Love And Other Things I'm Bad At Part 22

Why did I have to leave when everything was just getting good?

Have friends there. Professors I know. A decent off-campus apartment. Hot, older boyfriend.

Do I really need to say this in a journal again? Long-distance Relationships. Do. Not. Work.

First boyfriend Dave broke up with me on way to college because of this.

Second boyfriend Grant and I broke up because of this.

Things don't look good for me and Wittenauer, third boyfriend.

Wow. I think maybe I've had too many boyfriends in the past couple years.

This is getting out of control. I was the one who didn't want to date anyone, and now look at this list. Insane what can happen.

What am I, turning into my best friend, Beth?

And speaking of Beth, what gives her the right to be in Italy on term abroad when I need her here? Normally I'd already be at her house. But no, she's learning about art and architecture. And Italian leather.

Me, sitting, staring at wall.

Wall not responding.

Learning about walls. American walls.

This isn't how it's supposed to be. Whatever happened to true love, anyway? Like, wasn't it supposed to be all perfect? Remember Snow White? She saw that prince guy once, and after a year he came back for her. Shouldn't Wittenauer be coming back for me any day now? Because I'm dying here.

OK, so Prince Charming went away for a year and let her lie there, half dead, which was not cool, but he came back.

Of course, she sang very well. To birds and animals who followed her. The only animal that follows me around is Oscar, my epileptic mutt.

And occasionally pigeons, when I have food.

8/31.

Journals. Overrated.

Blogs. WAY overrated.

There was a period-a very brief period-when I kept a journal online. I created my own blog where I was known by my blogger name, Courtney Von Bloggen.

Several negative things happened, which I will keep brief-you, dear journal, will never turn on me like that, will you? If you do, I will shred you.

Anyway, here's what happened.

Current boyfriend read blog.

Ex-boyfriend read blog.

Courtney got hideously embarra.s.sed.

Also, Cornwall Falls College started its restricted-access-blogs policy thanks to me, but I don't want to get into that right now. Involved certain photos of certain faculty members that no one could find on Facebook but were apparently screaming to be noticed once there was a link to my blog.

Link schmink is what I say. Links are chains that bind us to responsibilities, like being responsible for the downfall of Cornwall Falls College's Dance-a-thon. (And student blogs.) (Don't drink if you don't want to see yourself on the internet in an embarra.s.sing picture that will haunt you forever, I always say. It's a public service announcement waiting to happen. I mean, if you can't even uphold one of the most basic principles in life . . . !) Anyway, here I am, back home in Denver.

Well. Uh. What can I say?

Ooh! IM from Beth! I'd emailed her the news that I was home.

shoe92gurrl: C, u there?

crtveg17: Beth, what am I going 2 do?

shoe92gurrl: IDK. I don't know what 2 tell u.

crtveg17: Well. Something!

shoe92gurrl: Enroll @Metro? DU? CU, CSU?

crtveg17: No. Stomach hurts just thinking about it. But maybe it's because I forgot to eat breakfast.

shoe92gurrl: Just had dinner. You won't believe food here. Gained 5 lbs already. OMG, I know. Come 2 Milan!

crtveg17: For the weight gain?

shoe92gurrl: Lol. OK. GTG. XOXOXO I smiled. Maybe Beth couldn't actually help me with this, but just talking to her a little bit helped improve my mood.

First thing I've got to do if I'm going to live here is reclaim my bedroom. Mom has converted it into her personal workout center. Treadmill in the middle of it. Mom's gotten into good shape since I went to college. Now she wants to run a marathon with her new man-friend. A freaking marathon.

Forever and ever after she and Dad divorced, I wanted her to find a guy. Now she has. His name is Sterling. He's a triathleting consumer credit counselor. And she's become Ms. Luna Bar.

More like Ms. Lunatic Bar.

Anyway, the thing is that I am afraid to leave the house. What if I run into someone and, well, I don't know. I'm just so aimless right now. Without aim. It's like I got fired from a job or something.

And Grant? Where is Grant? Not too far away, actually. Should I call him? I should. But I'm so nervous. I haven't spoken with him much over the past six months. The last time I talked to him was . . . well, I don't know. I left him a message back in March. A couple of them, actually.

Agh. No idea what to do. Maybe an email, let him know what's going on and ask him for advice because I'm totally lost here and only he, cool calm collected type, might know how to help me?

Ew. Hands are too nervous and sweaty to type well.

Hey, Grant. Bet you didn't expect to hear from me. I didn't expect to, either. I mean, I didn't expect to write to you. I mean, not that I didn't want to write to you, because I totally did, but . . .

Delete. Babbling.

Hey. You won't believe what happened. Or maybe you will. I had to leave CFC because my funding ran out. So I'm home now. Nothing to do. Don't have a car.

Delete. Boring.

Hey, Grant. How are you? How's college? I'm actually at home now. In Denver, I mean. Oscar says hi. It's a long story but basically my financial aid was canceled so I had to leave-now I have to find a place near here to go. Any advice? I'd love to hear it. Plus, it'd be nice to get back in touch.

And sorry about being such an idiot about the spring break thingy.

CVDS.

Man. My initials are hideously close to national drugstore chain.

Also, VD, but we've been through that before.

Not VD!!! Just the fact that my middle initials are unfortunate.

c.r.a.p. Can't put this off any longer.

Or can I?

Send.

Sitting here waiting for Grant to instantly write back.

Why would he answer me now, when he refused to before? Maybe he's over it by now. Maybe he no longer wishes I would be buried by an avalanche.

And you know what? If I have a BF, maybe he has a GF. So there's no reason why we can't be friends. That happens, right? All the time. People break up and stay friends. That's, like, the natural order of things.

Still nothing. No response. This was a big mistake. Am going to bed.

9/1.

Just completed watching 13th consecutive episode of Project Runway. Marathon weekend.

Meanwhile, rest of family is running a marathon. Practically.

Oscar has been licking my feet for the past ten minutes. His epilepsy has clearly taken a turn toward scurvy or something; he needs the salt.

Why are my feet salty? I haven't moved enough to sweat.

Have talked to Jane (who says soph.o.m.ore year still sucks and am I sure I want to be one), Mary Jo (who saw Corny at student center looking miserable), and Alison (who wants to know why I don't transfer to her college, when it's obvious, it's even farther away from W, and I'm not a musician).

Depression setting in. Must do something. Must get out of house.

Ooh-email just dinged. Hold on.

Mailer Daemon. Returned email. Addressee unknown. Address has permanent fatal error.

Well, that's not going to work.

Facebook? No, Grant once went on a rant about it and Twitter. "Why do I need to know what people are eating or listening to or how late they stay up and why they can't sleep and-"

Well, I had to cut him off. It was a seriously long rant and I had other stuff to do. Like, eat, listen to music, stay up late, and post about it.

#Courtneyfail.

LATER.

Not sure leaving the house was the best idea. First, ran into strange neighbor across the street, the Broncosobsessed guy who never stops working on his yard.

"What are you doing here?" Mr. Novotny paused midleaf blow to confront me.

"Excuse me?"

"Thought you were at college."

"I was. I mean, I still am." I coughed. "I'm transferring, I guess."

"Dropped out, huh? Why?" He didn't seem thrilled about the idea of me living at home. And why did he automatically a.s.sume I was a dropout? I was on dean's list, Mr. Novotny! I wanted to say, but that seemed like TMI.

"The economy?" I said. "And, uh, I didn't drop out. I was asked to leave," I said softly, realizing it didn't sound any better to phrase it that way.

"Stupid economy. You know that's the reason they got rid of Shanahan."

"Shana . . . who?"

"Mike Shanahan. Greatest coach in Broncos history. Surely you haven't forgotten him."

"No, surely not." I smiled and raced to the car. I hadn't had a car in Wisconsin-I hadn't needed one on campus. Now I have to beg and plead to borrow Bryan's. There is a certain amount of lost dignity involved when you're driving a Hyundai hatchback with a BOYZ WILL BE BOYZ b.u.mper sticker.

Anyway, drove to Truth or Dairy to visit Gerry. A friendly face would cheer me up, I thought. Also, so would a Coconut Fantasy Dream smoothie. Perhaps a couple of them.

Got a funny feeling when I walked in.

One: no teen employees like me around. Just Gerry, former high school counselor and current owner of smoothie ice-cream shop.

Two: Gerry looked as though he had lost about 50 pounds, and while that is no doubt good for his health, it just didn't look right on him. I'm used to him being a friendly bear, not the Biggest Loser.

Three: He hugged me as if he hadn't seen me for 10 years, rather than a couple of months.

"Gerry. Everything OK?" I asked.

He reached into a bin and scooped a cupful of nuts. "Remember when we used to have pecans? You loved pecans." He handed me the cup. "Have a peanut."

"Um . . ."

"Pecans are just another unfortunate victim of the new economy. Premium toppings?" He made a slashing motion across his throat. "Oreos? History."

"Oreos are premium toppings?"

"You learn to make tough calls over the years." He hoisted his loose pants with his belt loops.

Riggggghhhhht. "Are you, um, eating OK, Gerry?" I asked.