I would make this a bullet point post, but knowing me, the bullets would probably end up really long, and well, what’s the fucking point of a bullet post if each bullet is several (fun-filled!) paragraphs long? There’s no point, that’s what.

Just like those last two sentences.

Remember a couple weeks ago I got that text from Glen that said “I want to lick u from head to toe“?

Well, I neglected to mention my response to said text. I didn’t recognize the number, so I responded:

Who dis?

I like to get ghetto from time to time. I’m so ‘hood it hurts.

After his text confirming his identity, I responded with this:

You better be glad my baby daddy dint see dis

You know, to keep the ghetto vibe going. And also to ease the tension of the fact that, hello, you have a girlfriend and you texted me at 9:30 on a Sunday morning that you want to drag your tongue all over my body. And also because, hell to the no.

He sent about two apology texts, and that was the end of that.

Until yesterday.

When Glen called me at work.

He told me that he’d been driving and when he passed my neck of the woods, he decided to call me.

To ask me if I was pregnant.

Because I’d said something about a “baby daddy” in that last text.

These are the kind of people that roam the streets of my hometown. The people that vote in elections, bear children, and run for local office.

They’re all fucking idiots.

I assured him that no, there would be no mini LRC coming into the world anytime soon, and that’s when Glen told me that—WHAT DO YOU KNOW!— he, in fact, WAS expecting a mini-Glen in the future. He’d knocked up Amy and they were now engaged.

THEY’RE REPRODUCING!

She of I Like To Scream At Other Women In Bars And Snort Coke Off The Back Of The Toilet In The Ladies Room fame, and he of I Like To Text Women Other Than My Girlfriend At Strange Hours And Tell Them That I Want My Saliva All Over Them fame.

If you’ll excuse me, I have to go cry in a corner now, because the apocalypse is near. It’s only a matter of time before my town is overrun by worthless parasites, suckling at the teat of society. Snorting my tax dollars up their noses and puking all over the sidewalks.

In less depressing news, I really am warming up to The Lawyer. In an e-mail exchange with Narm last month, I even used this sentence to describe what I want out of a potential suitor:

Right now, I kinda just want someone who will play Mario Kart with me, rub my bum shoulder, and tell me how awesome I am.

  1. I have already played Mario Kart with The Lawyer, and I kicked his ass. Then he kicked mine right back.
  2. He has not given me a shoulder massage yet, but has alluded to it.
  3. This is part of our conversation last night:
    The Lawyer: “Have I told you how awesome you were today?”
    LRC: “No.”
    The Lawyer: “You’re awesome. *smooch*”
    FYI — he didn’t say smooch.  He, uh, smooched me.

I’d say that’s pretty effin close right there.

You know what else I’ve discovered?

There are men out there who like to make plans.

Sometimes days in advance!

Holy fucking shit!

Also? I’ve learned that it’s okay to leave my phone in the other room and not check it every five seconds because OMG What if he texts? WHAT IF HE CALLS? WHAT IF IT CAN’T WAIT? because you know what? It is possible to know someone is into you. Without wondering. Without worrying. Without fear.

And that is a pretty great feeling.

Also, phone calls > texting. And he agrees with me on this:

“I mostly only text when I’m drunk. Which is why I usually text you from work.”

(He’s funny.)

I accepted his invitation to the beach. And I’m really, really looking forward to it.

I told him last night, “I guess there really are men out there who give a shit.”

I found one!

Happy weekend, y’all.