LET’S TALK ABOUT MY LOVE LIFE, SHALL WE?

Spoiler alert: it’s still barren.

Dear Reader,

I’ve been reading a lot of books recently. YA novels, to be more specific. I have to read one a week but I’ve sort of become obsessed with reading again so I’m already on book six. (Many reviews to come.)

You want to know what a lot of YA novels have in common, though?

Love stories.

Young love stories.

Stories of kids falling in love so easily and so quickly that adult authors write reviews that say things like, “a first-love story so well remembered and honest that it reminds you what falling in love feels like.”

TIME said that.

Well guess who hasn’t fallen in love.

Yeah, it’s me.

I don’t think back to high school and remember the feeling of being excited when that boy was waiting outside my classroom, ready to walk me to my first class. I can’t recall being asked out on a date or having butterflies when he picked me up. I never fooled around in a basement while his parents were upstairs and I never had anyone worth sneaking out of my house for.

I know I sound really bitter, but I just wish I had those experiences. I wish I had those memories.

You want to know the story of my first kiss?

It was the summer before freshman year of college (I know) and I was in the driver’s seat of my car (I know), dropping off the only guy who ever reciprocated feelings to the same extent as I did (I could get into this in more detail but I’m exhausted by just the thought of explaining this further). He abruptly turned, sort of jumped on me, went for the kiss and missed, pulled away, went for it once more, and missed again. Then, embarassed, muttered “let’s not tell anyone about this,” and quickly left.

I had to drive back to my house while peaking through the gaps between my fingers because I was covering my face with my hands. I cringed the whole way home. I was laughing and rolling my eyes, but I legitimately face-palmed for the fifteen-minute drive home.

We didn’t talk or see each other for a few weeks after that.

Cute little innocent embarrassing story? Maybe when you’re twelve or fourteen. When you’re going on eighteen (or eighteen and a half in his case), it can sort of stunt any romantic progress and prolong your awkward period when it comes to relationships.

So now I’m vicariously living through books.

And I’m reading these books like, how are these girls finding such great guys? And how am I so far different from these girls?

I know they’re characters and they’re fictional stories (except for the one I’m reading now), but it’s weird being in college without having passed these milestones that everyone else seems to have hit ages ago.

It’s similar to when recent grads are applying to jobs but won’t get hired because they don’t have any prior experience and they’re like, okay that makes sense except how am I going to get prior experience if no one will hire me??

That’s me in the dating world right now.

Sincerely,

Sammy

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WHY AM I WRITING? (OH RIGHT, INSOMNIA)

Dear Reader,

I can’t sleep. I’ve read a book for class. I’ve come up with scenarios in my head to try and inspire some dreams. I’ve even written down a few of these late night thoughts. 

And then I thought, Sammy, why don’t you just write something for your BLOG? 

So I started writing a list. A list of things that this blog post could be about. But then I realized that this list is not producing any quality, uplifting ideas. 

Why? Probably because it’s 2:30 and I’m sad because I’m thinking too much and my brain sort of sucks. 

My list began with: write about how uncomfortable I am. Because I literally am never comfortable in my own body. Never. I always feel too big or too pasty or too clunky or clumsy (but not in the good way). And I thought, I could write about that because that’s relatable, right? 

Except that post would be depressing as shit and I’ve already cried tonight. So no thank you. 

Then I thought, ooh your birthday’s coming up! Write about that! But my first thought was I hate birthdays. And then I thought, wow I can’t believe I’ve already reached that age. And then I thought, shit wait I’m way too young to be hating my birthday. I should be looking forward to it and making plans and texting all my friends about it…

…but instead I’m just anticipating more disappointment. And realizations. And sadness. 

And then I thought, well shit Sammy, don’t write anything at all then! Because every thought I have late at night is self deprecating and they definitely don’t deserve to be recorded–mind you, published on your blog. 

But I’m in the middle of doing that right now, aren’t I?

Where are you going with this Sammy?

Freshman year I wrote a post about how everything is harder at night. Maybe it’s because my head is spinning a mile a minute about all the mistakes I’ve made today. Maybe it’s because my house is creaking and I’m still lowkey afraid of the dark (and ghosts, and serial killers, and did I lock the front door?). Maybe it’s because I’m just alone with ME and who I am as a person and I haven’t really learned how to love myself yet. 

But the night is hard. It hasn’t always been, but suddenly now it always it. 

Yet every morning after I cry myself to sleep, I wake up with the sun and things seem easier. 

Things may never BE as simple as they seem in the morning–before you have time to over analyze it all–but they’re also never as hard as they seem at night. 

They’re just things. Things that can be dealt with in the morning. Or the afternoon. Or the early evening. 

Things that can be dealt with by myself or with the help of friends or my sister. 

Things that have no place being dealt with right now because what am I going to do about it at 3AM besides worry?

Nothing. 

3AM is not for thoughts. 3AM is for sleep.

(Actually I might tweet that lol)

And while that might be easier said than done, maybe if I repeat it enough, it’ll happen. I’ll finally sleep.

And then the morning will come and I’ll roll my eyes and laugh at this blog post because I am probably being way too dramatic for a twenty year old. 

Sincerely,

Sammy

THESE ARE THINGS NOW

Dear Reader,

A week ago I moved into my house at college that I’m sharing with seven other girls. I am in “living room 2” with another girl, there’s a girl in the “dining room,” and then the other five live upstairs.

I was basically only acquainted with three people when I signed the lease, so these first seven days involved a lot of me getting to know them. In turn, they had to learn some things about me.

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I’m not putting a picture of my real house on here, so here’s a random one from the internet that looks just as homey as mine. 🙂

Here are my realizations from week one:

Food. First of all, I know I’m not a great chef. I knew coming into this that I wasn’t going to be the roommate to cook five star meals for every dinner–but what I didn’t expect was for everyone else to do just that. My housemates are out here making fancy pastas and baking talapia and boiling corn on the cob, while I’m just sitting at the table eating my daily bowl of ramen noodles. There are even cookbooks in our kitchen. I might start perusing them as I eat my peanut butter sandwiches.

Speaking of peanut butter: I swear, some people have never seen a jar of peanut butter before in their life. Well, none that are the size of the kind I brought. I’m too lazy to check it right now, but it’s about four times the size of a normal one I guess and I’ve had a conversation with every last housemate about this fun fact.

Something else I’ve found myself doing is trying to be more subtle when I’m gross. I do a lot of gross shit, alright? Well, it’s not gross to me to let out the occasional burp or drink out of the milk jug, but I can see why that might cause someone to crinkle their noise. All that happens when I hide doing that stuff, or suppress my bad habits, is realize how many gross habits I have. It’s great.

Medical shit. We’re learning more about each other every day. We talk about our classes and our majors. We’ll mention the organizations we’re involved with and the meetings we have. We bring up our families and bring over our friends. But when is the appropriate time to mention low-key medical “quirks?”

When it becomes relevant I guess.

Every person I’ve ever lived with has found out about my POTS because I’ve had to send them a distress text asking them to bring me pretzels. So today when I came home to a full house after having a bit of an episode in our student center, I decided I should probably mention it soon. I mean, it’s not like they should be worried that I’m gonna drop dead on them or something–but if I come home and act weird or lock myself in my room or the bathroom–or if they see me with my legs in the air and my dad on speaker phone–it might be useful to let them into the loop.

TV/YouTube. I’ve also been way more self-conscience of what I’m watching (especially since I can’t find my headphones currently). You can see right into my room when you open the front door, and because my door is normally open, you might find me watching The Philip DeFranco show or a David Dobrik blog. I always forget how weird that stuff must sound to others.

Also, we all bring out our computers or other devices to watch shows when we’re cooking or whatever. I love playing the game is it Parenthood or Gilmore Girls? because hearing Lauren Graham’s voice isn’t quite enough to make the distinction. But then someone will walk into the kitchen while I’m watching Criminal Minds and cooking my eggs and there’s some rape or murder scene on my screen. Then we have a nice little chat about how disturbing we both find the show and discuss our new paranoias.

So it’s been an interesting few days. You can hear practically every noise in the house, so my daily naps have been a bit compromised (probably for the best, though). Other than that, I’m really digging this house and the people I share it with.

It’s gonna be a good year.

Sincerely,

Sammy