Virgin Lips

1. No man's an island ... but this woman is

Aaaand 3 ... 2 ... 1 ... Happy New Year to me! Ugh, not much to celebrate, is there? I swapped channels while I could still hear the fireworks outside, but on TV, other than the fireworks themselves, there were only couples kissing and people hugging. Cue the eye roll.

I changed to some crappy movie to use as background sound. I was ready for my yearly ritual: slumped on the couch, dressed in red flannel pajamas, empty pizza cartons on my coffee table, along with Coca-Cola. Starting from this year, there were also Reese and Shaw keeping me company; well, more like friendly wrestling with each other. However, the most important feature was … the book in my hands.

That’s my ritual. I like to enter the new year by starting a new book. Lame for most people, simply perfect for me.

Oh, the name’s Joanna, Joanna Brooks, but most people call me Jo. Reese and Shaw are my kittens, one black and the other white.

I’m 28 years old and I work as a waitress at the diner a few blocks from here, while for the rest of the time ... nothing, I just go in search of a job that suits my degree. Needless to say I haven’t had any luck so far.

I should be an editor. Emphasis on the should. Considering that I’ve been rejected by ... I don’t know, 30 magazines since I started my hunt? Although I could do more than the editor. I mean, with my degrees, I could do different things, but for each and every single one of them they want experience, so ... here I am.

I live in New York City, of course. The city where dreams come true. Mmh, weird, I’ve been living here for about 2 years already and no opportunity has fallen from the sky for me yet. Not one.

What else, let’s see … normally at this point there’s a physical description. I’m 5′8", which is a bliss, considering it doesn’t quite allow me to expand endlessly, but I still weigh way more than I should, with a body shape that’s halfway between apple and hourglass, so yeah, I’m on the chubby side and, actually, expanding. I’ve been putting on weight lately. Thank my ever so high self-esteem and Joe’s pizza just downstairs, always too inviting to refuse. Besides, I’m too lazy to cook and I am not a great chef either.

You’ll say, size doesn’t matter, Jo, what matters is the beauty inside. And you’re right. But, you know, there aren’t really many men willing to pick this side of the fence when they can have the other one. Although, I’ll admit that it’s my fault, too. I mean, it’s not like I really take care of myself.

Last time my face saw makeup was ... I don’t know, 15 years ago maybe? And only because my crush was to come to my birthday, so my friends convinced me to dress up for him. I did get a kiss on the cheek from him, so I guess it was worth it.

I’m the lonely type. The one that prefers to stay at home on a Friday, other than go partying, the one that, few real friends are better than hundreds of shallow ones. That’s why my circle is really, really restricted, namely two girls I met when I moved to New York. The others are acquaintances, which means that, likes on Facebook maybe, greet on the street, nah. I like to think of myself as a lone wolf, but I’ve often been reminded that wolves are pack animals, and the lone one is the one that’s gone crazy, that’s why he remains alone. Well, fine with me. I don’t like being ordinary. I like uniqueness.

I’m not exactly the perfect prototype of beauty. I mean, girls like Faith and Hope (yes, yes, I know, quite a sense of humor their parents had), they’re gorgeous, but me ... please. I am nonexistent to the male population. Although, my friends often remind me that it’s also because I always look so grim that guys think I’m always mad. I never smile much, never talk much, I’m always lost in my lala land, most certainly daydreaming. I like to think I’m made to be alone, but I like hanging out with the girls. Well, when they don’t try to drag me to some silly party: in that case it’s a huge no.

Now, back to New Year’s Eve. Faith and Hope normally go to Aspen with their posh friends, and even though they always invite me, I always say no. I’m just … uncomfortable around people I don’t know. Besides, I know what kind of parties they attend and ... thanks, but no, thanks. I think I’m gonna die alone on this couch, with Reese and Shaw waiting for the rigor mortis to start nipping on my flesh.

I’ve always wanted to travel, but never had the money. The most I’ve seen is ... well, New York. I love this city, really, it’s the perfect combination that allows you to see everything without going anywhere ... yeah, I know, I take that too literally, as the twins say. I mean, if they suggest we go see a movie or a play, yeah, gladly, but pubs, bars and whatnot? Nah. Not even in a million years.

Honestly, I barely have the courage to show my face to the world outside sometimes, how could I enjoy a wild party? I don’t easily relate with the male universe either. It’s even worse when they’re handsome. Ah, handsome faces make me very, very nervous.

Don’t get me wrong, I believe in myself; better said, I believe in myself that much enough to be sure I am good at something, which is what I took as major in college, and there was a time when I was good at sports too, before the couch decided to declare his undying love for me and keep me chained to him for life. But as for the rest ... well, no. I lack social skills, I’m one inch away from being socially awkward for real. That’s because, as a child, I was shy – and I mean super-shy, almost pathologically shy –, then less and less, till shyness just turned into introversion, a type of introversion that makes every single social gathering not just hideous, but also source of anxiety at times. So yeah, if I had to describe myself, I’d say introvert and asocial. Completely and utterly locked up in my own world. Openly despising the word love but then longing for that fool who’ll look at me like I look at pizza.

Ah, yes, this is me, the epitome of awkward, your favorite type of cliché. I’m that one girl that flees when a cute boy deigns to talk to her. Well, those rare times that that happens. Well, ok, that happened with my crush in college. Oh, that was a huge and utter mess. I mean, I couldn’t have fucked it up worse even if I tried, I swear.

But ... let’s get back to New Year’s Eve. The movie I picked absentmindedly was some western with Clint Eastwood, just not to hear anything sappy or cheesy, not wanting to depress myself even more. I don’t even like western, but Reese and Shaw seemed to enjoy it.

After a couple of hours spent reading, entirely ignorant to the world outside, I yawned, followed by my kitties, so I stood up, and dragged myself to bed, Reese and Shaw on tow; that usually means that tomorrow morning I’ll find them both cuddled up on my pillow, above my head. As lame as that sounds, it feels like being cuddled for once.

Ah, the perks of being single and lonely. It’s awesome yet awful sometimes. Not everyone’s made to be lonely. No man is an island. Well, this woman is. Kind of.