to the pain, agony, drama and embarrassment of your breakup with that go-nowhere that you thought was your one true love.
Get together with this guy.
With Peter.
And then beLIEve. See the beauty, see the lie. Pick your best option and run with it.