You suck and I'm not sorry

You suck and I’m not sorry

When I was a freshman in college I was roomed up with a girl, I’ll use the name Jillian.  She grew up in the suburbs of Chicago and had that accent you make fun of on SNL, Da Bears, Da Cubs, Da Bulls, and Da sausage.  We got along for the first two weeks until our eccentricities and obsessions came out.  She constantly played Alanis Morrisette and watched Grease 2, not Grease, but Grease 2. 

She had monsters that she called breasts.  Even I couldn’t stop looking at them when I talked to her; I could only imagine what the guys went through.  Around the second month while she was in class, I placed one of Jillian’s bras around my butt and walked up and down the hall on my hands playing to the audience saying, “I’m Jillian!  Look at me!  I got big ole’ boobies”.

To say that I was immature would be an understatement.  But I’m proud of the fact I can still walk on my hands.  What I hadn’t foreseen was that it wasn’t 3:20 p.m. but 3:30 p.m. and Jillian was back.   She ran down the stairs after seeing me, I heard she was crying about it later.  Let’s say the next few nights were quiet in our little room.

Somehow we made up and were decent to each other.  I even tried to read her poetry.  She took photos of everything, even the most mundane things.  She showed them to me and I pretended that I “got” it and nodded my head to the beat of the second hand on the clock in our room.  I busted out as soon as possible and played Ultimate Frisbee until the dining hall opened. 

During the second semester the poetry sessions only got longer.  I would lace my fingers over my lips and run over Notre Dame Football cheers silently. Tiny bits of sanity were being siphoned from me with each word that rhymed with blue came out of her mouth.  Two weeks before summer break I couldn’t take it any longer.  The days were beautiful and my mind wasn’t even on final exams, but I still had to listen to what she then called prose. 

Shaking and twitching, I finally said to her, “Your poetry sucks!  Your photos suck! You suck and I’m not sorry!”

I ran out of there like a bolt of lightning.  For the next two weeks I didn’t hear word one from her.  When we returned to campus in the fall I had a different room-mate in a different hall and only saw Jillian twice. 

I hadn’t thought about the incident in years, but today I went with a friend to a gallery and something sparked my memory.  Stark white walls with brilliant colors flashing from the photos loomed before me.  I sipped my complimentary wine and mingled, occasionally looking at some of the pictures.  A set of photos in the back caught my attention and I picked up a second glass from a waiter and moseyed on over.  Something about them seemed rather familiar.

The photos were striking. They were revealing and mysterious, they had compassion and that something that is indescribable.  I stared at each one, feeling a different emotion every time. 

My friend leaned into my shoulder and said, “She’s fabulous isn’t she?”

I squinted one way and then the other and replied, “It’s pretty darn good stuff.”

“She won some kind of award this year for this set of photos.  One of the few award winners I agree with.”

“Yep I think so too.”  I said leaning closer to the tag to read the fine print.  “J. XX, that name sounds familiar.”

“It’s Jillian XX, a Chicago native.”

I felt a size 12 foot slowly easing into my mouth.  “Jillian, eh?”

“Yep, Jillian.” He said.  “She’s going to be here Saturday for the public opening.”

“Oh is she?” I asked. “Um, that’s good.”

“Are you going to come back?”

“I don’t know.” I said, “I need to think it over.”

So tonight I’m sitting in my comfy chair wondering if I should go, and in fact if it is the Jillian I think it is, what would I say?  I have no idea.  Part II and what happened