Sharing hugs with Mike

“So…” this begins by saying that I was somewhat intimidated by him. For possibly being too dumb for him. He was mathematically smart and he only said things that…
connected. And he was aware of everything. I mean, he was a nice guy. Too nice that it was intimidating.
With his flaming red hair that was going blond, his large body, and freckles all over his imperfect skin
I had a thing for him. I know for a fact that our personalities would have totally clicked
but I shied away because
of all that intimidation
mostly ’cause I felt too stupid around him
although I know he would’ve liked for me to have opened up more.

One night during happy hour with other colleagues, he caught my attention during the pool game. I pretended to play but I was concentrating on him the whole time. That night I thought about him, and lets just say that it was a very sad and vehemently lonely night. Not because I wanted him in particular; I wanted that something– that substance, soul, core, love, fun type of deal that makes you alive. I thought about him as a substitute that night, and it was the most intense night ever.

Years go by, blah blah blah, and he’s leaving. I finally got to speak to him without reservations and said that he would be missed. In the most professional of ways. He said something about ‘many years together,’ and because I’m a very touchy-feely person, I reached out for a goodbye hug. He rushed in to give it

And it was the biggest, tightest, longest, warmest, the most comfortable, reassuring, crushing, and deepest hug ever. After he let go of squeezing my small body in comparison to his big one; I felt like I had just come out of a spa; rejuvenated, flushed, and all. Or released after some deep intimacy with somebody.

That could have been it. We had hugged in front of people when saying goodbye, and people could have seen it, understood it, and moved on. But no. This other girl came over and reached for a goodbye hug too after seeing us. He gave her a big hug as well. God damn it. Way to steal my thunder.

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Being called a doll in London

I was so ecstatic, and apparently, I still am. Had never been called a Doll before. They just hardly say it in the part of the US that I’m in. Maybe they say it in the south?

I remember when I was called Honey as a kid. I remember thinking, ‘I am?’ and reading more into it than probably intended. I remember feeling like a spoon full of warm brown liquid syrup. I thought Americans were so nice; calling people Honey and sweet things. I wonder if being called a doughnut would give the same feels. “Hey there, doughnut” Hmm, maybe not.

In our culture, they never said Honey or Doll. The cute words they had for girls were something along the lines of, “silly girl” or “youngest daughter.”

Being called a Doll just makes you smile. Being called Honey sort of calms you down. Other names just don’t cut it.

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Ageism runs deep

Ageism runs deep.

It runs (ran) through my veins bitterly.

There I was, twelve years old, just walking around the park barefoot pretending that I was in a Disney cartoon. Running through freshly cut grass (hindsight, not the best thing to do), singing to trees, pretending to be an Olympic ice skater on my roller blades in the basketball court. The occasional stuff that I did.

Those were good times. I walked on the open grass; the wind was blowing and singing sweetly to my ears. The park was empty and the sky was gray blue I think. I found a spot in the middle of the empty basketball court and laid there. Weird things happened when I wished hard, so I didn’t wish if I didn’t mean it. I just laid there… feeling; floating in the gentle flow of the wind. I imagined the man I would love one day; a prince on a horse who follows me. Who always finds me. With my hair spread out on the ground, I looked at the sky with a smile on my face. Thinking about my future, thinking about my handsome, manly, wise prince. I closed my eyes and stayed in this state of bliss; I could feel him, he was so close to me in my thoughts, he was whispering through the air to me. I sighed and gently opened my eyes.

I shrieked and abruptly got up after I saw a smiling little face pop over me and block the blue skies above. It was an obnoxious little boy; someone completely different than who I had imagined. I was so angry at that little boy afterwards. I was completely irritated that my privacy and tranquility had been ruined by some annoying little kid. I treated everyone younger than me with no real respect in my head, especially younger boys. They automatically turned into little brothers and they were seen as annoying little roadblocks along the way.

Granted he was nine and I was twelve; in my eyes I was decades older. After he caught me, he became completely smitten by me. With the basketball in his hands, he giggled at everything I had to say, like, “Get out of here!” at him. It was already annoying to be caught by a little kid during vulnerable times, but it was even worse to have earned his undivided attention and whole heart. I felt disgusted and wanted to wash him off like dirt. But no matter what I said or did, he kept wanting to be near me. It was a vile situation. I felt like a sicko thinking that a kid three years younger than me was completely in love with me. Feeling mentally nauseated and humiliated, I ran away. But then, that annoying kid started running after me. We were running down that park amid cut grass, me genuinely running away, him, giggling with a basketball in his hands chasing after me; as if I was playing hard to get. I wasn’t playing. I hid behind a building like fearing for my life, however, that obnoxious kid found me. I then ran away again and he ran after me again, laughing. I was mortified that someone could have seen this fiasco; me being chased by a nine year old. Gross, I could have been his baby sitter.

Damn, it’s weird to think that if I was a hundred, he’d have been ninety-seven. Grosssssss.

Psychos with red hair

I’m not really talking about those who were born with red hair, but I’m talking about those who color their black hair red while going grey with the belief that the red will make grey less obvious while not actually making it black because putting black on black hair would give it away. They’re sort of goofy looking; they can have some remaining grey hairs on the sides that never got dyed, so now they’re left with all three colors of black, grey, and red hairs and look like clowns. They’re also pretty OCD; taking multiple showers a day, shaving constantly, repeating lame jokes, etc. They wear their pants high up, walk around shirtless with a towel hanging off a shoulder, and they’re always chewing on candies. They also love tea, and make it minimum five times a day including one at 10pm promptly. Maybe one at 2am too, who knows, since everyone is asleep by then. Because they’re on antipsychotics, it’s a joy to make tea. They stutter songs out of tune and forget/make up lyrics and grind ginger and other spices on mortar and pestle. It makes them feel like it’s morning and that they’re right on track with life; when they’re busy making tea at 2am. It’s usually a jolly song and there’s loud thumping sounds coming from the mortal and pestle. All weirdos love tea and feel that it’s always tea time, it’s a fact.
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