Scribbs Doesn't Know

So pretty much all I've been doing lately is reading Villette and watching movies. It's an odd way to go through life, and as, for some reason, I get ever tireder and begin to take so many naps that the day and night blend into one Bronte-drenched sleepstate, I feel a bit as though I myself am going through one of those Victorian era fever-stages that, when I finally awake from it, unable to remember the past several months, my life will have changed, and Part the Second will have begun.

Tonight's flick was Eurotrip. I wanted Say Anything, but it wasn't there, and I still can't work up the courage to see Monster. Thus, my night was filled with mediocre writing, mediocre acting, mediocre entertainment, and a lot of boobs. Now, to be fair, it had it's moments, and actually, it had quite a few of them, and they were quite funny, and, on the other side of things, the boobs, while plentiful, weren't that plentiful, and it was certainly no Mulholland Drive, which I still can't make heads or tails, beyond the fact that I'm certain there were two chicks goin' at it during the coarse of the otherwise incredibly confusing plot. Anyway, the point is, the most brilliant performance was that of none other than Matt Damon, whose role, though quite limited, rocked. You go Matt, that second bourne movie wasn't anything to sing and dance about, but you'll find glory again soon enough, im sure.

The truth is, however, that there is more going on in my life than movies and Victorian novels. There is love. And recently, my love has gone on a eurotrip of her own, and, quite frankly, I wish I was eurotriping with her, for a number of reasons. Sure, I would love to see new places, do new things, and meet new people, not to mention how I could stand to make a few of the dollars she is making over there (hers is an all-expenses paid eurotrip, plus wages for work), but really, I wish I was there so I could be with her. Again, there are a million reasons I want to be with her, but I can't deny that among them is a desire fed by jealousy, worry, fear, and anxiety. It's not exactly that I'm worried that Matt Damon will soon be singing about all the things Scribbs doesn't know. I trust her, and I think, and hope, that that trust is well placed. The thing is, when that certain thing that the person you're in love with is gone, it's just not a good feeling - and the farther away they go, the worse the feeling gets. I feel helpless, alone, and vulnerable, sitting here, at my computer, while she is drunk, dancing, meeting people, and flirting. Am I wrong to feel uncomfortable? Am I wrong to be jealous of some European guy who is out to get his kicks by dancing with and buying drinks for my girl? Am I being too possessive? Should I just kick back and relax and not worry?

Well, maybe I should. And, to be honest, I've been doing my best. And when she calls, and tells me things that make the whole world seem a shade brighter, it's easy to do. It's easy to say to myself, self, it's gonna be ok, you are in love with a beautiful girl, and she loves you back, and soon, she will be in your arms, and then, you wll be back in control of your world, and you can make sure nothing happens to her. But then, things go awry. Maybe I'm being too picky, too sensitive, and too overprotective, but there are some things that I don't like to hear, particularly when half of my life, half of me, is a bazillion miles away. Among those things are emails that assure me of her appearing "unavailable" to other guys because she spends all of her time with one - a real nice one, or phone calls of drunken dancing which had to be interrupted by a friend, or being told that I'm still missed, but not as much. Is that enough for me to be hurt? I can tell you, it is. Should it be? Scribbs doesn't know. I read the letter she wrote before she left, after putting the home-made puzzle pieces upon which she wrote it back together, and it melts me. It melts me to tears. But then, I read other things, and seem so cold, and my response is cold, because as quickly as she can melt me, I am frozen again twice as fast. Do I have a right to complain? Do I have a right to respond to cold with cold? Must my response always be to continue with the epic, and seemingly un-winnable battle that is to make her know how much she is to me? I want to be a teacher, but is that piece of knowledge one which I will be forever unable to impart? I know it, for myself. But for whatever, reason, my lecture, though endlessly repeated seems never to be absorbed. Is this my failing? It surely must be, yet again, Scribbs doesn't know.

In the end, I will endure whatever coldness comes, as weather - but, can this weather never be changed? I will endure because to me, it is worth it. A million cold emails could never overpower the warmth of a puzzle-letter. And one smile is worth a thousand frowns. Nevertheless, I wish I didn't have these fears and worries, just as I wish I could impart the seriousness, the sincerity, and indeed, the severity, of my love. But, as for what to do, Scribbs doesn't know.