Hare Krishna.
I totally fell in love with the show Skins today, from Across Ye Olde Ponde. My dad recorded episodes off BBC. I only saw the first two with him today, though, and I can't get enough. I want to go look more up online, since the show's pretty much over in Grand Britain for now, but my dad said don't expect them to be. I don't wan't to look them up though. I told him "Don't underestimate the internet" and I'm sure there are episodes somewhere, but I think it's more of a Daddy-n-me activity then a show, like Lost used to be. I'm okay though.
Seriously though, you should be questioning my motives behind fangirling over British telly. This is something my LJ or Facebook can handle.
But what unnerved me the most is how Tony, the lothario and title character of the first episode, was almost a fictionalized Sam: S
am from across the pond.
They have the same hair, stong jaw, and cheeky smile. The only difference physically is in the eye area: Sam's eye brows are far less menacing, and his eyes far bigger and darker, and, at one point anyway, happier. But the air Tony gives off: his swaggered walk, his quip at the French professor, singing at an all-girl's school, dancing, grinding with a girl: every once was almost as if an observer had apmlified Sam and cast a negative, honest light on him.
My fear in his return was justified, as you can tell; the situation has not gotten better on the surface, but in truth, every moment makes it worse. I've wasted so much time on him, and yet, now I feel finally the truth: it was all a wash out. I told myself even a month ago that I wouldn't be holding on to him unless I believed something worthwhile would come from this. And nothing has or even will; all my silly dreams from next year are shattered, replaced with that horrid fear that I will have to stomach the next few dances not only going stag, but with him there with ANOTHER GIRL. That's my bigger secret fear; my dreams will soon become the reality of someone else, someone on my home territory. I can only now picture the nightmare that would be fall dance: I come, outfitted in the green dress I bought from the small trading store down the boardwalk in June with the dreams he'd one day see me in it; only I'd notice him first, linked in the arms of a blonde princess, and I'd try and muster some sincere politeness when he walked over and greeted me. Yes, I know I wouldn't like him anymore at this point, but it would crush me, and I'd flee to the bathroom, and hide there for as long as I could to avoid him. Sure, he's probably be hidden in the center of the dance circle, grinding with his girl, out of sight, but he's now have landed back in my thoughts, and, face it, there'd be no escaping him. He'd made his presance known, and I'd have to deal with the reality of it: My dream incarnate was not mine, it had become someone else's memory, and my nightmare.
He's having a party this weekend for the pretentious Catholic society he joined, and I'm willing to lay money on the table the pictures will show up on my facebook homepage, along with the notice of his next relationship Sunday morning. Thus, another nail hammered into my coffin.
My gravest curiosity is whether he does decide to dismount his high horse and talk to me or not, and if he does, will that change how I'm feeling now?
I've never felt this before.
This isn't that newness of love, this is a special despair, special sort of hate and disdain I've never felt for him before, and a special disillusionment for myself.
It burns, and there's no love beneath it like before.
I left him at the beach the first week of the month. On that balcony, gazing out at the hills and houses and lights and sounds, with the glow of the pool below me, I think I nailed his coffin.
Yet why am I not happy about it?
More tomorrow. So tired.
