Clothesless Confessions

This blog is meant to be read to the tune of "Split-screen Sadness" by John Mayer.

July 1, 2008: I did not say "rabbit, rabbit" when I woke up this morning. Instead I yelled "fuck off" to the neighbor mowing his yard. When your bedtime is 1:00AM, seven in the morning is too early for loud gardening. I muttered " plant some trees you jerk ," and fell back asleep.

For those of you with your brow scrunched in confusion, let me explain. On the first of every month if you say "rabbit rabbit" first thing in the morning (before curse words), then you will have a lucky month. I never remember, and I am also very unlucky.

I woke up this morning on the wrong side of the bed. There is only one side on which to wake in the white ivy framed bed of my teenage years, but unfortunately for me, that happens to also be the wrong side. If you are not up to date on the soap opera of my life, get cable, and I am living with my parents again. I might splurge on a Feng Shui book and utilize the laws of both Heaven and Earth to receive positive Qi, and improve the condition of my life (thank you Wikipedia). I will have to check the bargain shelf at the bookstore. Is Feng Shui still trendy? I have been in a more than normal funk today. I stood in my bathroom for fifteen minutes marveling over the pink, green, and purple hairs now caught in my hairbrush. I started to feel an enormous sense of depression over my "lost" hairs. I am slowly killing my locks with a 360 degree straightener. I then proceeded to sit for a further five minutes on the cool carpet arguing with the twins over the need for a deep conditioner. They reasoned that the answer was yes. They supported their decision by bringing to my attention the simple fact that boys like soft hair. I tried to explain that money is tight for the unemployed, but as usual they dismissed my argument. I put on John Mayer, laid down on the bathroom floor, and stared at my bobbing bubblegum pink toenails. The twins fell back asleep and I let my thoughts wander to more than my usual envy, self-doubt, and insecurity.

The track stopped and stuttered, I grabbed the remote and pushed skip , "Split-screen Sadness" began to float through the overheated portal to hell that is my bedroom. I rolled over to turn on the fan, and peeled off my remaining clothes. God bless the locksmith. John starts singing to me "maybe I'll sleep inside my coat, and wait on your porch till you come back home." For a brief moment the day's chores interrupt my thoughts. The need to excuse myself from jury duty, do the grocery shopping, and job hunting nag at the corners of my thoughts. But I bat them away. I close my eyes and devote my early afternoon to eating all of the sharp cheddar crackers in the Cheez-It Duoz box. Lulled into a cheesy coma, I am relaxed and cooled by the whirl of the fan. But then a rogue thought comes rolling through the ghost town that has become my mind. I am the one who got away he whispers, and I won't leave you be until you admit your guilt. I have spent months upon months avoiding this thought. It's time I addressed this pesky son of a bitch.

The One Who Got Away
By the cheesy fingered Marissa Mills

We all have a him or her. We have the "one." The one we most likely didn't know was the one until after the one was gone. Confusing right? My boyfriend has a her, my friend Susie Q has a him, and Billy has a her and a him. I have a him. I take great pleasure in the thought that there might be men reading this blog thinking the man I refer to is them. I can assure you that it is not. The "one" I am speaking of will not read this blog.

There is a reason that this person is the one who got away. We have all lost boys and girls due to miscommunication. Either they said too little, or we said too much. In the case of my loose lips it was more often the latter. My "one" chose the fire escape from my big mouth. I gave him the truths of honesty, and all I got was the silent treatment. I know that if he had stayed, whatever relationship we chose to form would not have been healthy. Two complicated people cannot co-exist. There needs to be the simpler of the two. We fought over which of us mistrusted the other more, and which of us could do the most damage with our days.

Do you remember your "one?" They might have been less than attractive, the sex could have been less than average, they may even have made you grit your teeth at night, but even with their enormous list of faults you still pick up the phone to call them. You can't say their name without an hour of reflection. They wait in the line of your thoughts until they can escape on a hot summer day when you have just achieved the perfect state of being.

Mine has been waiting his turn patiently. He slept undisturbed while I watched "The Real Housewives of the OC," and discussed with my mother the possibility that they are my future. He even held his peace while I slept to a blissful 9AM. It was not until I was undressed and coated with orange cheese that he decided to come knocking. So now I will address him and give him his final peace.

Dear The "One,"

I screwed up. I get it.
Now leave me alone you prick.

Love,
Marissa

P.S. I only want you because I can't have you.

Remember that you only want the one who got away because, as the "got away" part suggests, you can't have them.

I'll be giving lessons on how to keep the upper hand every Friday at your local bar.

"Whenever you look at me I wish I was her"