Désespoir

I can't escape. This world is eating my oxygen.

Check-up

How am I? Tired, stressed, and busy. If you're feeling the same, maybe this will cheer you up. (Click to enlarge.)

Valentine

It had been a casual decision. The IV freshmen girls decided to ask the guys to have dinner together at Sushi Love on Valentine's Day. Not in a romantic sense, but as a way to appreciate and treat them. Each girl wrote a letter to one of the guys -- a note of prayers and niceties. Some were signed, others were anonymous. They were letters of thanks, of appreciation, of admiration.

What the girls didn't realize was that after they invited the guys to dinner, the guys began scheming plans of their own. As the group of nearly thirty girls and guys stopped in front of the off-campus restaurant, the guys formed a crescent formation. Two guys who had managed to smuggle along two bouquets of roses during the walk began handing out the roses to each of the guys. On cue, the guys began to serenade the girls with a rendition of Lion King's "Can You Feel the Love Tonight."

When the song ended, each of the guys went up to a girl and handed her his rose. And to top it off, the guys ended up footing the entire bill, which totaled to more than 500 dollars.

When it comes to Valentine's Day, my roommates and I don't see eye-to-eye. My roommates were bitter for either of the two reasons: 1) her "beloved' did not express his care for her in the way she wanted him to, or 2) she hated being alone and single on Valentine's Day. They complained about each couple walking hand-in-hand that crossed their path. They refused to listen to any cute Valentine's Day stories that people were sharing. They bemoaned their lack of a romantic other who would shower them with love and adoration.

I listened to their bitter complaints in complete apathy. Granted, I could not judge them fairly. I have never been in a relationship. The life of a single girl is the only life I have ever known. Perhaps, because I don't know what I'm missing, I don't feel bitterness. I watch my friends' Valentine's Day videos to each other in delight. I listen to other people's Valentine stories like a sweet-tooth wolfing down candy.

I may never be kissed. I may never be the most beautiful girl in someone's eyes. I may never know it is like to love someone so much that you feel yourself filled to the brim. But this kind of love -- where the warmth of being cared for melts all over your bones -- no other Valentine's Day has ever tasted so sweet.

Câlin

Donnez-moi quelque chose de tenir.

Espoir

Don't be afraid to let your heart go.

Each day in college, I become more and more aware of what an anomaly I am.

Valentine's Day is in three days, and not a minute comes by when I don't come across a flyer advertising some sort of Valentine's Day event or listen to someone talking about Valentine's Day plans. Marlowe (who I've been getting along perfectly well these days) has vowed to go out and "get some" this weekend as retaliation against her "bunny" (I don't even know what to call him... he's like a strange hybrid of (ex)boyfriend and best friend) who didn't buy the $40 ring she demanded him to buy for her. M has lamented her lack of a relationship fairly frequently in the last few weeks.

Then there's me, who doesn't really give a shit because Valentine's Day doesn't mean anything to me.

I have no memories of Valentine's Day. None. I can't recall anything from the last seventeen that I've experienced. I didn't enjoy a romantic day with a significant other, nor did I wallow in misery with Ben & Jerry's and leftover holiday chocolate. I have a feeling I was probably doing homework and playing tennis like any of the other 364 days of the year.

So anyways. This afternoon, I received an e-mail from DSG with this excerpt:

"Duke Student Government is proud to bring you a fun, simple way to celebrate Valentine's Day this year.

GoodCrush allows students to list the Duke emails (not net-id) of five students on whom they have crushes. Those students then receive e-mails telling them that an anonymous student has a crush on them.

If two people have entered each other's names, the website sends another e-mail revealing the students' identities to each other. Students can only log onto the website once."

Before I get into my reaction to this, I'll share my roommates' reactions. I think you can get a pretty good idea of their philosophies on love from this.

Marlowe: "HAHAHAHAHAHAHA. That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard? I'd be so pissed if I got an e-mail about an anonymous crush. That's so third grade. Why would I want to be crushed on by a pathetic loser who doesn't even have the guts to tell me in person?"

M: "Awwwwwwwwwww that's so cute! I wish I had a crush right now, because I'd totally send them one! Oh, and I'd be so happy if I got one of those anonymous e-mails! It's like, 'Yes! I'm loved by somebody!' Can you imagine how legit this could be -- you could really get people together!"

Marlowe and M ended up having an argument about how Marlowe is "messing with the system" by putting in guys she doesn't even have a crush on. M was actually excited for K when he told her he got one of those e-mails, even though he already suspected it was from Marlowe. Marlowe thinks it's the most ridiculous idea she's ever come across; M thinks it really could bring people together. Marlowe argues that if she likes someone, she'll tell him out right; M argues that not everyone is brave enough to put themselves out there with the possibility of rejection.

In the end, I feel that whatever your opinion is on this depends on your personality. M and I are nowhere near as forward and aggressive romantically as Marlowe. That's the appeal of this program -- being able to dip your foot in the water without taking the plunge. I suppose ideally, being too chicken to confess things in person is problematic -- but I think the majority of us can relate to the fear of rejection.

Having said that, there's no way in hell I'm sending one of those in. L'espoir, c'est une chose dangereuse.

Alexander McQueen

One of my favorites

RIP

Muette

I see you through the window
Only the back but I know --
it's you
Sitting there in your black leather jacket
Hair spiked into ebony shards

The closest I've ever come to finding Ren --
it's you

Two mutes sit side-by-side in a bus
Severed tongues
Neither can taste the
sweetness of stillborn words.

Tell me,
how do the eyes speak
when the tongue cannot?
Do you look at me in disgust?
awe?
fear?
When you look away,
is it because I repulse you?
Or because you don't want me
to catch your lingering stare?

The mute collect rumors
like beggars hoarding coins.

I've heard what they say
Got your heart strung round the neck of another
But I wear my black leather jacket
Ren's lock strung round my neck.

Don't look away
I want you to see
the one with the key's not you--
it's me.

Bal de Glace

Each time is the same. It always leaves a bittersweet taste in her mouth that makes her want to spit.

First, she casts off her daytime skin of comfort -- off go the indigo skinny jeans, the graphic silkscreen tees, the sneakers weathered and caked with a history of rain and mud. In come the dresses (with their cascading fabrics and jewel-tone hues), the chandelier earrings, the heels that elevate her elegance and yet hurt like a bitch. On comes the glitter and powder and rouge, the nocturnal painted face that never sees the light of day.

Then, there is always the entrance. The moment when she glides through the door with all eyes on her. The silence that follows is brief, before her friends all begin to crowd around, doling out compliments like bread to the hungry. She never looks at her friends' dates, the ones that linger to the side. And there is almost always the one whom she doesn't want to face. It is then that the feeling first begins to trickle under her skin.

It isn't until they arrive there that the trickling emotions she has been feeling intensify and pool together, until she is sick and nauseous with the eternal war of hope and despair. The battles differ each time. Perhaps she is stricken with lazy eye, gaze wandering off for the one in the shadows. Half the time, he isn't there; the rest of the time, she will find him in the arms of another. Or perhaps she will be dancing with her friends. It can go two ways. Either she will be alone and with the darkness hiding the crimson shame of her face, she will retreat to the back of the room where the wallflowers bloom and wilt. Or, perhaps this time her friends are not coupled off like Noah's animals in matching colors. Like a fairy ring of mushrooms, they root into the dance floor in a circle of rhythmic magic. But when the heartbeat of the music begins to slow to a waltz, her lazy eye is paralyzed. Perhaps the one will approach her friend. Or perhaps the one will wander off the floor to satisfy a different sort of appetite with chocolate fondue and cheesecake. Her lazy eye doesn't know, not when it will look anywhere but there.

Hours later, she is staring at her reflection in the mirror, reluctant to wash away the painted mask. I'm not ugly, she tells herself. My face is symmetrical. My eyes are respectably almond-shaped, with a natural cat-eye quirk in the corners. My nose is straight and petite -- the kind that the fortunetellers say bodes well. My lips are full, glossed with a coat of glittering armor. But the words are empty, rattling in her body like forlorn pennies in a forgotten band-aid tin.

Before she goes to sleep, she looks at the pictures on her wall. There is Holly Golightly, reassuring her with a smile as bright as the tiara in her hair that sexy is ephemeral, elegance is eternal. Then there is the Idol, with his impeccably styled clothes and heart-wrenching glare, the one whose voice sings her to sleep, the one who reminds her that there is still a whole world she has yet to see. It is only then, with the weight lifted off her heart, that she is able to drift to sleep.

Moon River, wider than a mile,
I'm crossing you in style some day.

Incu(pid)bus

You intruded upon my reverie, strolling into the frame with your hands tucked into the pockets of your laundered jeans, your face likewise hidden by the artfully angled tilt of your cap. This isn't the first time you've paid a visit to me while I've been on cloud nine -- though you already know the difference between meeting in the subconscious and when you're still in the real world as I wander the dreamworld.

They warn me of you. They say those who surround themselves with fortresses of ice have something to hide. But maybe what they don't realize is that those who build these walls have something to protect.

What of Eros? Each night he visited Psyche, he never let her trace his face in the darkness. Like a wisp of a dream or a nightmare, the next morning left nothing tangible for her to see or hear or smell or touch or taste as proof. But she would have to be three-quarters dead if she didn't remember how she'd felt.

Love is the incubus. I can feel your teasing whisper crawling up my neck. He's already swallowed you whole.