Wolverine

            When I was nine years old I fell in love with Wolverine. It was 2000 and my mother, sister and I were on vacation in Las Vegas. We had driven in an old silver Saturn and after spending a few days in Vegas, we took a tour bus to see the Hoover Dam and the Grand Canyon.

            I don’t really recall my thoughts about the Hoover Dam or Grand Canyon, but I remember seeing X-Men at a movie theater in the Circus Circus Hotel. We weren’t staying there, it was too expensive, but it was the only kid-friendly attraction that also offered gambling. My mom left us in the kid-friendly part and was gone for the night. My sister and I explored the Circus Circus, too afraid of the outside world to even think about leaving the hotel. It was loads of fun for at least a few hours, but after the giddiness of being parent-less wore off, we were hungry. We wandered around looking for something to eat and that’s when we found the theater.

            Back then, I was still in the stage of doing everything my sister told me to. She wanted to see X-Men, so we went. That’s when it happened. I was obsessed within the first few minutes. Wolverine, or Logan as I fantasized I would call him, was so unlike the male leads in all the horrible movies my nine-year-old self was accustomed to. He was too much for my pre-pubescent mind to handle. He was also the first bad-ass I had ever encountered. Just imagine, being led into the world of rebelliousness and sex appeal by Wolverine himself. It shifted my small world, and I knew even then that Logan was what I wanted. No, what I needed. Anyone else simply wouldn’t do.

            Over the years, X2, X-Men: The Last Stand, X-Men Origins: Wolverine and X-Men: Fist Class have come out and I’ve found myself in love with Logan, or Wolverine as he seems to prefer to be known by, with each one. The more masculine, brooding and overdone he is, the more I have to have him. It proved to be an actual problem. In 7^th grade, I dated a big, buff 8^th grader who had a sensitive, emotional side and possibly had anger management issues. He seemed to be as close to Wolverine as I could get, but it wasn’t close enough. He had blonde hair and blue eyes where Logan had brown both. I couldn’t overlook it.

            In high school I dated a couple different guys who arguably had important qualities in common with Wolverine, but of course, they always fell short. I like to think that my current boyfriend is the closest I’ve ever gotten. Of course, he doesn’t have adamantium bones or blades that shoot out of his knuckles. Learning to admit that I’ll never find such perfection has been a slow and painful process. It began with being teased for being so excited about my beloved mutant movies, and grew into me becoming a complete closet Wolverine fan. I keep telling myself I’ll let this obsession go, and yet I find myself trying to convince my boyfriend to be Wolverine for Halloween.

Alyssa

Alyssa. Derived from the flower alyssum. Greek roots a- “not” and lyssum- “insane”.

Alyssa. A lie. Not insane.

According to German origins, Alyssa means truth. I kid you not, truth. A lie means truth. Which is funny, because I’m a liar. Sometimes I find it hard to say even one true thing.

Alyssa. A lie. Saw. I saw a lie. I saw a lie the day a liar was named truth. Maybe that’s the beauty of it. The lie calling itself truth. But what’s so good about the truth?

Tell me something true, tell me something true, they say. I say back to them I’m not insane and they actually believe me. Tell me something else true, they say. They want  something better. So I say you’re pronouncing my name wrong. The truth is, it’s pronounced with “lie” in it. Not Uh-liss-uh, but Uh-LIE-suh. The “lie” is the most important part. This time I actually am telling the truth.

Here is something true: I am not an example of truth or sanity. Maybe it’s because everyone pronounces my name wrong. Maybe if they got it right I’d be able to sleep at night and I could tell the truth. Wait, who am I kidding? I couldn’t tell the truth.

What’s so good about the truth, then? Still trying to figure that one out. Truth would be someone called Ruth. She sounds like your great aunt that smells like mothballs and likes gardening. Ruth is an ugly name. Truth is an ugly word. Alyssa though, Alyssa sounds like Queen Elissa or Alyssa Milano. Backwards it says ass, full of shit. Alyssa, a lie, lice, saw, scandal. Much more exciting than Ruth. And everyone loves a big fat lie.

The Angry Girl's Guide to Dating

            Girl, you’ve gotta be smart about this. You’ve got to protect yourself. That’s the most important part. Don’t let down your guard until you’re okay with getting hurt. You’re going to want to let it down before that and you’re going to want to believe that you’ve found the love of your life, but don’t. Refrain. Wait it out. If it really is right, he can wait anyways.

            First of all, do not go into this expecting a husband. In fact, don’t even go into this looking for a boyfriend. Forget that altogether and think about yourself. Real love is loving yourself. Be selfish, you’re too young not to. Be confident and dazzling and fun. Be whatever you want. Just don’t be whatever he wants.

            Once you find him, and believe me, you will. Once you find him, don’t be afraid to let him go. There will be so many more. Honestly. Just get that through your head before getting into anything. He’s replaceable. Once you find him, put up that guard I mentioned. He’s going to tell you all kinds of wonderful things about your pretty eyes, pretty hair, nice dress, nice legs, and beautiful smile. The better the compliments the higher the level of bullshit. Don’t take it with a grain of salt, don’t take it at all. He’ll sweet talk you all night long if you let him. Don’t even waste your time.

            Go for the guy who asks real questions. About your thoughts, dreams, goals, family. I’ll give you a hint; he’s not at that bar. He probably isn’t at that party either. He could be, but probably not. It’ll take time to find him.

            Meanwhile, for the guy you found at the party, do whatever you want as long as you aren’t serious. Go home with him, have sex with him, whatever. If he starts using you, use him right back. Dial his ass up when you need a booty call. And when he asks you to be his girlfriend because he just realized how great you are you better say hell no. If he isn’t calling you back, forget him. Actually, there shouldn’t be any “calling back” because you shouldn’t call him at all. Let him call you. You call him back. You keep him waiting. Let him sweat it out. If he never calls, date his best friend. That’ll get his attention if that’s even what you want.

            That’s what you need to focus on, what you want. If you want a hook-up, fine, go to the bar and bat your eyelashes and sway your hips and find one. If you want true love though, don’t look at all. 

Dead

Dead, Head, Bed, Meds.

Dead. I’ve been feeling dead lately. Not the dead-and-buried-in the-ground kind, but the rock kind. Like I’ve never even been alive. I’m a ghost of a presence. I actually walk through walls. People don’t really notice. I should probably eat something, but I’m not hungry. I might be tired or I might be asleep.

Head. I exist in my head. A lot goes on up there. Being dead can get stressful. Busy, even. I get new ideas everyday but it’s starting to get crowded. There’s no room for expansion. I can see myself, the little version of me that is really all of me crowded in my head. Every moment getting more and more cramped up there and running out of air. There’s no room to breathe. She’s getting frantic.

Bed. I won’t get out of bed. I won’t get out for light or for food or even to pee. I’m staying here. I’ll stay asleep and even when I wake up I’ll just lie in bed and pretend to be asleep. No one can tell the difference, not even me. Life looks better horizontal anyways.

Meds. Meds are supposed to help. They’re supposed to make me feel better, or maybe they’re just supposed to make me feel alive. Meds to soothe, meds to protect, meds to end the pain. Just put her out of her misery. The whole idea is a cure. A cure for the living, a cure to be dead.  

Awakening

                Right as I told him we should be friends, he kissed me. That wonderful, overwhelming, heavy kind of kiss that I personally wouldn’t mind being smothered by. What are you, twelve? Well, no, but I felt like I was twelve. “A grown up woman should never fall so easily.” What are you, a grown up? Clearly not.

                He didn’t tell me he loved me, didn’t get me flowers, and thank God didn’t ask me on a date. What he did tell me was how incredibly attractive he found me, but not using words. Somehow that language was more meaningful to me. So, when I thought about my boyfriend, Bryce (yes, this story gets juicier!) I barely felt guilt.

                Bryce professed his love to me every day and bought me countless bouquets. He talked to me about how many kids he wanted to have and got mad when I didn’t feel like holding hands. He even agreed that we shouldn’t have sex till we’re married. And he actually said until “we’re” married. Because apparently we were getting married. This is the kind of smothering I didn’t want. As an in-between twelve years old and grown-up, I knew it was too much too soon. Not that it mattered. What was happening between my legs hit me a lot harder than anything that was going through my mind.

                I knew no boundaries. I forgot everything about who I was or wanted to be. I probably forgot my name. I wasn’t sure what I was feeling or why and it didn’t faze me in the least. My instincts took over, logic out the window. We were primal and so immature.

                 I lied. We did more than just kiss. Neither of us said a single word and we didn’t need to because we had a new language. One that Bryce never knew. Afterwards, I felt like I had just snapped out of a daze. The best and worst part about it was that even after he left and I started getting ready to go out to lunch with Bryce, I couldn’t bring myself to form even an inkling of regret.

                I didn’t bother telling Bryce at lunch. We went to my favorite Chinese restaurant and I didn’t feel like ruining what was turning out to be a great day. When Bryce and I finally did break up, I pretended it was for different reasons. Something about going away to college and needing to have freedom. In a very small way, that much was true. I no longer liked the idea of love that was presented in so many actions and words. I wanted it to be real, physical and raw.  I needed the freedom to feel.