judypatricia

I've been listening to a lot of old Whitney Houston, lately. And I've caught myself complaining inside my head a few times, or moping about. I think I might be turning into my mother.

It has something to do with seeing how I'm at the point where the people I've known for years, seem to be really going places, while I'm feeling left with my metaphorical dick in hand. Things should pick up soon, though.

Since I spent the entire day holed up in my room, studying for a midterm that's tomorrow, I didn't hit the bookstore like I had planned, nor did I see if my ex-boyfriend Antonio was at his job.

Antonio...such an unusual person he was. Is. Whatever.
I remember when I first met him, sophomore year of high school, and I thought he was gay for quite some time. Then a few months later, he kissed me in this empty apartment, in Brooklyn. I remember hating it; I hated the way it felt. It wasn't a bad kiss at all, but it was terribly long, and made my stomach press itself up against my ribs. And he wore a shirt that I hated on him. But then after that, something changed, and I couldn't get enough of him and thought him perfect for me. We shared a lot of things that complimented each other, such as when eating certain foods: if ever I ate apple pie around him, he'd remove the crust and give me the filling. And he hardly bought me flowers, but came by my house after work the night which was our one year together, and had this amazing bouquet he'd put together. But after awhile, he lost interest in me, and preferred other things. We remained friends, although it took me about a year to get over him and not point out all the things he did wrong or how mean he could be. And maybe a year after that, around November, I went by his jobthe same job he'd had since high schooland felt panicky and weighed down all of a sudden. Then when I saw him, I slipped right back into girlfriend mode, and was about to kiss him, when I stopped because I knew I couldn't. Afterward I went through this odd period of beating myself up and crying and wanting only to apologize for being so shitty to him when we were together. And when I did apologize over the phone, he made light of it all and that was that. Move on.

So next month it'll be three years of saying, "Me? Have a boyfriend? No way."

But, back to the positive.

I did get to El Museo yesterday afternoon, and occupied the same space as a painting by Frida Kahlo; something I've wanted to do for years. Her Self-Portrait with Cropped Hair was on display. And it was so small; I'd always thought for some reason that it would be rather large...instead, I was surprised to see it not much bigger than a notebook.