SPLOTCH

...so i had to write a personal essay for a journalism class, and this is what happened, it isn't biting, or sarcastic, or cynical..i kind of hate it.

I don’t believe that love conquers all.

If it did, an action movie featuring a juiced-up Cupid battling personified depictions of relationship killers like infidelity and criticism would be getting the Academy Awards. I know I run the risk of an untimely death via lightning bolt by blatantly disagreeing with a belief that the 'author of love' was pretty straightforward about in his good book, but the truth is life as I’ve experienced is more complicated than that.

I fell in love for the first time at age 16. When I close my eyes and try to revisit memories from a past that feels nothing like my own all I remember, apart from saved AIM conversations with quotes like “I don’t know…what do you want to talk about?” and shoe boxes crammed with folded notebook paper scrawled with words that have no meaning to me now, are the splotches.

It was genetic, or so my mother, who had no formal training in DNA coding, reassured me. A by product of intense emotion, embarrassment and generally awkward situations, the splotching was ‘genetic’ and this explanation alone was left to comfort me. At their worst, I looked as though a class of kindergartners had been given a splatter-painting art project using only fire-engine red paint and the target of their creative genius was my face, neck, arms and stomach. It was horrifying.

There was absolutely nothing I could do to control it; no amount of positive thinking, silent pleading, cold wash-cloths or in my desperate moments, deep breathing rituals, could accelerate their disappearance from my usually porcelain skin. I was rendered powerless. A slave to their unpredictability and victim to their calloused indifference to my suffering, time was my only savior.

I can’t actually claim the splotching was responsible for any physical pain, unless you consider the pain of heart break I experienced every time they joined me, uninvited, for a dance, a date or a phone call.

Nothing was private. No sentiment my own. I always had a silent laugh when I heard the expression 'to wear your emotions on your sleeve' because I knew the truth. Sleeves covered with emotion don't make you vulnerable. A face emblazoned with anxiousness, an arm showing anger and a neck exposing excitement was true transparency.

They were the worst when I was with him. When anxiousness mixed with uncertainty plagued my entire being. The touch of his hand holding mine sent proverbial butterflies to my stomach and as if on cue, red splotches to my face. He knew them well. It was a topic left undiscussed, an unspoken agreement to ignore the bright red spots painted strategically across my chest when he would arrive to pick me up.

It is no secret that there is nothing more attractive than a self-assured woman, shining with confidence, envious of no-one and threatened by nothing. It is also no secret that no such woman has, or ever will have existed.

I was a volatile creature prone to over-anaylization and self-destructive tendencies. Every facet of my personality aided in the widespread epidemic that plagues the female gender. The haunting sensation I could work my whole life to eliminate, the single underlying factor that contributed to the demise of my relationship, insecurity. My heart was broken for the first time at age 17. The love I had so assuredly experienced proved to be as erratic and suffocating as the deep red splotches. With silent anger I cursed her sociability, the way she could flirt with him egregiously without fear of bright red consequences. It was maddening. With each day that passed, I became number, as evidenced by the return of a consistent pale color to my skin. Time was my only savior.

I fell in love for the first time at age 20. My heart is full and at any moment could burst from its sometimes sickening, happiness. I want to remember everything for a future that is beginning to feel a lot like my own. Upon discovery of a love that feels right, I am beginning to feel a little bit like that self-assured woman I described above, splotches and all.

rip arachnid friend

And in an instant, with a swift slide of hand, clutching my formerly worn strapped black sandal now housing the juicy remains of a moderately sized spider once crawling freely across my wall, only to be remembered now by the small green stain that appeared as a result of his crushed lifeless body...I sit.

I have to admit. I'm a horrible blogger. It's been 6 months or so since I've 'posted' which I'm SURE, is much to the dismay of the very large following this brilliant blog has inevitably developed.

Though not analytical by nature, I've recently tried to discover what emotion it is that leads me to put my pen to paper, or in this case, hands to keyboard. I find it interesting that after I, perhaps prematurely, force an innocent arachnid to take its last breaths, I'm triggered to write. I have to wonder which specific events give me the desire to outlet my thoughts. After months of tiresome research, I've come to the conclusion that I do not write when I'm happy. It never occurs to me during the times that I am most content to record my innermost victories however simple or complex they may be. Whether it's writing 6 paragraphs about the 3 bags of kettle corn I just ate and the episode of Kathy Griffin that made me piss myself laughing..or the amazing weekend I had wit da peeps, it is only during times of insecurity, moments of complication, and horrifying annoyance that I want to remember every anxiety ridden thought I am thinking.

Alas, since this discovery, I am attempting an experiment. A series of tests, if you will, to determine if I can indeed produce coherent thought in the times of my contentity. (totally made up word) For the record, my current state of existence is not one of perplexion or hatred. I couldn't be more relaxed..lounging in my room listening to the sweet melodic harmonies of Cat Stevens and anticipating greatly the rest of the week

Life is exciting when you have so many non-specific things to look forward to. It's different from events, that build anticipation..but are over..so quickly. Like this spring semester for example, I recognize, completely, how horribly nerdy it makes me to anticipate school beginning again, but I can't help it! I love the blissful, carefree spring, with its lack of commitments and abundance of birthdays and spring breaks..I just can't get enough. Call me a narcissist, but I feel like March is MY month, and its very existence is enough cause for celebration.

So there you have it. I wrote something. Is it coherent? Mildly. Is it interesting and relevant? Not in the slightest. But that's what blogs are for, writing nonsense that no one cares about but yourself. I love it. I bid thee farewell.