Crawling out of the depths of her self-imposed cyber cave, the rarely seen above-ground Toronster can now be observed in her natural habitat... That is, slouched at her desk persistently procrastinating on her allotted amount of homework (which is often rather ridiculous in scope, by the way) and sipping luke-warm tea from her favorite mug, which boasts a slew of Shakespearean insults in various fonts. I mean, really: With such audacious verbal slurs as "veriest varlet that ever chewed with a tooth," clod of warward marl," and "mountain of mad flesh..." What's not to love?
Anyway, you might now be asking yourself the very same question that I happen to be asking myself at this very moment: Do I really have the time to be here?
And, of course, the answer being exactly what is and should be expected of me by now:
Not really, no.
Then, "why" you might ask?
Oh, I suppose I could say any number of trivial, believable things in my defense... Like I felt the need to "express my individuality through the liberating anonymity of the blogosphere" or something to that affect. The only problem being that any such impressive-sounding thing would be anything but true in this case. No, I'm afraid the simple truth is far less noble and a good deal more immature than even I would like to admit.
The REAL reason I'm here is that I'm feeling... Well, let's see, how do I say this...?
Pathetic.
Yes, I think that's really the best word to describe it.
It's not that I've given up on myself, or that I'm unreasonably stressed, depressed, or all three in a delightful pile of misery. No, I just feel like my current state of mind is not up to its usual par, and I find this fact to be rather disappointing.
Namely, I STILL have yet to figure out what it is I really, honestly, TRULY want to be doing with my life, or even what I want to get out of it. And even though it is my second year in this maelstrom of responsibility commingled with endless amounts of distraction, I'm still wading through the seemingly endless tide of the "zen art of balancing work, social life, and extra curricular" bullshit that I was dealing with last year.
But I digress, that's not really even the pathetic part. It's nothing new for me to be indecisive or, more accurately, to sit on the fence and wait until the very last second to make so much as a move in any given direction. No, none of the above really contributes to this feeling of self-directed bemusement. It is, in fact, the emergence of something I had originally deemed characteristic and (oh so very hopefully) exclusive to the realm of high school idiocy... And a particular aspect of which I had hoped to avoid entirely for at least the better part of my existence on this earth.
In other words: The classic, chick-flick crush on a boy who has no reason at all to know of my aforementioned lamentable existence.
There, I said it. So, go ahead: Weep for me. You know you want to.
Oh, for goodness sake; don't look so shocked! It's really not that bad! We all know I tend to be overdramatic (especially when it comes to things mostly fabricated in my own mind), anyway. It's probably just nothing; a totally insignificant nothing that I'll likely get over faster than you can say, "lump of foul deformity."
Oh, Shakespeare. : )
But really: I've already leapt across the line of reality and exaggerated fiction; He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is, in fact, aware of my name. How else could he have said "Hi" those few times I've run into him on campus. And, in this unfamiliar plane we call reality, the whole thing really isn't anything worth over-analyzing in the least...
So, naturally, I'm going to go on to do just that right now.
... Just don't say I didn't warn you.
So, I might stare at the back of his head for extended periods of time, may or may not continuously save some of the better samples of his (rather good... Oh all right: pretty damn good) writing on my laptop, and might even (on the very rarest of occasions, of course) lapse into little fantasy reels in the back of my mind when I really should be taking notes on that day's riveting lecture... But that doesn't mean I have to go to such extreme lengths as... Well, you know -- actually talking to him, right? I mean, that would just be silly. Talking to a boy that I might even remotely consider as a romantic prospect -- HA!
Since when has that ever even drawn near the realm of possibility for me?
Such an improbable venture is hardly worth putting forth the effort.
Oh, for goodness sakes!
This is ridiculous. I'm officially an old geezer (AKA: 20 years old) now, and have no time for such trivial things as (actually / maybe / at some point in the far-flung future) attempting to get a boyfriend. I mean, I never needed nor really wanted one in high school, and I survived that especially frightening chapter of my life without latching myself on to some so-called "relationship." So, that in and of itself should console me and reaffirm my ideas that such a venture would be equal parts unprofitable as well as a potentially quite embarrassing one. After all, I have homework to do, club meetings to go to, articles to edit, fellow nerds to consort with, students to advise, sleep not to get...
Regardless, it all comes down to the same basic thing: It doesn't matter. He barely knows my name and, in all fairness, all I really know (and admittedly rather like) about the guy is that he has a fondness for dorky hats, is a fair shot of a writer (involuntary sigh), and has damn good taste in literature (close to my #1 requirement, in the unlikely event that you were wondering). So, here I stand; dangerously close to crossing the not-so-fine line between slight fixation and Creepersville, leading me to conclude that I really should be getting myself a life sometime here soon. Oh, and getting out more.
Like, a lot more. Seriously.
And just when you thought I was finished...
I guess I just thought that when I had finally crossed the bridge from high school to college life that things would be different, that there would be a dating scene that I might actually have some interest in looking into... But Willamette, is such a communal, tight-knit little place with so few students and nigh impenetrable groups of friends that it's bizarrely difficult to get to know anyone who doesn't happen to live in the same general area of campus as oneself... Rendering it an environment hardly conducive to fostering an actual 'dating scene' of any kind, least of all those affiliated with my particular brand of introversion.
Sure, I share a class with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, but besides the occasional "Hi, how are you? Whad'ja think of the reading last night?" there really isn't much opportunity for actual verbal discourse in that one miserly hour of academic servitude. Hence my use of the word "pathetic."
Great, there I go again with the dramatics.
So, I've got a wee crush. It's nothing to worry about. I just have to focus on other things; of which I have more than plenty (just ask my fellow dormies), and the troublesome tingle should dwindle away on its own soon enough... Like a once-golden Twinkie after a millennium and a half spent neglected on the top shelf of Grandma's pantry.
All will be well so long as I can manage to keep from embarrassing myself and to conceal my occasional glances as best I can and feign disinterest if he does so happen to take notice. Provided I follow these directives and steer clear of any potential icebergs along the way, the fickle thing can and should disintegrate without much undue effort on my part.
Except... I kind of don't want it to.
Now, before you go leaping out of your chair and fuming at my excessive levels of inconsistency, give me a chance to over-explain myself again, won't you? What I mean to say is that it would be yet another opportunity missed on account of my (at times) ludicrous level of insecurity/shyness/stubborn muteness when in close proximity to those more eligible members of the opposite sex.
This new assertion leads me to a place at which I am forced to reconsider my original plan of action (or lack thereof, as it were). Maybe I really should force myself to dredge up just enough courage to allow me to talk to him every once in a while, if only in short, friendly bursts. That really shouldn't be too much to ask even from me, right? Then, when we draw to the close of the semester, I wouldn't be able to say that I hadn't at least given it a shot.
Oh, goodness! It is most certainly not a good sign when the unnecessarily wistful tone of a sentence is able to pass through the barrier of a computer screen, then is it? Ha, no; I didn't think so. With that then, I suppose I'll just end with the resolution that if something is to come of it, it will. I'm quite determined not to give it more thought than I already have. This rambling blog post has served to get most of the muddled mess out of my system as well as proven to be rather cathartic, just as I'd hoped... My only regret being that whosoever unfortunate enough to stumble upon this mess of words has been forced to delve into such a disorderly array of misguided musings! And for that, I do briefly apologize. Not all of my lengthy -- though few-and-far-between -- posts are so unduly focused on such an inane topic, I can assure you.
And now that the last has been said, I must leave you with the reminder that this blog -- as well as all my girlish, often whimsical fantasies -- are my own, as they always have and always will be. After all, it is up to me to decide which of those dreams (that is, those that are even remotely possible on this plane of existence) I will put forth the effort to make into a reality. So, I guess we'll just have to wait and see on this one; so small it seems in comparison to all the rest that are floating out there in the ether.
Until whatever time shall be my next,
Torey
(tonight's "anointed sovereign of sighs and groans")
(tonight's "anointed sovereign of sighs and groans")
