The Daily Durvy

I hate offending people.

It’s just not something that I strive to do. It makes my life harder. Because then I have to deal and interact with people that I have, in some, way hurt.

But, there is no freedom without freedom of press and media. Without the freedom to really say what’s on your mind, then freedom of religion, to that shirt that you love but no one else does, to reading “banned” books, to keep kosher (or not), and the freedom to hate Sarah Palin are all kind of moot points. Empty threats with nothing to back them up.

Most bloggers have a bag, box, or notebook full of things they want to say but won’t. That collection is usually labeled “HOW I KEEP MY FAMILY AND FRIENDS FROM KILLING ME.” I have one. I just don’t know what I should put in it yet.

Should I keep details of mine and Alex’s relationship secret?

Can I talk about my insecurities?

Names of friends, family, roommates, and pets? Yes/no/maybe/only initials?

Should I talk about my sorority? What parts do I leave out? Rituals? Yes. Drama? Maybe? Hurtful things? No?

Can I swear?

Do I talk about my roommate(s)? What if I have something nice to say?

Should I leave school woes in the classroom?

Do I talk about other projects? School, personal, sorority-related?

So the real question is: what do I check at the door? Where is my line? Technically, I have the right to say anything I wish to say, especially if I only tell my side of the story. I don’t think I’m capable of really slandering anyone. I don’t want to be malicious. That is certainly not my intent. As long as I stick to my experiences, I can say pretty much anything. Everything.

I find myself apologizing a lot. I’m always so sorry. Should I be? Or am I just saying what’s on my mind?

All of these unanswered questions, so little time and so many people to offend.

I am not the child of divorce and I have never really felt the pain of a major breakup.

That being said, I do know what it’s like to have to say goodbye to Very Important People in my life. I have a story that I’ve been reluctant and eager to tell, and now that I’m at the very end of it I think I can give a recap.

Deciding to come to UC Davis for school was a decision based almost completely on the fact that it is 400 miles away from Los Angeles. I didn’t know any one or anything for miles. I was scared and excited and optimistic. Really, really optimistic.

Freshman year I was placed in a 3 bedroom suite with 5 other girls. My roommate B and I hit if off immediately. It was like my sister and best friend had come with me to college. She and I and two other girls in the suite, T and D, became inseparable.

My first year went by in a blur. All I remember was that I don’t remember much from our drunken adventures, talks that lasted well into the night, and Project Runway marathons. Looking back, it is the most cliche 9 months of my life. I had a posse and I thought I was the shit.

Since things went so well in the dorm setting, we decided that we should get a 4 bedroom apartment and continue the everlasting party. We realized very quickly that there is no such thing as an everlasting party.

By November, I was almost completely alienated from D and B. I’m sure what happened or why it spiraled out of control. I know that there is no one person at fault, only that a Thing grew in our apartment. It kept me out of the common areas, and sucked all of the fun out of the room. The Thing was not spoken of, and there are many examples I could point to, and none that I want to. It was our negative energy, our ghost. It was the end of the party.

As time went on, I distanced myself further and further away from my Best Friends in the World, and they became my Thing. They were my stress, my greatest fear. My fears of loneliness, abandonment, and rejection were embodied by these girls, and I hated them for it.

I think I really hated myself for it.

By February it was clear that things were not getting better. I opted to move out. To this day, 2 days away from moving into my new apartment, I still wonder if that was the cowardly thing to do. I like think that it was at least mildly brave. I hope that time and distance does heal all wounds, and I hope that my act of desperation turns into an act of love. I hope that I can get my friends back.

Tonight was the first time in 3 months that I was in my apartment for more than a couple of minutes.

I started packing.

I packed as lovingly as I could, and did my best not to cry. I couldn’t handle the kitchen, when I’ll have to pull out pots and dishes and the coffee maker, and try my best to separate my things from those of my (almost) ex-roommates. My ex-friends.

I still don’t know what happened between us, and maybe I never will. Maybe this is just another break up, where each party has to pull their shit together and move on, disconnected from the other person. Where you have to find the strength to try again, with a new person and a new situation. Where you might have to fight for custody of the heart-shaped cake pans or electric grill, when you really want to fight for the relationship, for the friendship.

I’m tired of fighting. I just want my friends back.

I hate girls.

I live with 3 three of them, 2 of which seem to take issue with my very existence. For this past Valentine’s Day Alex bought me a huge, beautiful bouquet of Birds of Paradise, my absolute favorite flower. T’s boyfriend bought her a beautiful bouquet of red tulips. We both put them out on the dining room table that night. I went away that weekend, and I when I got home someone had moved them onto my desk, out of the main area. They weren’t dead and they weren’t shedding. T’s flowers were still out, and remained out on the main counter for weeks, long after they had shriveled and browned.

I’m in a sorority that thinks we’re still in high school and that there are still cool kids. I was never a cool kid, and I was never a bitch. In a small sorority, that’s, like, a capital offence. My reputation has been sentenced to death and is currently on 2nd appeal.

I’m running out of options. The Governor is not sympathetic. My reputation’s death will be quick and painless and “humane.”

I feel like this year should end with a neat little wrap up; a “moral of the story” page, really any sort of sign from god would be great.

I’ll take a lottery ticket with the winning numbers scratched off for me, thanks.

I love Alex to the absolute bottom of my heart. I can only say this about very few people, and do not take the term, the concept, the idea of love lightly.

Out 6 month anniversary (well, monthiversary, but who’s counting?) is on Sunday. I love that we became official on the first of the month, it’s very neat, very clean, very easy to remember. I may love this guy, but not even love is a remedy for a swiss-cheese memory. I’m impressed that I can remember that I have class at… noon. Right, noon.

In any case, Alex and I have big plans that I’m not privy to yet, complete with a Very Secretive Gift and a Very Expensive Dinner.

I am understandably excited.

Though excited I am about this dinner, the past couple of weeks have been spent exclusively with Alex. Usually we migrate between my apartment in the bowels of Davis and his dorm, which are basically the bowels of Davis themselves. However, since Monday I’ve slept, ate and shit exclusively at the Dorms.

It started last Wednesday. Alex had slept over and we got up and made scrambled eggs in the kitchen that I pay 1/4 of the rent for the privilege to use. When we went to clean the pan and plates we found the garbage disposal making a pathetic growling noise. And not in a good, I’m-a-garbage-disposal-disposing-of-your-eggs way.

We were running late for class, so we made a quick decision to leave the eggs out on the counter to be dealt with later that evening. We figured putting them in the garbage would stink, and so we left, eggs out on the counter in their glory.

(Granted, this was probably not the best plan. I don’t claim to be all that smart, especially when it comes to household chores. In fact, household chores in my book are usually cleaning out the shot glasses and stepping over the pizza boxes. I’m a second year college student, and I don’t pretend to be anything else.)

That evening, after a very stressful run-in with some not so nice girls that I occasionally pretend are my friends, I was at Alex’s watching Law and Order and trying not to cry. I got a text from my roommate asking if I was coming home, and I could please clean up the eggs as soon I got home.

When I got home on Friday morning (again, I know it had been a few days… I suck) the eggs were gone and there was a nasty note taped to the cabinets above the sink. I read the note, went into my room and threw the note away.

A few days later, my other roommate and I were talking and she said that B was still really upset about the eggs. Like really upset… she was crying.

I mean, I can accept that I was kind of an asshole about leaving the eggs out in the first place, but crying? Lately I’ve been crying over just about everything, and I can relate to having a hair-trigger when it comes to… my life. But me leaving eggs out on the counter? Throwing out a nasty note she wrote me? What did she want me to do, frame it? That I just don’t get. It’s like… OMG EGGS! *cry* Honestly, I know I seem heartless, but this is not the first time my roommates have been shitty with me, and this was the last straw. She confronted me Monday evening, yelled at me for not calling the maintenance for the disposal (my job?), and I just broke. I was done. I took the yelling, and when she was done I packed a bag, threw my books in my backpack and called Alex to come get me.

I’ve been living in his dorm room, approximately the size of my left foot, ever since.

I am understandably cramped, annoyed and five million times happier than I was in my large, hostile apartment.