Author's Note

Hi there. This is where I'm going to be posting my writing, or at least the things that don't belong on my blog.

Here's the breakdown: The blog is (and always has been) non-fiction: true stories, personal asides, and musings about my life, my activities, or my ideas. In short: The blog = me.

On the other hand, this site, if all goes according to plan, will be where I post the rest of it -- i.e. fiction. Or things that are mostly fiction. Or partly fiction. Or things that might not be entirely fictional. You know, the things that I need to get out of my head by writing down, and will then pretend that they're fiction
, regardless of the degree of truth.

So, assume that nothing here is real. If you think it is, best keep that to yourself. (And if you think it's about you, well, just remember what Carly Simon said.)

And now, on with the show.

Wednesday, November 29, 2006

Vows are Spoken to be Broken

(Originally posted at Ruined Music, November, 2006.)

It seems like a billion years ago now, but once upon a time, way back in 1990, I was a freshman in high school. And like a lot of freshmen, I was completely smitten with a senior. He was smart, sarcastic, and artsy. He listened to British synth pop music, bands like Erasure and the Cure. He always wore a black trench coat. Mostly, though, he was eighteen and he had a car – unlike me. I had recently turned fourteen and, for all intents and purposes, I was still a little girl.

So, there I was, this naïve little freshman, wondering what it would be like to date this seemingly mature senior. And boy, did I try to get his attention. I chased after him for months. I started wearing black. I wrote poetry. I became my mother’s worst nightmare. Finally, on Valentine’s Day, I decided to do something about my crush. I scraped together enough of my babysitting money to get him something really sentimental – in this case, a cassette single of Depeche Mode’s “Enjoy the Silence.” You know, because “feelings are intense / words are trivial.”

Our high school had this thing where, for Valentine’s Day, you could send someone a rose. And quite surprisingly, he sent me one. Only the note attached to the flower said, “Hey you. So, I suppose you want me to write some kind of witty repartee or shit like that, right? Well tough, chick. With inky sentiments.”

I was perplexed. What kind of romantic gesture was that?

That night he came over to my house, and – instead of going back to my bedroom like he anticipated – we wound up taking a long walk around my very small neighborhood. At the end of the night he gave me all the classic lines – “You’re so young,” and “you’re so sweet and innocent,” and “I’m leaving for college in a couple of months.” Blah, blah, blah.

Of course, a day or so later, I found out that he had hooked up with several of my friends. He cut and ran when he realized that it wouldn’t be so easy with me; he made his escape before I figured him all out. So now every time I hear that song I think of this, and I thank my lucky stars that I only had to be fourteen for one year.