A lot has happened the past month or so. I'm in Auburn, again. I moved from the dorm rooms back to the area I lived in this summer, with my own room, a big bathroom for two, living area and kitchen. I joined a sorority, went through the fake plastic hell known as recruitment week. Laid my heart on the line and it got thrown in the trash, blah blah blah. I hate feeling the right to blame others for my misfortune, for my stupidity. Real college has reminded me how stupid I am, how unspecial I am. Is it wrong to feel so jaded after a month in a new place? I'm honestly missing June, how easy everything was, how I managed to get everything I really wanted with little or no effort. And now I'm sitting in my ohsocute, well decorated room, and realizing almost everything on my walls, on my bookshelves, hell, even things in my closet and drawers are all my "prizes", things I kept after the demise of a relationship, after I wasn't needed, or after I did the discarding. Serial killers take things from their victims, I take posters, purses, movies, electronics, t shirts and presents from... I don't even know what to call them. MY victims? The men in my life? Boys I've dated? Everywhere I look there's a reminder of someone I had a panic attack over, someone I made a snide comment to, someone I hurt, someone that hurt me. I never got expensive jewelry. I took pride in my Marc Jacobs bag, "exclusive" film school shirt, my favorite movie I managed to guilt out of you. I always ignored the blatant obvious truth, that all my treasures, all these things that make up my living space, my personality, they're the scars and reminders that maybe I didn't get these gifts out of love, or as part of the wooing process. Maybe they were gifts from guilt, the way wives get jewelry after an affair or broken promise. Maybe these gifts were an apology in advance. "You're hot and all, and kinda funny, so I'll keep this thing going. But here's a cheap something that'll mean a lot to you so you can't hate me after I get tired of you." And ironically, my room is decorated with all the reminders of how I was never good enough to keep someone's attention. It's like I have to keep throwing back my lack of worth at myself everyday to keep from getting my hopes up. Maybe they're why the boys that do seem genuinely interested in me, boys that just don't tell me I'm pretty, those are the ones I refer to with disdain. I thrive off of emotional shoves, I spend my time like a sad little puppy, trying to win the affection of guys wandering into the pet store, paying me brief attention, trying to waste time. Throwing out all my reminders of past, present and future fuck ups seems like the logical decision, hell, keeping them seems almost as masochistic as my relationships. But maybe keeping them, reminding myself of how little I'm worth makes sense too. Maybe it's what keeps me from believing in fairy tales, maybe being jaded and tired is really better.