thatnight.net

I’ve been completely, deliriously, innocently in love with someone. It was everything I thought a relationship was supposed to be, yet was so indefinable, that if I had to seperate all of my relationships into categories, it would stand alone. All of the others would be bundled together.

There’s a problem with this. In my eyes, everything about the relationship was so immaculate, I’ve since developed the tendency to compare every other guy and the aspects of new relationships to what I defined as being my perfect relationship.

They always fall short. As bad as I try to block the new stuff out of my mind, to push away the little things that should be done differently, to believe that they will change into something I prefer or can get used to, I can’t. They always fall short.

And I’ve always been in love with love. Maybe the desire to have a husband and a family was something that was instilled in me growing up – but that’s a completely different story. Yes I want a career. Yes I want to travel. Yes I want to “have fun.” But that’s along with being a mother. It’s being able to travel with someone. Have fun with someone.

I can stand and I have stood alone. Now that I’m confident with that, I can alter my focus.

But the main point in all of this is, did I already have that? Am I comparing the new relationships to the ideal one because while I was in the ideal relationship, I was conditioned to adapt to everything about it? Or was it just perfect for me in the first place?

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My sister, Molly, and I in Photobooth.

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My roommates and I have been getting a few large packages in the mail lately containing marketing freebies from various companies hoping to gain the patronage of sorority girls.

I imagine that they picture us rejoicing upon receiving hair products! and tampons! (because that’s all a girl needs, right?) and then excitedly grabbing heaping armfuls and skipping joyously and maniacally to campus, throwing the items about and screaming, “Omigod! My hair is, like, all silky and straight! Thank you, God, for these, like, totally blessed products!”

The merchandise even has cheesy little phrases that, I guess, are supposed to correspond to…our lives. For example, have dry hair? Grab the pink packet and giggle as you read, “My hair is split like me and my high school boyfriend!”

“My frizz is bigger than my credit card bill!”

“The waves in my hair are more stubborn than the zipper on my skinny jeans!”

“My hair falls flatter than frat boys’ pick-up lines!”

Burn.

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I’ve simplified everything a bit. My main reason for doing so was not only based on the fact that there was way too much going on (tacky?), but also because I wanted more seperation between the writing and the photography. Therefore, they are no longer in the same layout.

It seemed like an appropriate time to calm things down.

The themes are based on the incredible designs of If…Else by Phu Ly and Brajeshwar.

Now that I can have my photos at a decent viewing size, all of my past photoblog posts don’t quite fill the screen. But I think I’ll just leave them be and start fresh.

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I kind of miss the familiarity of a high school classroom. Although my classes are small, it’s very uncommon for two people to know eachother, so by the time a fun comfort level is reached, the semester’s over and classes change. I miss having most of my classes with the same people, being able to laugh opennly with someone across the room, knowing what’s going on with everyone outside of school.

I really need to get over high school. I’m almost done with college. Maybe I’m really destined to be an English teacher.

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I probably should have worn a jacket. It was chilly coming out of my rhetoric class. I reached into my bag, which strained with the weight of my textbooks, and dug for my iPod. I always listened to Hinder and 3 Doors Down during my fifteen minute walk from the university.

I began to follow the familiar route. Throughout campus, there are several narrow cement footpaths which cut through the grass and under the trees, leading to the main perimeter. Very few people were around. As I walked past my favorite buildings, the oldest ones made of pillar and stone, I noticed a boy about ten steps in front of me.

He was tall and his head was shaved. He wore jeans and carried a bookbag which looked tiny on his back, but was probably a normal size. He turned and smiled at me. I looked at him, quizzically, and smiled back. We kept walking.

He kept the same distance in front of me and looked back occasionally as if he heard footsteps and forgot I was behind him.

Does this guy think I’m following him?

We reached the streets. He crossed to the other side and slowed down, walking directly across from me.

I thought I heard him laugh. Did he say something? I discretely turned the sound down on my headphones and looked over. He smiled again. Brightly. He didn’t say anything.

Eventually, he turned and stepped onto the wide porch of a white house. As I continued down the street, I looked back. He did the same. He smiled and waited there until I turned the corner, and I laughed to myself.

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Last weekend, I kicked off my expedition of Pittsburgh’s haunted houses at Scream Asylum. When it comes to these places, I’m very good at acting like a total hardass until I’m two feet from the entrance and then latching onto whoever is naive enough to bring me along.

Don’t get me wrong — at the time, I’m excited. But anyone who is stable enough to handle my banshee-like screaming is aware that I will kill anything that blocks my exit path from whatever monster gravitates to my authentic, amusing fear.

They didn’t have many workers that night, but they worked well with what they had. We were sent in two couples at a time. During the intro, a certain scary bastard seperated me and the other girl (I did not know this girl, might I add) from our respective dates. She was about twice as scared as I was, and considering the circumstances, we were about 10 seconds away from latching onto each other.

The boys caught up to us and we finished the house, which exited at the entrance to an outdoor maze, which will become the reason for every nightmare I’ll have for the rest of my life.

I’m going to pause here and express my mindset when watching a scary movie. There have been several moments during such films when I have wondered what a person in such a situation (being chased, etc.) must be going through. I couldn’t fathom how someone could even function under that much fear.

I had a taste of it in this maze. After my last incident with Texas Chainsaw Massacre, I thought I’d be finished. Not quite.

My date and I wondered through the maze for a safe five minutes without incident. It wasn’t too dark and the path was roomy, and I had almost completely loosened my grip on his arm. We rounded a corner and I became confident that the maze was free of monsters. It was then that we faced the back of a very large, 10-foot man who appeared to be drenched in blood. My guess is that he was on stilts, but at that moment, I wasn’t thinking clearly.

I was frozen as the beast turned his head around and looked down at me. My eyes moved down to his fists, which were practically at the same level with my head, and I saw that they were latched onto, what else, a chainsaw.

Great.

We took off in a full sprint, winding through the walls like a cornfield, as he revved the horrible machine and took off after us. We came to a dead end and he gained on us. I heard him behind a wall nearby me when it happened. We were so startled that I raced off in one direction, while my date sprinted off in the other.

I was never as alone as I was then. Suddenly, it was pitch black. The walls were narrow. The chainsaw was off. There was no sound.

Thinking back, what could have happened? Nothing. I would’ve ran for a while and found my way out. But at that moment, I was locked in a horror movie. I didn’t know where I was. I couldn’t make a noise in fear of giving away my location. My legs went numb and I wanted to curl up in a corner and hyperventilate until my date came back.

The way I moved would best be described as a tiptoed speed walk. I ran that way until I passed a security guard dressed in bright orange. My guess is that he was stationed in that location for the sole purpose of reviving sweaty, terrified girls who couldn’t handle men with chainsaws. That are covered with blood. And 10 feet tall.

At the sight of him, I immediately began rambling things that no sane person would be able to understand. He told me to rest there, with him, as I cowered against the wall and waited for my date to come back.

It might have been the best and worst haunted house experience of my life.

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Why is it that when I’m adding a controlled amount of money, say $10.00 worth of gasoline, into my vehicle, the counter which displays how much I’ve added slows down at $9.50?

Is this a punishment for prepaying? That I have to stand there and wait twice as long? Is this some sort of cruel retribution for not filling the tank all the way, but rather deciding on my own how much of your overpriced fuel I’m willing to purchase?

Could it be perhaps that you want to make sure I’m prepared for the flow to cease? That you need to slow everything down in anticipation for the final drop? No, that can’t possibly be it. Why? Because no matter how fast or slow you’re allowing the flow to move, IT’S GOING TO STOP AUTOMATICALLY AT $10.00.

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This morning, I offered to drive my 12-year-old, fashion-conscious sister to school. At approximately 7:30am, she scuttled down the stairs in straight-leg jeans and ballet flats. This was after I went shopping yesterday and darted away from store fronts featuring mannequins sporting off-shoulder sweaters worn over thick-strapped tank tops.

I cannot deal with the return of the 80’s. All of my life, I have been thankful that I became conscious of the world as that era was being discarded.

Why did it have to be the 80’s? Can’t we bring back poodle skirts or chemises? Hell, I’d rather see corsets, capes, and girdles — anything to keep the repulsive style of Step by Step untrendy.

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