I love IMing, because it helps me to keep in touch with lots of people. I caught up with Jess T. tonight, and this is what came of it:
Corey: I don't know, I'm still in that rebound/bad date stage. Remember that time a guy took me to dinner and told me I giggle like the Pillsbury Doughboy? He wondered why I didn't call him back...
Jess: hahahahahaha
Corey: And then there was the banker who got me into a bar... didn't pay for my drink... got me to open a checking account... and then only ever hit me up again to tell me he was diagnosed with Hodgkin's Lymphoma.
Jess: ...omg am I allowed to laugh?
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Saturday, April 24, 2010
I Hit Rock Bottom, Took Pictures, and I Came Back Already.
I feel bad for people who don't have friends. Granted, there's probably a reason why they don't have friends... Like, maybe they don't bathe. Or they dress up as their Dungeons and Dragons character at work. Or maybe their personality is so offensive that no one can stand to be around them. It's tough being perfect, but it's a line I toe on a daily basis.
The guys I date, however, do not. And whenever I get hurt, I have good friends who pick me right back up and set me straight (no pun intended).
At work, we have a huge parking lot. With more than 500 parking spaces, there's lots of room at night once all the guests have left. Working in the same place for almost four years now, the parking lot, and the building itself, hold a lot of memories. Tonight, I was reminded just how lucky I am to work with the people I do.
Upset about yet another douchebag using me as a back-up because he dumped me for a guy who won't take him back, who then hooked up with someone who's hugely obese and has a weird face, Amy and Jenn had to listen to my crying for a good half-hour, as a cold breeze swept the hilltop. Consoled, I came home to do laundry and found a text on my phone:
"From: Jenn
MSG: You r amazing. Love you."
That was the pick-me-up I needed.
It made me think about all the other times people have helped me, and there's one instance that stands out in my mind.
When I was 18, I met a boy who I liked, who begged to take me to dinner and a movie... and then took my virginity. Amazed by someone wanting to be close to me and physical with me, I rode the wave for 3 days... Until it became abundantly clear that he had no intention of calling me.
The following Saturday, I worked the opening shift in the movie theater. Maria noticed I was upset all afternoon and as my shift was ending, she reassured me that I deserve better than waiting by the phone for someone who won't call. A lesson I learned the hard way when I stayed up until 3 am waiting for the same guy to call me and say "good night."
I left work and made my way to the Bargain Bin at Circuit City (may it rest in peace). I picked up several movies. At the top of the pile was "Never Been Kissed," which had never been seen by me. I came home without a word to my parents, popped the movie into the DVD player, and curled up into the fetal position on my bed.
The scene where Drew Barrymore dances in her foyer at home to "Like a Prayer" by Madonna broke my heart. Here was this teenage girl (much like myself, only without a penis) who had never felt beautiful in her life. And when she got asked out by the most popular boy in school, she was ELATED. She had messed-up hair and poorly applied make-up, but no one had given her the time of day or shown her how to properly groom herself. She didn't have any emotional support and felt alone in the world.
But this boy, the one she put so much faith in and devoted so much affection to, she thought would change that.
Drew Barrymore... was wrong.
She leaves her house, only to have her expensive dress ruined by eggs, which the popular boy throws at her from his limo. Embarrassed, hurt, and alone, she runs into the night, to hide from her family. Rather than show weakness, she hides what she's feeling and puts on a brave face. Even though it's only a facade.
I could so identify with Josie Geller. The movie progressed to the climactic scene where Drew Barrymore reveals that she's a 25-year old undercover reporter, and not a high school kid, when my phone started to ring.
"Incoming call from: Maria"
A picture of my best friend pretending to move in for a kiss under some mistletoe appeared on the screen and I answered.
"H-h-hellooo..."
"Hey, Corey, how are you doing?"
"(Sniffle). Maria! They ruined Drew Barrymore's prom by throwing eggs at her! Then they tried dumping dog food on the nerdy girl, but Drew Barrymore stopped them! AND NOW, SHE'S GIVING A SPEECH."
"...What the fuck are you talking about?"
"(Sniffle). I'm w-w-watching 'N-Never Been Kissed...'"
Maria went on to explain that this guy I was crying over was an asshole and that chick flicks were gay. I love brutal honestly. And that's what I needed to hear.
The guys I date, however, do not. And whenever I get hurt, I have good friends who pick me right back up and set me straight (no pun intended).
At work, we have a huge parking lot. With more than 500 parking spaces, there's lots of room at night once all the guests have left. Working in the same place for almost four years now, the parking lot, and the building itself, hold a lot of memories. Tonight, I was reminded just how lucky I am to work with the people I do.
Upset about yet another douchebag using me as a back-up because he dumped me for a guy who won't take him back, who then hooked up with someone who's hugely obese and has a weird face, Amy and Jenn had to listen to my crying for a good half-hour, as a cold breeze swept the hilltop. Consoled, I came home to do laundry and found a text on my phone:
"From: Jenn
MSG: You r amazing. Love you."
That was the pick-me-up I needed.
It made me think about all the other times people have helped me, and there's one instance that stands out in my mind.
When I was 18, I met a boy who I liked, who begged to take me to dinner and a movie... and then took my virginity. Amazed by someone wanting to be close to me and physical with me, I rode the wave for 3 days... Until it became abundantly clear that he had no intention of calling me.
The following Saturday, I worked the opening shift in the movie theater. Maria noticed I was upset all afternoon and as my shift was ending, she reassured me that I deserve better than waiting by the phone for someone who won't call. A lesson I learned the hard way when I stayed up until 3 am waiting for the same guy to call me and say "good night."
I left work and made my way to the Bargain Bin at Circuit City (may it rest in peace). I picked up several movies. At the top of the pile was "Never Been Kissed," which had never been seen by me. I came home without a word to my parents, popped the movie into the DVD player, and curled up into the fetal position on my bed.
The scene where Drew Barrymore dances in her foyer at home to "Like a Prayer" by Madonna broke my heart. Here was this teenage girl (much like myself, only without a penis) who had never felt beautiful in her life. And when she got asked out by the most popular boy in school, she was ELATED. She had messed-up hair and poorly applied make-up, but no one had given her the time of day or shown her how to properly groom herself. She didn't have any emotional support and felt alone in the world.
But this boy, the one she put so much faith in and devoted so much affection to, she thought would change that.
Drew Barrymore... was wrong.
She leaves her house, only to have her expensive dress ruined by eggs, which the popular boy throws at her from his limo. Embarrassed, hurt, and alone, she runs into the night, to hide from her family. Rather than show weakness, she hides what she's feeling and puts on a brave face. Even though it's only a facade.
I could so identify with Josie Geller. The movie progressed to the climactic scene where Drew Barrymore reveals that she's a 25-year old undercover reporter, and not a high school kid, when my phone started to ring.
"Incoming call from: Maria"
A picture of my best friend pretending to move in for a kiss under some mistletoe appeared on the screen and I answered.
"H-h-hellooo..."
"Hey, Corey, how are you doing?"
"(Sniffle). Maria! They ruined Drew Barrymore's prom by throwing eggs at her! Then they tried dumping dog food on the nerdy girl, but Drew Barrymore stopped them! AND NOW, SHE'S GIVING A SPEECH."
"...What the fuck are you talking about?"
"(Sniffle). I'm w-w-watching 'N-Never Been Kissed...'"
Maria went on to explain that this guy I was crying over was an asshole and that chick flicks were gay. I love brutal honestly. And that's what I needed to hear.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Not So Free Hugs
A few weeks ago, I made a bad decision... again. My ex-long distance "boyfriend" called me.
"Core!" he yelled in his best impression of my mother who he's never met. "What are you doing next week?"
"School and work, same as usual... Why?"
"I'm gonna be in Boston Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday."
I almost spit out my coffee. "What? Really?"
"Yeah, I have this thing for school, and I'm visiting my friends at Northeastern. I was hoping we could hang out."
I was over the moon. I missed him. And I was seriously lacking in the "Male Attention Department," due to a particularly dramatic incident involving my getting dumped for someone who lives overseas. But I'm not here to judge people's life decisions (It's funny 'cause I'm lying. I'm totally here to judge people's life decisions).
Fate has a funny way of working. We decided on Monday afternoon to hang out, and I told him I'd make my way to Boston as soon as my classes were over. That's when an e-mail came through on my BlackBerry:
"From: RJohnson1
To: Screen and Teleplay Class
Subject: Class on Monday is Canceled
Please have Exercise 4 done for Wednesday."
I knew this was meant to be, and that e-mail was proof. First thing in the morning, I drove into Boston to meet up with the boy who had me head over heels in like last summer. I couldn't help but remember all our late night conversations. How we'd fall asleep on the phone together... My 20th Birthday when he called to sing "Happy Birthday" to me at midnight... And how he was the first (and to this day, only) boy to ever tell me he likes me.
My heart was racing and my head was swimming. Sadly, my internal organs get more exercise than I do.
Anyway, I saw him across the Barney's in Copley Square. It was kind of weird... but exhilarating at the same time. He helped me try on clothes I couldn't afford, and it was a grand old time!
The $575.00 pea coat I loved still haunts me to this day, however.
After walking and talking for what seemed like forever (and we could have gone on longer), we set up at the Starbucks in the mall. He pulled his sketchbook out of his notebook and showed me his designs. Sure, a gay fashion major isn't the most original college archetype, but please bear with me.
As the pages flipped, we moved closer and closer to each other. Absentmindedly (at least, that's what I tell myself to help me sleep better at night), I rested my hand on his chair. Taking the physical cues, he started brushing my hand here and there. But it wasn't in that "I'm stroking your hand to be cute" way, it was more like, "I'm wiping the dirt off your hand. You're welcome."
"...Am I in your way or something?" I asked.
"N-no," he hesistated. "I just wanted to hold your hand, that's all."
I laughed. "So why didn't you just say so? It's me, I'm not gonna be weird about it."
We locked hands and it felt right. Like how it used to be.
That's when a tall, skinny, homeless black man appeared in a basketball jersey (who resembled Snoop Dogg) and sat down with two frumpy white women at the next table.
"UH, EXCUSE ME, LADIES. CAN I SIT MY ASS HURRR?"
The two fat chicks looked at each other and nodded without a word in response. I couldn't help but laugh. That's when Bruce scolded me.
"Corey, quiet," he laughed and cracked a joke about Snoop Dogg busting a cap in my ass.
I find that laughing together is a deciding factor in a friendship. If your sense of humor is compatible with someone else's, you're meant to be. He smiled at me and we kissed.
...That's when the old man at the other adjacent table saw us, and stared wide-eyed in disgust.
"Bruce, look! That old man is so disgusted!"
"Whatever, Corey, he can deal."
"Oh, no, I'm not saying it's bad that we offended him. I think it's HILARIOUS." Bruce shook his head and laughed. A reaction I often get to anything I do.
From there, we continued our adventure on the streets of Boston. Turning onto Newbury Street, a large, homeless black man had a cardboard sign attached to his front and screamed and waved his arms ahead of us. Not wanting to get killed or molested, I averted my attention from him and gestured for Bruce to do the same.
...It was no use.
The homeless man caught us staring and said, "Look! I love these kinds of guys!" (Read: The Queers). I looked up at him with that "Deer in the Headlights" look and tried to keep walking. But he continued, "Come on! You're not afraid of black guys, are ya?!"
That was a challenge. I had two options. Ignore him and awkwardly run away... or speak to this man and not have him think I'm a racist. As a guilt-ridden, bleeding heart liberal, I chose the latter.
"Hi there."
"Hey, guys! I need some money for the retah-ded chilluns!" he announced. In order to get him out of our hair, I handed him a five-dollar bill. Bruce opened his wallet, too and rooted for change. "Yeah, yeah, five dollars from both of you would be good. I GOT CHANGE." Bruce handed over the money and the homeless man looked at us, touched by our generosity.
A few seconds later, I found myself engaged in a group hug with the boy I liked and a smelly, homeless person.
"Okay, bye," I said to the man as I pushed the boy down the street.
"...Corey, what just happened?"
"We just paid five dollars each for a hug from a homeless man."
"...Why?"
I put my arm around his shoulder. "You need to know something... This kind of stuff just happens to me. And I can't do anything about it."
The funny part? He never called me after that. But that was the best five dollar hug I've ever had.
"Core!" he yelled in his best impression of my mother who he's never met. "What are you doing next week?"
"School and work, same as usual... Why?"
"I'm gonna be in Boston Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday."
I almost spit out my coffee. "What? Really?"
"Yeah, I have this thing for school, and I'm visiting my friends at Northeastern. I was hoping we could hang out."
I was over the moon. I missed him. And I was seriously lacking in the "Male Attention Department," due to a particularly dramatic incident involving my getting dumped for someone who lives overseas. But I'm not here to judge people's life decisions (It's funny 'cause I'm lying. I'm totally here to judge people's life decisions).
Fate has a funny way of working. We decided on Monday afternoon to hang out, and I told him I'd make my way to Boston as soon as my classes were over. That's when an e-mail came through on my BlackBerry:
"From: RJohnson1
To: Screen and Teleplay Class
Subject: Class on Monday is Canceled
Please have Exercise 4 done for Wednesday."
I knew this was meant to be, and that e-mail was proof. First thing in the morning, I drove into Boston to meet up with the boy who had me head over heels in like last summer. I couldn't help but remember all our late night conversations. How we'd fall asleep on the phone together... My 20th Birthday when he called to sing "Happy Birthday" to me at midnight... And how he was the first (and to this day, only) boy to ever tell me he likes me.
My heart was racing and my head was swimming. Sadly, my internal organs get more exercise than I do.
Anyway, I saw him across the Barney's in Copley Square. It was kind of weird... but exhilarating at the same time. He helped me try on clothes I couldn't afford, and it was a grand old time!
The $575.00 pea coat I loved still haunts me to this day, however.
After walking and talking for what seemed like forever (and we could have gone on longer), we set up at the Starbucks in the mall. He pulled his sketchbook out of his notebook and showed me his designs. Sure, a gay fashion major isn't the most original college archetype, but please bear with me.
As the pages flipped, we moved closer and closer to each other. Absentmindedly (at least, that's what I tell myself to help me sleep better at night), I rested my hand on his chair. Taking the physical cues, he started brushing my hand here and there. But it wasn't in that "I'm stroking your hand to be cute" way, it was more like, "I'm wiping the dirt off your hand. You're welcome."
"...Am I in your way or something?" I asked.
"N-no," he hesistated. "I just wanted to hold your hand, that's all."
I laughed. "So why didn't you just say so? It's me, I'm not gonna be weird about it."
We locked hands and it felt right. Like how it used to be.
That's when a tall, skinny, homeless black man appeared in a basketball jersey (who resembled Snoop Dogg) and sat down with two frumpy white women at the next table.
"UH, EXCUSE ME, LADIES. CAN I SIT MY ASS HURRR?"
The two fat chicks looked at each other and nodded without a word in response. I couldn't help but laugh. That's when Bruce scolded me.
"Corey, quiet," he laughed and cracked a joke about Snoop Dogg busting a cap in my ass.
I find that laughing together is a deciding factor in a friendship. If your sense of humor is compatible with someone else's, you're meant to be. He smiled at me and we kissed.
...That's when the old man at the other adjacent table saw us, and stared wide-eyed in disgust.
"Bruce, look! That old man is so disgusted!"
"Whatever, Corey, he can deal."
"Oh, no, I'm not saying it's bad that we offended him. I think it's HILARIOUS." Bruce shook his head and laughed. A reaction I often get to anything I do.
From there, we continued our adventure on the streets of Boston. Turning onto Newbury Street, a large, homeless black man had a cardboard sign attached to his front and screamed and waved his arms ahead of us. Not wanting to get killed or molested, I averted my attention from him and gestured for Bruce to do the same.
...It was no use.
The homeless man caught us staring and said, "Look! I love these kinds of guys!" (Read: The Queers). I looked up at him with that "Deer in the Headlights" look and tried to keep walking. But he continued, "Come on! You're not afraid of black guys, are ya?!"
That was a challenge. I had two options. Ignore him and awkwardly run away... or speak to this man and not have him think I'm a racist. As a guilt-ridden, bleeding heart liberal, I chose the latter.
"Hi there."
"Hey, guys! I need some money for the retah-ded chilluns!" he announced. In order to get him out of our hair, I handed him a five-dollar bill. Bruce opened his wallet, too and rooted for change. "Yeah, yeah, five dollars from both of you would be good. I GOT CHANGE." Bruce handed over the money and the homeless man looked at us, touched by our generosity.
A few seconds later, I found myself engaged in a group hug with the boy I liked and a smelly, homeless person.
"Okay, bye," I said to the man as I pushed the boy down the street.
"...Corey, what just happened?"
"We just paid five dollars each for a hug from a homeless man."
"...Why?"
I put my arm around his shoulder. "You need to know something... This kind of stuff just happens to me. And I can't do anything about it."
The funny part? He never called me after that. But that was the best five dollar hug I've ever had.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Falling Off My High Horse
I'm sure that some people would kill to hear "You're so smart," or "You're so funny," just once in their lives. As a brilliant and hilarious person, I don't have that problem. Rather, I hate hearing it because you can only hear it so many times in one day and still believe it.
Since I was young, I've had this "problem" where everyone and their mom has to comment on what a great kid I am and how advanced I am in my general scholastic achievement (I just used big words there to be ironic). They say it's lonely at the top, and sometimes I feel like the most apt example of that to walk the streets of Framingham.
When I was 7 years old, my parents finally settled on a house. We had been moving from town to town, apartment to apartment. At one point, my grandmother's house was our home. Luckily, she had six kids, all but 2 who had fled the coop. So there were three floors of space and a pool for us to spend our days in. It was almost like being at a hotel, only without the army of Hispanic people cleaning up after us.
Anyway, a new house meant a new elementary school for me to attend. Having moved twice already, I was finding it hard to keep friends. Making them was a whole other story. When the boys won't stop calling you "a girl" and the girls hate you 'cause you always played with their favorite doll at recess and wouldn't share it, there really aren't many shoulders for you to cry on.
The same problems followed me into 2nd grade. A couple months into the school year, we were well into our journal projects, where we'd write about whatever we wanted for about 20 minutes every day. I happened to mention my address and the fact that I had just gone to Disney On Ice in one entry. My teacher, the nicest woman you'll ever meet, took it upon herself to force me into friendship with one of the other boys in the class.
"Corey," she cooed one day, "why don't you talk to Tom at recess? He just went to Disney On Ice too and he lives a couple streets over from you!"
Insecure, shy, and not knowing what lied ahead of me, I mustered up the courage to talk to him. Miraculously, we became fast friends and arranged to have playdates every Monday. Life was grand. ...Except for Wednesdays at recess.
"Tom, why weren't you at recess?" I asked one day, wanting to get to the bottom of my having been ditched.
"I was in SAGE."
"What's that?"
My 7 year old biffle went on to explain that SAGE was a program for "gifted" and "talented" kids. Not wanting to be left out, and believing myself to be the steamingest pile of hot shit, I wanted in. But I didn't know how to go about executing my master plan.
That said, fate has a funny way of working. One day, my teacher noticed my mental math and spelling prowess in class. She recommended me to be tested for this program and I was ELATED. I could be with my friend every Wednesday, and maybe even meet kids who were at my intellectual level!
One day during class, I was pulled into the SAGE office by a nice woman with a tragic haircut. She started asking me questions which had nothing to do with how smart I am.
For 20 minutes, I had to come up with an answer to: "What would you do if you had a billion dollars?"
"...I'd buy a big house," I said.
The woman looked disheartened. "Uh-huh. What else?"
"A puppy!"
"Yeah. And?"
"...A Nintendo?"
She was obviously trying to elicit some sort of intricate answer of how I would use the money to research stem cells and use them to bring Elvis back to life. Or some kind of scientific bullshit like that. Eventually, I was dismissed and went home, where I spent days eagerly awaiting my test results.
They came in one day in the mail. My mother opened them.
"Coah, what's this?" she asked.
"My SAGE test! How did I do?"
"...You didn't get in."
"WHAT?" I grabbed the piece of paper.
It said, "26/100" and went on to explain that I wasn't creative enough for their fancy gifted program. I'm plenty gifted, but apparently, you also have to be a nerd who reads "Scientific Weekly" or you have to be able to write a short story complete with complex metaphors for the state of the modern world in order to gain the opportunity for advanced public schooling.
So, I may not have gotten special treatment. But I developed social skills. And really, isn't that what matters?
Since I was young, I've had this "problem" where everyone and their mom has to comment on what a great kid I am and how advanced I am in my general scholastic achievement (I just used big words there to be ironic). They say it's lonely at the top, and sometimes I feel like the most apt example of that to walk the streets of Framingham.
When I was 7 years old, my parents finally settled on a house. We had been moving from town to town, apartment to apartment. At one point, my grandmother's house was our home. Luckily, she had six kids, all but 2 who had fled the coop. So there were three floors of space and a pool for us to spend our days in. It was almost like being at a hotel, only without the army of Hispanic people cleaning up after us.
Anyway, a new house meant a new elementary school for me to attend. Having moved twice already, I was finding it hard to keep friends. Making them was a whole other story. When the boys won't stop calling you "a girl" and the girls hate you 'cause you always played with their favorite doll at recess and wouldn't share it, there really aren't many shoulders for you to cry on.
The same problems followed me into 2nd grade. A couple months into the school year, we were well into our journal projects, where we'd write about whatever we wanted for about 20 minutes every day. I happened to mention my address and the fact that I had just gone to Disney On Ice in one entry. My teacher, the nicest woman you'll ever meet, took it upon herself to force me into friendship with one of the other boys in the class.
"Corey," she cooed one day, "why don't you talk to Tom at recess? He just went to Disney On Ice too and he lives a couple streets over from you!"
Insecure, shy, and not knowing what lied ahead of me, I mustered up the courage to talk to him. Miraculously, we became fast friends and arranged to have playdates every Monday. Life was grand. ...Except for Wednesdays at recess.
"Tom, why weren't you at recess?" I asked one day, wanting to get to the bottom of my having been ditched.
"I was in SAGE."
"What's that?"
My 7 year old biffle went on to explain that SAGE was a program for "gifted" and "talented" kids. Not wanting to be left out, and believing myself to be the steamingest pile of hot shit, I wanted in. But I didn't know how to go about executing my master plan.
That said, fate has a funny way of working. One day, my teacher noticed my mental math and spelling prowess in class. She recommended me to be tested for this program and I was ELATED. I could be with my friend every Wednesday, and maybe even meet kids who were at my intellectual level!
One day during class, I was pulled into the SAGE office by a nice woman with a tragic haircut. She started asking me questions which had nothing to do with how smart I am.
For 20 minutes, I had to come up with an answer to: "What would you do if you had a billion dollars?"
"...I'd buy a big house," I said.
The woman looked disheartened. "Uh-huh. What else?"
"A puppy!"
"Yeah. And?"
"...A Nintendo?"
She was obviously trying to elicit some sort of intricate answer of how I would use the money to research stem cells and use them to bring Elvis back to life. Or some kind of scientific bullshit like that. Eventually, I was dismissed and went home, where I spent days eagerly awaiting my test results.
They came in one day in the mail. My mother opened them.
"Coah, what's this?" she asked.
"My SAGE test! How did I do?"
"...You didn't get in."
"WHAT?" I grabbed the piece of paper.
It said, "26/100" and went on to explain that I wasn't creative enough for their fancy gifted program. I'm plenty gifted, but apparently, you also have to be a nerd who reads "Scientific Weekly" or you have to be able to write a short story complete with complex metaphors for the state of the modern world in order to gain the opportunity for advanced public schooling.
So, I may not have gotten special treatment. But I developed social skills. And really, isn't that what matters?
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