Poorly Taken Notes

Last night, I read the words of an 18 year old girl’s personal journal. My hand traced over the sometimes red, sometimes blue or black ink, thinking about how the puerile mind doesn’t fully understand or know how to process others’ actions or heartache—how it barely does now, 15 years later.

Her thoughts trembled throughout the pages, yet agonizingly stuck in a purgatory of adolescent fear. Did he still find her pretty? Why is he suddenly not interested? How will things turn out?

It’s painful to read. Not because this naive girl is being foolish or simple, but because 15 years later, she faces a similar problem and still envelops herself in distrust and anxiety.

She wrote of being “unlucky”, like she, specifically, was peeled out of colorform and thrust into this bleak existence without predictability or smiling faces.

I know now that life is what you make it. That things don’t happen to us like there’s a celestial and surreptitious foosball match, where we’re constantly getting barreled over because we can’t see the ball.

But I don’t believe it. I seem to have shit luck.

That girl—she knew it even then.

She was really pretty. In some ways, prettier than she is now, although she’s more mature, curvy, and experienced. Boys turned their heads, but none ever asked her out. When they finally did, they became infused with the life of her voice and the joy of her effervescence, and then quickly deflated and became uninterested. Was it something she had done?

Probably.

I have made it my life’s mission since I was a teen to right the erroneous ways of my trysts. To figure out how to make things work, and to be a more self-aware and interpersonally involved lover.

And I still have shit luck.

The entry dated September 11th, 2001 chronicled the events of the falling towers, and as hopeless romantics do, that girl told of her own heart’s undoing. The boy revealed to her, while they poured over their scribbled notebooks from chemistry class, that he didn’t want to be her boyfriend, after holding her hand every weekend at every party, and spending nights next to her in bed.

I have never forgotten that day for very obvious reasons, but it was also the same day my emotions were crumpled up like poorly taken notes and tossed carelessly in the trash bin.

4 thoughts on “Poorly Taken Notes

  1. bluedoor8 says:

    Just lovely. You are such an intuitive writer. I can identify with the experience and your entry has left me wondering how many of us are out there. It always seemed that some girls had the best luck… but, looking at them now, did they really? Good luck from now on!

    Like

      • bluedoor8 says:

        I’m guessing you’re probably very smart. If you don’t mind my cheesy advice, make sure you’re hanging out with people and in places that truly suit your philosophy of life. Then, when you’re there, relax and enjoy the vibe without expecting anything. Go home alone, often! Another stupid thing a friend told me a long time ago, and it worked (or maybe it was finally just the right time for my partner and I to meet); decorate your bedroom with everything in two’s. Your artwork, your lamps, your chachki’s, etc. Sounds stupid, right? It could be, but I thought I’d pass on the witchy advice. Stay cool!!

        Like

      • sempre con amore says:

        That’s not stupid advice! And yes, going home alone is practically my favorite thing. I am a big-time lover of alone-time and also having a whole bed to myself. Thanks again, for replying and for reading! 🙂

        Liked by 1 person

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