It’s Buffoonery

So I’m not sure if I like him or not.  Is it possible?  Sure, I get a little giddy when I see him and stumble on my words and get even more giddy when I  know I am going to see him.

But isn’t that an expression of fondness?  Can’t it be a friendly feeling, like when you’re going to see a good friend after a long time?

But then again, you’re supposed to feel comfortable when you’re around your good friend.  Not nervous . . . unless you had to tell him something . . . like you were oddly attracted to him.

But isn’t that how it works, how it starts out?  You’re friends, and one or two develop feelings?

But what if I knew, I KNEW, my friend wasn’t good for me? Like literally, he was not good for me.  He’s a player.  He gets the V.  He doesn’t want a relationship, no “settling down,” no “ball and chain.”

Just the V.

But I like my V.  So I’m keeping it . . . until the famous, slightly imaginary “One” comes along.  Then the V’s out the window.  Sayonara.  Adios, amigo!

Rather, amiga.

So now I have a dilemma.  Quite the dilemma.  Never been in this situation before.  Actually, I might have.  A certain tall kid comes to mind.  My classmates and I used to call him egghead because his head looked like an egg.  Ha!  That was always funny.  He used to get so upset about it.

Thinking about it now, I kind of miss him.  Just a tad.

I remember jogging past his apartment building every summer morning, around sunrise, and imagine his bumping into me.  And then, just maybe, he would have a Taylor-Swift kind of epiphany and, in turn, ask me out.

That was always amusing.

But back to the current guy.

I was asked if I liked him, and I immediately said, no, why?  Because I talk about him a lot?

The answer was a shrug and a no.

And then the subject was changed.

But then I kept thinking about that moment later that day.  Was U being honest with myself?

Do I like him?

It did feel good to kiss him though . . .

I don’t even know what I want.  A relationship?  That’d be awesome.  But do I have the time?  The patience?  I can’t even handle myself.  How am I going to handle another person trying to handle me?

Do I want to have fun?  That’d be awesome too, but risky.  A good kind of risky, I think.  I’ve never really done anything that involved an ounce of risk in my life.  Maybe college is the place to do it.

No, I decide.

College is definitely the place to do it.

It’s my freshman year.  Why not?  Shrug it off, grab a thong, and hit the streets.

Okay, forget the thong.  Get those granny panties.  I’ll need them in case things get too intimate.  Use it as incentive to stop when hands are a teeny little ways too far.

Maybe I can have fun with him.

Catching feelings?

Ha!  I laugh at it.  It’s buffoonery.



Maybe it’s not worth it.

Trying so hard.

And for what?

To fail again.

To not live up to their expectations.

Their standards.

It’s easy to stop.

Just stop.

Venting seems to be a good way to just . . . relax.  Get it out in the open.  Let it breathe.  Let it move around somewhere other than your inner self.

But who can one vent to?  A friend?  A family member?  A colleague?  A therapist?

But what if that friend isn’t a friend, but someone you always ended up hating?  What if that family member won’t understand?  They always expect you to be jolly and try your hardest in spite of adversity or struggle.  What if your colleagues are judgmental?

And who has money for a therapist?

Certainly not you.

Certainly not me.

That’s why I write. Good way to vent.  To what?  Good way to vent to a computer screen.  Good way to vent to the keyboard.  Hear that clackity-clack.  Sounds like punches.  Sounds like hurtful words cutting through those you despise, those you can’t stand.  Things you can’t stand.  Hit a letter—bang.  Hit the spacebar—wam.  Hit the ENTER key—BOOM!


But you’re not satisfied yet.

You want more out of it.

So you sit up straighter.  You plant your feet in the ground.  You narrow your eyes and take deep breaths. Rather shorter breaths.  Because you’re angry.


Or upset.

Or a dangerous combination of the two.

But who cares?  You’re never angry.

Or upset.

Or a dangerous combination of the two.

So live a little.

So you plant your feet.  Grind your teeth.  You harden your grimace and fingers are flying away.

And you don’t know what you’re writing, but you just write.

Because you love it.

You love the thrill of your thoughts spilling from your brain and jumping from your fingers and into the keyboard, and into the computer to be seen before your face.  You don’t care about errors, those green and red squiggly lines judging you.  You don’t give a shit.


Because you’re angry and upset.

No, because you love to write.  Fast.  And quick.

And then, maybe, later you’ll  check it over and shout a little.  Laugh a little even.

Cry a little.

Those words.  They evoke emotion.  They pull something out of you.  A little anger.  A little glee.  A little sorrow.

And sometimes you just have to stop.  Take a break.  A BREAK! A temporary break and just breathe.


Go ahead.


It’s a really nice sound.




That’s the thing.

We’re human.

It’s okay to feel angry.

Or upset.

Or angry and upset.

Or sad.

Or angry and upset and sad.

It’s okay!


So be angry and upset and sad.

But temporarily.

Once in a while.

Helps balance out the crazy humanness we just have to have.