CNG Breaking News
Here's the great thing about life: you never know what will rock your world on any given day.
Courtesy of MSN:
Lance Bass NOT A HeterosexualI about fell off my chair.
Lance Bass? Gay?!I mean, shit, if he hadn't tipped me off after his career took a nosedive four years ago, shortly after the release of "On the Line" (which I will embarrassingly admit to having seen IN the theater in 2002 when it came out), I'd have never guessed that he wasn't riding a different "Dirty Pop" female groupie. Every. Single. Night.
Next thing you know, they'll be calling Nicole Ritchie a coke addict. Or worse yet, Paris Hilton a whore.
I'm An 00s Kind of Girl And I Can Steam-Clean My Own Carpet, Thank You
After much thought, I took matters into my own hands today and steam-cleaned my carpet.
And Good Lord, am I sore.
Every now and then I get a little keyed-up and need to take on a project. The last time I did this I organized my iTunes playlist by artist, title, album, and year. I looked every missing piece up on Amazon and filled it in so I could organize it fully.
I've lived in my apartment for a year and a half, and while I am a compulsive cleaner - I mean, ridiculous amounts of cleaning regularly - I haven't done any deep cleaning. Usually, my carpet gets a little carpet powder and vacuum, but even so, it's been riddled with marks of my history. And it was time for a clean sweep (pun intended).
So today, I hopped on over to my brand-new (and very convenient) Publix and rented the Rug Doctor. The Rug Doctor is supposed to take care of all of my carpet needs. And it sure did.
I spent five hours going over the carpet, the couch, the kitchen floor. I was throwing anything in front of the Rug Doctor that I thought it could fix. It was just like having a man around the house to fix stuff and make it nice, except for not at all. A man would have clearly been much better. I couldn't sleep with the Rug Doctor. I tried, but to no avail. He was only good for cleaning, but ultimately, I realized that was good enough.
My whole body aches and I feel like I just ran a marathon. But my carpets are clean and smell good and I feel a deep-seated, pleasant sense of self-satisfaction.
Ahhhh.
The Hanging Date
I feel it's my bloggerly duty to inform you of new trends and fads sweeping the nation. After all, what else is a blog for? Surely not bitching about one's love life (or lack thereof).
In the interest of being informative, for once, I must have you know that there's a phenomena out there that is spreading like wildfire. It has infiltrated our towns, our neighborhoods, and our cities. And it's only getting worse.
Thus far, I know of no cure. There are things that we can all do to help prevent it, and there are definitely some ways of tackling it, but the only way to really nip it in the bud is to abstain, and we all know
that's no fun.
The phenomenon is...drum roll please...the Hanging Date.
The Hanging Date usually appears on a Thursday or Friday, and is found in its accompanying habitat, the Hanging Email.
Allow me to explain best with a scenario.
Say you're talking to someone. Or involved. Or quasi-involved. Or just f*cking. Any way you look at it, there's something going on, and you are both aware of this. So you roll into work that day, and have a seat. And then somewhere in the middle of the day (usually the afternoon) you get an email like this:
"Hey, what's up? Hope you're having a good week. Pretty busy here, but everything's cool. Haven't seen you in a while - we need to get together soon/head out sometime/get naked and do it at some point. Later!"
This, my friends, is a Hanging Date. It is a reference to going out. A reference that does not leave opportunity for coordination of logistics. It is the email equivalent of a text message - the person reached out and made the communication, but doesn't necessarily want to go through the "hassle" of actually communicating voice-to-voice. (Which, by the way, since when was a phone call such torture? I mean, I love text messaging, but I use that as a
supplement to other conversations. I don't assume I'm still best friends with someone because I texted them three times in the last week.)
Anyway, I find the Hanging Date to be disingenuous and irritating. How does one respond to that? It's not a specific request with date and time. It's just thrown out there, like caution to the wind, never to be acted upon until the next Hanging Date is initiated.
It's really quite lose-lose-lose. You lose if you respond because you're then perpetuating this painfully silly dialogue. You lose if you don't respond because then you look like a bitch, and if you like the person, looking like a bitch (in most cases) is not going to help your cause. And then finally, you lose again because you don't get to see the person. Major bummer.
So at this point you're probably thinking that I am just making shit up. But the truth is, the Hanging Date is out there. And it's happening all the time. In addition to being a Hanging Datee myself multiple times in the past two weeks, TWO of my good girlfriends have been on the receiving end of the Hanging Date recently as well.
A reasonable person might say, "Well, if someone keeps making bullshit plans with you, then they're probably just trying to be nice."
Okay Reasonable, point taken.
But what's interesting about this phenomenon is that it's viral. And compulsive.
I have received three hanging date emails from ROMP in the last week. Every few days I get some sort of varying form of the above, and every time I see him in my box (my inbox, that is), I get excited, pensive, analytical, and ultimately annoyed.
What do you have to say about that? Any suggestions?
Comic Relief
As if you haven't had some reading this, I highly recommend you check out
The Superficial. I don't know who the hell writes this, but it is funnier and cheerful and more satisfying than a Yoo Hoo, or a Take 5 bar, or even sometimes - depending on the quality of the post - good sex.
Nutshell: Blogger takes real-life celebrity news and photos and writes hysterical captions.
Consider this little tiny nugget of goodness my little gift to you today, friends.
Enjoy.
I Have Good Friends
Friday night, I got into a screaming match with a particularly volatile male friend of mine, and I was left in the street, drunk, by myself, two miles away from the nearest intersection. The whole incident stemmed from him insulting me repeatedly - and in front of a good number of people - continuously at the bar.
Screaming matches are nothing new with this person. (And may I add that if you do know me, you know that I really am - for the most part - not confrontational. I hate fighting, I hate the perpetual state of limbo, I hate the whole bit. I try to avoid it at all costs, but unfortunately, this particular friend has the mentality of a three year old.) But this particular instance was the last straw.
So early this evening, before I left work, I signed on to instant messenger. And instead of an apology for stranding me in the street to be raped, pillaged, mugged, or just generally harassed, I am posting his instant-message excerpts on the matter (private details censored) for the whole wide world to see. I have always vowed to use this blog for good and not evil, but I think this is so appalling and yet oddly funny that I feel the need to share. I finally decided that today, I was excising the cancer, baby. And for those of you not familiar with metaphors, that translates to "Get the f*ck out."
ROAR.
MW: Hey, I'm gonna let you know whats what here. Basically, I'm not really wanting to talk to you too much anymore. I don't appreciate you grabbing my crotch in front of everyone, and the going "oh there's nothing there". In addition to the fact that you screamed at me about cookies, you also used some of the things I've told you recently against me. If you have that many complaints about me, don't be my friend and leave me alone. I'm tired of it for real.
PAUSE.This crotch-grabbing allegation, coming from the man who compulsively grabs at my chest and squeezes as hard as he can. Believe me, there has been grabbing before on many occasions, and no one complained. And if I recall correctly, there really wasn't a whole lot there, so I was telling the truth. Hey, I never claimed the relationship was functional.UN-PAUSE.KA: M, these aren't threats, and it's fine if you don't want to talk to me anymore. You're rude to me. Your behavior on Friday night was heinous and borderline unforgivable. I'm sick of walking on eggshells and being a good friend to you, only to get left on a dark, unlit street, drunk and alone at 2 am. I have never used some of the things I've told you against you. I have never told anyone any piece of information that you have asked me to guard with my life. The only thing I did mention - in a fit of anger - was that you were going through a hard time (common knowledge) and that I was sick of being your punching bag, both of which are true.
MW: and I told you to go take a cab
MW: and you did use some of the things I told you against me... fit of anger or no, thats not ammo
MW: and yelling about f*cking cookies?
PAUSE.Who said anything about cookies? I have no idea what he's talking about, but apparently I yelled about cookies. I have to wonder if he wasn't in a fit of hysterics when he was typing this. Was he reading his own writing?UN-PAUSE.KA: you left me in the f*cking street by myself, drunk, and about a mile away from the bar
KA:i had to walk 15-20 minutes to hail a cab and you never even called to make sure i was ok
MW: I told you specifically to go take a cab
KA: what kind of man are you that would treat a woman that way?
KA: you didn't, at the very least, pick me up and drop me off on the corner to hail a cab
KA: whatever i may or may not have done to you, i can assure you that nothing i did merited your response
MW: you started in on me
MW: YOU started it
MW: you know what... fine... I'm a bad friend, a terrible rude person, and no kind of man. Not worthy of your friendship. thats where it is
KA: whatever you want
KA: let me just ask you this
KA: if it were (other mutual friend) would we be having this conversation right now
MW: we wouldn't even have this issue in the first place. thats the difference there
KA: because you wouldn't f*cking DO that to someone else
MW: yes I would
MW: you know what, I'm through with your guilt nonsense... if you just chilled the f*ck out, things would be different, but you wanna brow beat me like that over bullshit, I'm not gonna be friends.
MW: you know also, I'm f*cking happy I drove away... It brought me joy to see you fade in my rearview mirror
MW: I'm indifferent about you.
MW: btw, I think you suck as a friend
KA: you were held accountable for my safety and if something happened to me you would have to answer to that
MW: no, you are responsible for you
MW: I am only responsible for me.
MW: why would I be responsible to you?
MW: you don't understand... I don't want to be your friend
KA: oh no!
KA: (cries into keyboard) Who wouldn't want a friend who berates them in public and puts them in unsafe situations?
KA: sniffle sniffle
MW: I'm done with you.
PAUSE.One would think he'd have stopped talking to me by now, but the IMs just kept on coming. At this point, I was sad that it had come to this, but realized there's no sense in talking to a crazy person, unless I wanted to humor myself. Which I did.UN-PAUSE.MW: you are seriously underestimating my mindset as well. This isn't like before, I seriously want you out of my life.
KA: oh no!
MW: make your little bullshit jokes all you want..
KA: little M. Princess, kicking and screaming and making rules
MW: get all the comments out now, because its your last chance
MW: no more choice comments?
KA: one quick question
KA: how did cookies get involved? i recall nothing about cookies
PAUSE.I couldn't help myself. I had to know about the cookies.UN-PAUSE.MW: you bitched about them and used me buying (mutual friend) cookies as a comparison, basically to say I'm not a good friend to you.
KA: not quite the point i was trying to make but ok
MW: anyway, I'd prefer you go ahead and name call all right now. I don't really feel like speding any more time on this
MW: so let loose, so I can be done with it
MW: you know, you call me cold and sad because I can write people and things off so easily. We'll that is a function of importance. If I don't think its important, I'll cut it out. I've comprimised with plenty of people on plenty of things. But I'll be damned if I'm gonna do that here, especially given the multitude of attacks on my character by you.
MW: that doesn't rank high on my list, so if you have issues with me being "cold" and "sad" well, I can only say its a function of your behavior towards me.
KA: don't put more words in my mouth
MW: I haven't.. these are things that come out of your mouth.. sometimes I repeat them verbatim
KA: out of context
MW: no, not at all
MW: that is one of your tactics
KA: i am not a war plan, M.
MW: that was a rediculous comment
PAUSEI hate when people misspell words like "ridiculous" and "compromised". Hallelujah that I don't have to deal with that anymore! I mean, toxic friendships are one thing, but poor spelling and grammar is a serious dealbreaker with me. You don't have to be Webster, but learn how to spell common words. I'm not asking for the moon here.UN-PAUSE.MW: anyway, if you have no more names, then I think we are done here
MW: last chance, because I am blocking you in a second
KA: bye!
I rest my case.
And Now, A Word From Our Sponsor, Oscar Meyer
I have eaten two hot dogs for dinner every night this week. If you add that up, this being Thursday, that is a grand total of 8. That is a lot of f*cking dogs, man. I'm half expecting to wake up in my next life rotating on a skewer at Turner Field.
Hot dogs are my new cheeseburger. For a long time, I was convinced that the cheeseburger could cure most ails. I was convinced that my great ancestors, who I always envision wearing babushkas and Birkenstocks when they invented the concept of keeping Kosher, did not fully think through the "no mixing milk with meat" thing because it never occurred to them to put cheese on a meat patty. Had they done so, the world of Kosher may have very well been turned on its ear.
Anyway, I kind of feel bad for the cheeseburger. It's a bad breakup for us. The cheeseburger got me through many good and bad times in my life. But I believe the era has come to an end. Sure, we may have been involved for a really long time, and still waters run deep, but I think it's time to take a step back and pursue the hot dog thing because it's new and exciting and I want to revel in it.
That's not to say I won't continue to see the cheeseburger. I will absolutely do my best to keep in touch. I hope that someday soon, when its wounds have healed after being knocked out of my #1 spot, that it can forgive me and we can be in one another's lives.
But for right now, I'm good with the weiner.
I Don't Understand Men, Part II
I planned a trip home in two weeks. I'm very excited, as I haven't been home since Thanksgiving and this may be the last time I go back before my parents leave the state entirely and retire in Florida. My dad's last day of work is July 28th, so my primary reason for coming home is to give old Dad a pat on the back and peruse the old stomping grounds one last time.
I sent an email to the few friends I have left in town to let them know I'd be back. One such recipient is a very very very ex boyfriend from high school. We've been in touch and out of touch over the years. He had a girlfriend for the last four years - a girl that I've met once. She didn't like me too much. This doesn't hurt my feelings. She looks like a sea donkey.
A few years ago while I was still in Chicago this ex came into town for work a few times. He asked me out to dinner and we had a few indiscretions. I was misled and under the impression that he and aforementioned girlfriend were on a "break". I figured they were not together and probably not ever getting back together. Apparently "break" is a term that is subject to interpretation. As I found out later, "break" for him meant "physically not in the same place but still very much in a relationship".
During our indiscretions he wavered back and forth about getting back together with me. This, for me, was not an issue because I knew that it was a horrible idea (please place a thick black underline in your head underneath the word "horrible").
Since then, they've broken up and gotten back together at least six times over the last two years. Every time they "break" (my interpretation, not his), he likes to call me at 4 am and tell me, in a drunken state, that he loves me and wants me, etc. Admittedly, I humored him and answered my phone the first few times but eventually stopped or answered only to tell him to leave me alone and hang up. As recently as Memorial Day I was fielding phone calls.
The kicker to the situation is that I emailed him because I do like him as a friend. He's a smart guy who, when sober, has a lot of interesting things to say, and we do have quite the history together. Obviously I'd never claim to hate him because he was in my life at one point and then back in my life recently.
I sent him an email suggesting we grab lunch and catch up and received the following response:
"I don't think so, I am engaged now, so do not bother, too late."
Wow, you'd think I'd have asked him to meet me at the Motel 6 sporting nothing but a pair of assless chaps and a frying pan.
I Don't Understand Men, Part I
So yesterday afternoon I get an email from Mr. Poopypants, who shall heretofore be known as ROMP (Rain on My Parade).
Generic question asking me how my weekend was. Then some blurb about not being able to get last-minute concert tickets. There was a joke in there about his obsession with "Pirates of the Caribbean 2" (which, I might add - not proudly - has saw twice last weekend). And then, at the end, a request for me to let him know when I'm free to go out and tear it up with him.
Okay, let me see if I get this straight: we meet. He likes me. We pursue one another (admittedly a mutual thing). We go out. We hook up. Wait, no, this is wrong. He likes me, but isn't ready for a relationship, even though we didn't really have one. He comes over. We talk. He tells me this. And now he emails me again to ask if I want to go out, after telling me that wasn't what he wanted.
I responded this afternoon (after hoping that he sweated it out a bit). Very vague. Told him no big deal about the concert tickets, as I'd already made other plans for tonight. (A boldfaced, necessary, girl-defending lie, as my plans involved a glass of pinot, mozzarella sticks, and typing this.) And then, the punchline - "Up to my ears in work this week. Shoot me an email next week and we'll talk."
I think the most amusing thing that came out of this situation is that for as overanalytical as he is, he's now probably talking himself in circles trying to figure out where my head is at.
New motto: If you can't f*ck them, mindf*ck them.
The Morning After - Oh F*ck.
Thoughts when I woke up this morning:
1. F*ck. 2. I'm thirsty.3. Did I charge $50 to my credit card for Match.com?4. I vaguely remember writing a blog post about this.5. I have a stomach pain so intense that I'm scared to look down for fear of seeing a baby somewhere.6. I think I was smart enough to use spell check on the post, at least. A smart drunk. Go me.7. F*ck.Seven thoughts this morning, friends. One in succession of the other.
Not quite sure what came over me last night, but I think somewhere in between glasses 3 and 4 I lost my shit. I think I stopped at four, because that's when QWERTY started to look like TERWQY and I got the spins. What can I say - it was a rough weekend and I have been under considerable stress at work. This is not a good combination.
(And to those of you concerned, I do not have a drinking problem, nor do I condone solving problems with alcohol. This was an isolated incident that I do not expect to happen again the near future. Or hopefully ever.)I decided, shortly after the first sip of my Dunkin' Donuts Iced French Vanilla with cream and sugar that I was going to chalk last night up to a self-induced pity party and move on. I was going to walk into work, tackle the mountain of planning that awaited me, return all reps phone calls within half an hour, and try hard not to anticipate any emails from Mr. Poopy Pants, who had been emailing me multiple times daily for the last month.
Little did I know the heart attack that awaited me at work, when I was slammed with four (4) plans and and evaluation due by COB.
At around 9:47 am I checked MySpace. At 10:14 am I checked my Gmail. It was then that I noticed the three "winks" I'd received on Match. I don't know what the f*ck a wink is but it sounded nice, so I went to the page to check it out. Why not embrace the Match thing? I've already spent $50. I have a couple of months. I have time, energy, and a shred of dignity left. What do I have to lose?
One guy - 38, divorced, very few of those enamel-looking adornments in his mouth, more commonly known as "teeth".
Guy #2 - gold chain, blonde buzz cut, and a nickname that involves some sort of creative "Eminem" reference in the moniker.
Guy #3 - a fairly decent looking guy. From Mobile, which courtesy of MapQuest, is apparently located in Alabama. (Okay, I'm kidding. I know where Mobile is, but what kind of good is that going to do me? I thought my goal was to meet someone cool to date, not to get abducted and written about as a survivor story in "Marie Claire".)
Were all Match guys such freaks? This kind of pressing matter needed to be investigated immediately, so I allowed myself a 10 minute break from my work to poke around. Apparently there are some decent-sounding people, but none of these people seem to be remotely interested in me.
It was then that I wondered how many lies there were in these profiles. How many commitment-phobes? How many S&M fetishes? How many bored, married men just looking to play while their wife buys milk and drives the kids to soccer practice? Or even just generally - how many white lies?
I thought about my own profile and what I had written. In retrospect, I write quite well for a drunk. This is no surprise, as I once pulled off a 10 page case brief for Com Law in college after coming home from the bars at 2:30 am and with a little help from spell check, pulled off an A-. But even so - I felt like my profile was honest, but polite.
If I could write my own profile - truthfully and honestly - what would it really say?
And then that inspired me:
"Hi. I'm 25. I have curly hair that I like to flat iron, otherwise when it's humid, I resemble Rick James in his Superfreak Jheri Curl days, which probably aren't even over. I have green eyes and an okay body that could stand a few less cheeseburgers, but I've never really gotten any complaints about my boobs, which I enjoy having immensely. I have a great family, I love my job, and I will do anything for my friends, but I tend to pick total and absolute losers to date, which has caused me quite a bit of grief in recent years. Not all of them are losers, mind you, but I could tell you enough stories that would probably convince you that I need to write a book. Or a blog. Which I write in tirelessly and yet receive very little comments. If I do receive comments or emails, they're usually harshly critical and accusational - like I reek of narcissism or I should focus on something constructive, like World Peace. Speaking of piece, I'd like to get one, but not without looking like a total whore, and you'd better believe that many meals - over the course of a period of time - are going to have to be involved, and perhaps even a movie, or a live concert, which I'd prefer you asked me to before you dumped me as your nonexistent girlfriend. I am a total sucker for a glass of wine, and if you think I talk enough now, wait until you put a little Chardonnay in me, because you're in for quite a ride. We can talk about all kinds of things and overanalyze, because that's what I do. I am neurotic and overanalytical, and enjoy long conversations with myself and others in my head about things that could, should, or would happen. Most of the time nothing happens, really, because over the course of the last few years (and with few exceptions, but not many) I've become quite good at controlling my emotions and punking out on anything that requires investing emotionally. Like the John Cusack holding the boombox over his head playing "In Your Eyes" in "Say Anything"? I love that shit, but not for me. Don't try it, or I'm likely to label you a total wimp. Speaking of, the meaner or more emotionally constipated you are with me, the more I'll tend to like you. And if you're nice, then just don't be interested altogether, because that seems to be my new thing. I was recently dumped by someone I wasn't dating. I cannot digest green peppers and avoid them at all costs. I sing in the shower, and dance in my bathrobe when I'm done almost every single day, unless I'm in a big hurry. I like Tears For Fears and think that "Elemental" is one of their best albums. Are you interested? Contact me."
This, I feel, is what a real profile should say. Because if anyone can accept the above fact and still want to hold my hand at the movies, I'm sure I've found the right guy.
Until then, I'll keep you posted. Perhaps Slim Shady will refer me to his cousin, 50 Cent, who will attempt to woo me with talks of candy and clubs and rims and Ying Yang Twins. And as long as he doesn't live in Mobile, I think I'm good.
Back on the Market Again, and May I Add That Drinking By Onesself Is Highly Underrated
I took a scalding hot shower tonight. I mean, hot and steamy. I cranked up the heat on the water and let it hit me hard. And it felt nice.
Now I'm on glass of wine #2. I've just finished writing a profile on Match.com, and I'm fairly certain I'll regret having joined and wasted $50 tomorrow morning, but this pinot kicked in rather quickly and I am feeling bold and beautiful and confident, even in my "I Love Atlanta" t-shirt and my red boxer shorts with the little fruits on them.
Yesterday, I hit a new low. I was dumped - without ever being aware that I was in a relationship in the first place.
Without getting into too much detail, I was seeing someone very, very casually over the last few weeks. I thought things were going well until he called me yesterday and made the impromptu announcement that he was at the gate of my apartment complex and wanted to come over to talk to me
in person about some things. I was a little taken aback, but I let him in anyway. After all, my hair was washed and flat-ironed, I smelled great, and I was wearing a t-shirt and a little tennis skirt. So if he was coming over to bear some bad news, at least I could add to the guilt factor by looking cute.
After a ten-minute long speech involving the terms "wanting to see where we stood" and "not sure if ready for a relationship", it seemed my fate was sealed. The only problem was, I wasn't exactly aware that we were together.
Sure we'd been out. We'd met each other's friends, drank, laughed, and had some incredibly wild and passionate makeout sessions that were satisfying and likely to give me a wild sense of giddiness for the days that followed. But I was having fun. I'd given a little consideration to where things were going, but apparently not as much as he had.
He "just got out of a relationship". He "didn't know if he could be in yet another one" and thought we might just be "better off as friends for the time being", despite "really, really liking me".
Blah.My first instinct was shock. I mean, had I known this was coming I would have at least put some Visine in my eyes and pretended to fake some emotion. For my part, I hadn't thought too much about where it was going and was just happy and excited that we liked one another. Did I think he was my boyfriend? Did I consider us to be dating? The answer to both is a solid "No". So why was he on my balcony giving me the speech before we'd even had our first formal date?
When he asked what I thought, I told him that I was cool with it, and that I respected any decision he made. He almost fell right through the floor. When he asked me if I'd thought about it, I answered (semi) honestly and said, "Well, truthfully, no. I like you, but it's not like we've had a real date. I was having fun and going with it. I guess I hadn't really thought about it that much." I suddenly felt him shrink. It's as if his 5'10" stature went into that "Honey I Shrunk the Kids" machine and he came out no bigger than your average flaccid penis. He felt foolish, and small, and overanalytical, and he was absolutely justified. Who the f*ck is this guy?! Admittedly, I felt good making him feel like a shit. After all, who is he to dump me in this nonexistent relationship? Had I known something was going on, I'd have at least referred to him as "my boyfriend" once or twice and f*cked the daylights out of the guy (neither of which, I might add, had happened).
Once he was done, you could tell he felt stupid. There was a lot of shifting weight and refusal to make eye contact. He started backtracking and saying he wasn't sure of what he wanted, and all I really wanted to do, truthfully, was pin him down and ask him whose bitch he was.
But then, in the weirdest twist of fate, he stayed. He stayed at my house and we talked. Honestly. For two hours. About everything. I gave him the opportunity to leave multiple times, but he stayed and told me about his relationship history and what he wanted and where he stood and where he came from. And, in the interest of fairness, I told him a few selective stories (leaving most of my baggage out, since I didn't want to scare him with all of the anecdotes - at least not all upfront), and we talked. And it was nice. And frankly, should have happened a long time ago, before any of this shit came between us. I was confused, and sad, and just generally nauseous, because I knew that I liked the man that was eventually going to walk out of my door much more than the man that walked in.
At the end of the conversation, he told me that he didn't really know what his deal was anymore. And it seemed like he had a change of heart. But the damage was kind of done in my mind and I didn't know how to react.
And then...because this story is not confusing enough -- he asked me to go to a concert with him this week. As a date? As a friend? As an escort? I was confused. I mean, after all, the guy came over to break up with me and then asked me out. Are we in another nonexistent relationship? Because I'm hoping that I can have sex in this one if that's the case.
We left things kind of open and I've spent the last two days rearranging everything in my head like a puzzle piece. Except for it's looking a lot like a Rubik's Cube, and much like when I was little and used to throw tantrums over the fact that my sister could solve it and I couldn't, I was baffled. I guess we'll have to wait and see. I'm not sure why I joined Match, except that I've heard good things from friends, have no idea where the "thing" with this guy is going, and am tired of meeting losers in bars. At the very least I'll get emails from other losers which will create a false sense of confidence and make me feel like I'm not putting all of my eggs in one basket with this guy.
Random thoughts:
- I wish, by the way, that I was still in college right now. I am out of decent food except for ramen and miss creating my own stir-fry at the Wok and Roll station at Denison Hall. I'm almost tempted to drive to Publix but I'm at the point where I haven't lost motor skills, yet am completely incapable of passing a breathalizer, so it's probably just best if I rummage through the pantry and eat some animal crackers.
- I know - I'll eat some potato pierogies. I'm not sure how long they've been in my freezer but if I put enough salt on them it's bound to taste good.
- Good thing I happen to have Marlboro Lights laying around. I'm going to smoke them all and hate myself tomorrow.
- Why is it that when upset, women always turn to food and booze and smokes? I wish I could do something constructive, like finish a crossword puzzle or run 5 miles.
- My cat has really been great throughout this fake breakup. He has head-butted me and jumped into my arms, as if he senses that I'm confused and really irritated.
- This would be a very good time, by the way, to call up an ex and tell him how stupid he is for letting go of the best damn thing he ever had. Unfortunately, I think I did that a few weeks ago so I should probably wait awhile before attempting that classy move yet again.
- I hear noises in my chimney. I don't know if it's raining or I'm just hearing things, but either way, this wine tastes f*cking awesome.
- It has seriously rained in Atlanta every day for the last three weeks. I kind of want to stop fighting it and embrace it, but then I'm pretty sure my flat, straight, shiny hair will get ruined and really, one has to maintain some common sense when it comes to these things.
But in the meantime, drinking by myself is delicious. I can barely feel my fingers typing anymore. Anyone who wants to come on over and help me finish this bottle tonight is more than welcome, open invitation. Just get here soon, because, like my sanity, it's getting polished off rather quickly. If anyone has some thoughts on what this douchebag is thinking, feel free to let me know. I know y'all don't comment but I see that you're reading. And your thoughts are, contrary to my laissez-faire attitude, important. So please - comment on. Just don't break up with me in the comment section. Because then I will kick your ass.
I'm A Bastard Who's Out of Batteries
Contrary to what the headline suggests, my home laptop AC charger and battery died, and I am awaiting a new one to be delivered, so posting has been quite sad lately. My apologies.
We'll be up and running shortly, so please be patient.
Thanks,
Management
