The Daily Durvy

Last Saturday I went to my sorority formal, which is just like Prom, only with more alcohol and less coke in the bathroom. We’re college students, we can no longer afford coke.

In addition to looking awkward because I have inadvertently gained 15 pounds, I also looked awkward because I did not really want to be there. While getting drunk is always fun, getting drunk in a formal dress and heels sucks.

I made my dress, partly for fun and mostly because I like the attention that the statement “I made my own dress” brings. I am an attention whore and I can admit it. People get so wrapped up in themselves, especially when they are in formal wear. The downside to this dress was the fact that the slit up the side was, well, homemade and therefore kept getting longer and longer. By the end of the night, I was showing 5 more inches of leg than I was at the beginning.

Also, there was the shoe Nazi. Very early in the evening, before my chicken dinner and before I began sobering up, a girl stepped on glass on the dace floor. As a result no one could take their shoes off. I was wearing 4 inch extremely cute pumps. I cannot walk now as result of my callouses from dancing in the cute pumps.

Damn pumps.

For a girl with so much on her mind right now, I have absolutely nothing to say.

The truth of the matter is, I have plenty to say. But nothing that won’t get me in trouble.

However, I am not sure how much stock I am currently willing to put into playing nice. People don’t seem to extend the same courtesy to me, so why do I find myself hanging so desperately to niceties? There was a time in my life where I could have literally vomited all over little miss Molly Post and her etiquette. Why do I find myself in a place where I am intersecting civility and manners with jealousy and general dislike?

I cried last night for hours. I was hemorrhaging tears well into the night, well past a healthy amount. Once I started, I simply couldn’t stop. Everything I had been holding in for the past 4 months escaped through every opening, every pore of my body. I was crying because I lost a little bit of faith in people.

I consider myself to be an optimistic person. I consider myself a likable person and a person worth the time and effort of other people. Especially when I attempt to regain trust in a way that leaves me open to disease. I suppose blogging was not the proper choice of hobby for me if I can’t take the heat of hate mail.

But this isn’t about hate mail. This isn’t about what Random Person A said about me, or about what Anonymous Person B thinks. I don’t get enough traffic to this site for that shit.

This is about people who tell me they’re my friends when they so obviously aren’t. This is about being fake and raw and this about getting hurt because people just don’t care.

This is about trust and faith and spectacular displays of failure to understand what those concepts mean.

I need friends, not frenemies. And I guess I picked the wrong extra curricular activity for that too. I guess I’m bad at this whole “free time” thing.

These words, for the first time, don’t come from anger. They come from profound disappointment. I expected so much compassion from a source that doesn’t know what that even resembles. These words are not pointed at all of the people I know. In fact, where some have failed, others have soared high above any expectations I may have had. Help and comfort came from unlikely and surprisingly satisfying places

That’s why I haven’t lost all of my faith. It’s why I’m ready for Round 2. Gloves off, referee down. My wounds have been clotted by love and support and page 429 of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. (It’s where Hermione kisses Ron on the cheek before his Quidditch match. Get over it.)

Bring it on. Bring. It. On.

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 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.