Something I'll Regret Posting

You. You have me up at 2 a.m. blogging when I really should be asleep. Up blogging about things that really shouldn’t matter anymore, things that should have stopped mattering to me about 4 years ago, and yet, I’m still typing.

I only pretended to like The Who. Thought you should know.

The brief obsession with Douglas Adams, on the other hand, was genuine.

I really hate how almost everything I did for a while was in an attempt to impress you. I really hate how much I still try to impress you. I really hate that I felt that way – like I had to impress you. It was like you wanted something from me, something that wasn’t actually me, so I faked it… It was like I was your little dancing monkey or something.

And I’m starting to sound very like that girl who you once told in an email something like, “You’re just a girl. I should have known. Just a girl, like the rest of them. If you’re not, prove me wrong. Don’t send this to all of your friends in the next five minutes. Don’t tell anyone about it at all.”

I just want you to know that I didn’t send it to anyone. I did, however, print it out and made my dad read it because I was distraught. Just so you know - he wasn’t harsh towards you or anything. I really wanted him to be, but he wasn’t.

A couple years after you sent me that email, I showed it to Breonna, and then I BURNED IT IN MY KITCHEN SINK ALONG WITH A PICTURE OF US FROM THAT STUPID DINNER DANCE.

So, yes, you’re absolutely right, I am “Just a girl, like the rest of them.”

And I’m still trying to impress you.

And failing.

I skip every Jack Johnson song on Pandora. I love salad dressing. I always have. I always will. I always use more of it than I should.

 I care. I care about you. I still care about you, and I’m going to keep caring about you. I can’t stop caring about you. I don’t know why. I’m not going to try to untangle my motives. I just care. I care.

And you decided I was good enough for a few weeks at the beginning of this semester and then, apparently, I wasn’t good enough anymore. I wasn’t impressive enough anymore. I hadn’t earned the right of your royal attention anymore.

And that probably isn’t what happened, but it still feels like it. And I’m going to blog out my feelings in this immature manner because, as you once so astutely observed, I am “just a girl.”

Maybe you’ll read this someday, you have the URL somewhere. The worst part is that I want you to.