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Anyone there?
Look, I know I’ve been scarce around these parts. But there’s a reason for that.
The central idea of this blog is my conflict with men and relationships. I’ve had some bad luck with Those With Penises in the past year and for a while, it seemed that the crazy didn’t stop.
But my conflict? For now at least? Has been resolved.
I have a man who makes me want to simultaneously bitch-slap and shin-kick the old me. The me who put up with all that nonsense. All that flakiness. All that confusion.
My conflict has been resolved. At least for now.
I will continue to write here. I’m not giving up the blog. I mean, my relationships with men aren’t the only interesting thing about me. They’re just the most consistently insane things about me.
But right now? I’m happy. The calm has descended. I’m not constantly agonizing over men and their bullshit.
Plus, I’m getting sex on the regular now.
Which is pretty awesome.
I debated even writing a post on this because, for one thing, it would be short, and I’m not exactly known for my brevity. However, I discussed it with Andy and he said I should write about it because, “people might enjoy a mini post instead of a mini novel.” Thanks, Andy, for suggesting that I’m long-winded.
The other reason I decided to post today is because Andy said these types of things “typify [my] life,” so I figured it was only appropriate with the theme of my blog.
I mentioned weeks ago that a guy friend and I (let’s call him Gonzo—you’ll see why in a minute) had been getting closer due to our respective break-ups, and we’d been leaning on each other for moral support a little bit. You know, texting a couple times a week and the occasional round of Guitar Hero and Miller Lite.
To give a bit of background on Gonzo, he’s a bit of a pothead and he loves taking painkillers. Hey dude, whatever tickles your pickle. Doesn’t mean I have to partake. But over the past few weeks I seem to have gotten better in my emotional state, while he seems to have gotten progressively worse. Also, he is just a strange guy. Very strange. I don’t know how to explain it. Okay, maybe I do. He is obsessed with Hunter S. Thompson, Tool, and getting fucked up. I guess that about sums it up.
But he’s my friend. And he’s good company.
So I was at his house last night, chillin’, and we were just sitting there—him on the couch, me on the futon (30 years old and he has a futon. Laaaaadiiiiieeeees)—having a completely normal conversation, nothing out of the ordinary, with no sexual tension whatsoever, and he decides he’s going to get up and walk over to me.
Oh, shit.
He pressed his hands into the back of the futon on either side of my head, while I simultaneously pressed my head back into it, hoping I wasn’t catching any communicable diseases. He stopped at my face (THANK GOD) and asked, “Can I kiss you?”
My first thought was, “Why?”
But instead I just said, “Um . . . no?”
I was so caught off guard! What the hell? Was he in on some hot moment I was missing? I’d just been talking to him about the dream I’d had about my ex boyfriend.
The moment was so weird that the details after that are fuzzy. He went back and sat on his couch and started flipping through the channels, as if nothing had happened.
The whole thing was awk.
I stayed around for a few more minutes before I left just so it wouldn’t look like “A’IGHT WEIRDO I’M OUT. ENJOY YOUR NIGHT LOOKING UP MAYNARD JAMES KEENAN VIDEOS ON YOUTUBE AND EATING KLONOPIN LIKE CANDY. PEACE.”
But that’s totally what I was thinking.
So, I went home and went to bed, vowing to stay far, far away from Gonzo. Seriously, dudes really are all about the vajay. I thought I could have had another honest-to-God guy friend. I’d even told him earlier in the night that I’d farted and I hoped he hadn’t caught wind of it. Guess I was wrong about this one.
When I woke up this morning, I had no less than six missed calls from around 12:30 a.m.—a number I didn’t recognize. I was a tad confused, so I checked my text messages.
Two new messages from the unidentified number.
From guess who?
Adam.
Woodwork much?
Seriously. Is this my life?
Oh, and did I mention the other day that I got a text from the BROTHER OF ONE OF MY EXES asking if I was dating anyone?
Aaaaaaaand I just checked my Facebook and Gonzo has written on my wall twice today.
FML.
I’m going to attempt a lighthearted approach at this post, because 1) it’s FRIDAY! and 2) mi vida es muy loca lately and I need to start turning the negatives into positives. Or something.
Or, after speaking all that Spanish, maybe I just need a margarita.
Whatevs.
So, I effed up. But this time, I don’t think it was so detrimental that I don’t want to show my face in public ever again. I didn’t call my boss drunk or anything. I just gave in to a moment of weakness.
I mentioned that New York wanted to be friends, right? Well, what I did not mention was the manner in which this information was revealed to me.
In response to that well-thought-out, heartfelt, compassionate letter, I received a three-sentence text message.
“I got your letter. Twas very nice. Thanksfriend.”
Huh.
While all the friends I’ve told this to think this is an outrage because, honestly, is that the response I got? After writing perhaps one of the most perfect letters of all time? It’s been hard for me to feel anything but numbness and/or complete depression about it. I haven’t been able to feel anger toward him yet because I’m still so enamored with the kid. I can’t just turn my feelings off like a light switch. It doesn’t work that way. I need time to get over him, and I haven’t allowed myself that time yet.
So we tried the friend thing for about a week. He texted me to make sure my animals were inside when there was a tornado warning. I texted him telling him we should have a moustache growing contest (idea totally stolen from My Boys) with the loser earning a free milkshake and the winner getting a creepy moustache. Insert miscellaneous friend chatter here.
But last night? I got drunk.
Like, Let’s Make Bad Decisions drunk.
So I called NY. And much to my surprise? He answered!
And he was happy to hear from me!
And he wanted me to come over!
Like right now!
EEEEEEEEEEEE!!!, right?
No.
NOT “EEEEEEEEEEEE!!!”.
Bad LRC.
So I went over there, and he eagerly greeted me at the door. We hugged big time because we hadn’t seen each other in about a month. Then we went and plopped down on the couch with his arm around me and my head nuzzled against his neck, like old times.
We started talking for a few minutes. Mostly small talk and chit chat. Catching up and whatnot.
And then we started making out. Big time.
Clothes started coming off.
When things started to progress toward The Sexy Time, I could feel him pulling back. So I asked him a question I had always been too afraid to ask him, for whatever reason.
“Don’t you want to have sex?”
(Note [possibly TMI]: I have already given him a BJ at this point, which was met with great approval.)
“No. [insert random excuse here].”
Pause.
Blink.
“Why not?”
“I don’t like to have sex unless I’m in an intense relationship. With the possibility of my leaving and everything . . .”
And then I just stared at him for a few seconds.
“You’re telling me this . . . after we’ve . . . already had sex?”
(This is about the extent of my ability to take up for myself when I’m drunk. At least, with a guy I’m head over heels for. If I didn’t give a shit about him, I would have let him have it.)
So I just gave up on the conversation at that point. I don’t remember what his response was (I’m HAMMERED, remember?). I just fell back into his arms and he held me close. I cried silently, but I don’t think he noticed.
And then I realized, you know what? I don’t need this shit. I’m just letting him treat me however the fuck he wants. He’s handing out misery, and I’m the first in line.
I wordlessly got up, put my sweatshirt back on, picked up my purse, and walked toward the door. He came after me, but I just kept going. Walked out the door, got in my car, and left.
And cried. And cried. And cried. And cried.
And then. AND THEN? I sent him a drunk text. “I wish I wouldn’t have taken so long to ask you that.”
(Please ignore the bad grammar. Remember, I’m wasted. And yes, I should not have driven. I know this. Save the preachin’ for your Sunday School class.)
I don’t know what I thought that drunk text would solve. Hell, that’s the point of a drunk text. Saying things you probably shouldn’t have but seem like a GREAT idea at the time.
Then I realized, you know what? There I go placing all the blame on myself again. He should have been honest with me from the get-go. If he never saw this going anywhere, he never should have invited me to that James Bond movie. And, at the very least, he never should have made out with me afterward.
So I texted him again.
UGH.
“Then again i dont think it is my fault”
FUHHHHHHHHHH I wish there was a CTRL+Z for text messages. But you know what? He needs to realize what he did was wrong. He led me on, and wasn’t honest with me from the start. And I got all bajiggity about him because he rocks my world. And then he curb stomped my heart.
So yeah.
I guess that settles that. I can’t be makin’ out with boys who are just gonna inevitably hurt me over and over again.
It sucks. But I’ll move on.
Speaking of moving on, I mentioned joining an online dating site in my last post. I was very reluctant at first, but my mom, seeing my unhappy state, basically forced me into it. I think it’s a bit too soon to start dating because I’m still batshit insane enamored with NY even though it’s never going to happen. But I don’t think it will hurt to make some new friends and have a boy take me out on an actual DATE. One in which we go to a restaurant that’s not Quizno’s and doesn’t end with Jager Bomb shots and a massive sense of regret the next morning.
I’ve been in contact with two guys, one of which seems really fun and has a lot in common with me, but, to be brutally honest, he’s not someone I see myself being attracted to. He seems more like the big brother type. He’s not model hot like NY, BE, and Adam (but then again, “model hot” never seemed to work in my favor). However, he has a lot of friends and has a lot of fun things going on in his life, and that could be the breath of fresh air I need. I will probably have to explain to him that if we do date, things have to go reeeeeally slowly. I’m damaged goods here, and I don’t want to play any games.
There’s also another guy I’ve been talking to less frequently, but holy hell is he hot. And he’s an athletic trainer. HOT. BODY. Hold me. I didn’t think he was that into me at first, but after the second time we “talked” (we used the lame IM thing on the dating site), he asked if I wanted to do something next week. I said yes, but I think we’re definitely going to keep it casual. He’s new to the area and is looking for new friends. At the very least, maybe I’ll have a new hang out buddy.
I’ll keep you all posted for sure. I’ve got my sights set on dinner, drinks, and tomfoolery with the girls tonight, and from now on when I’m faced with a tough decision, I’m going to ask myself, “Is this necessary for my happiness?” and if it is, I’ll do it. And if it’s not, vice versa.
Happy weekend, lovelies.
God, is the weekend effing over already? UGH. I am trying to squeeze every last drop out of it that I possibly can. Family is nice, but 72 straight hours of it? Leads to the necessity of some serious ME TIME.
Sweatpants? Meet LRC’s fine-lookin’ ass.
Wednesday night I hung out with New York again, and we rounded yet another base in glorious fashion, but the third base coach is still steadily holding up his hand, telling us to be patient. I don’t want sex to wreck the good thing we’ve got going. Not that I think everything is going to come to a screeching halt or the love gods will curse me if we bump uglies, but when you’re with someone you like this much (and I’m hoping he is as into me as I am into him), you want to make sure the time is right and that you’re not just doing it because you’ve had one too many Rum and Diets.
So Thanksgiving was spent at my aunt’s house, and I had not even been there an hour before the fire department showed up.
It’s not Thanksgiving until the fire department comes!
My cousin had removed the turkey from the oven and some of the juices had fallen into the bottom of it. The juices started smoking and the smoke alarm went off, triggering a signal to the fire station. They came and everyone got a good laugh out of it. I took pictures, obvs.
Then later, my other cousin, who just got back from Iraq and has to go back in about a week (FROWN), attempted to set up the fire pit in the back yard, and grabbed a bunch of old wood that was COVERED with roaches. I expressed my disgust for the vile six-legged creatures, so he reacted to my disdain by THROWING ONE IN MY HAIR.
HE THREW. A COCKROACH. AT MY HEAD.
I thought he was joking at first, that he didn’t really throw it, but when I felt those little legs crawling on the back of my neck, I screamed like a little girl and shook it out with great fervor.
It’s not Thanksgiving until someone throws a roach in your hair!
The next two days were spent with my other side of the family. On Friday, immediately after we ate, my aunt went to lie on the couch, where she stayed for several hours. My mom mentioned that she had been having this thing called a “cluster headache” (we kept calling it a clusterfuck—I assured my mom it wasn’t dirty and she finally warmed up to the term), and when it didn’t go away, they took her to the emergency room and she got a shot that eventually made her feel much better.
It’s not Thanksgiving until someone has to take a trip to the emergency room!
While they were gone (my aunt, my mom, and my other aunt all went), I was left to hang out with my cousin and her triplets (all 3 boys. Yes, TRIPLET. BOYS. No, they did not use fertility drugs. This tendency of my family to have multiple births does not bode well for my future), and of course one of them fell and got a bloody nose.
It’s not Thanksgiving until some kid gets a bloody nose!
He’s OK. Just so ya know.
The next day (Saturday) I managed to get some Christmas shopping done. And lose my iPod. Awesome. Although I did score a vintage scarf from the 60’s that totally OWNS YOUR MOM.
So, Saturday night I FINALLY got to come home and I promptly went to the bar to meet my friends who were in town for the weekend (EXHAUSTED? ME? YES.) I ended up crashing New York’s card-playing festivities at his house around midnight (it was him and two other couples, it wasn’t a guy’s night or anything), and apparently I’d gotten a little more tipsy than I thought and ended up passing out on his couch. So no mackage. Frown. But we did wake up around 10, talk for a couple hours (seriously, when we talk the time just FLIES by. I could talk to him all day), and then grabbed lunch.
I am hopelessly in like with this kid. I get giddy just thinking about him. He is mother effing HILARIOUS. Today I had to tell him to “stop with the funny” so I could drive and not kill us both in the process because I was cracking up so badly. He makes me laugh that deep, throaty laugh that eventually turns into a cackle (I can become quite animated when amused). And I can use BIG WORDS around him. And fancy syntax. And his face doesn’t turn into a question mark like it did with other guys.
Maybe after we FINALLY DO IT, we can start having Naked Scrabble Night? Ooh, my nerdy, sex-obsessed self is liking that idea.
In other news, I jumped on the bandwagon and read Twilight. And I FREAKING LOVED IT. Rarely does a book cause me to gasp audibly, but this one? Yeah. In love. With a fictional character. Like everyone else, though, I do have a few gripes. Some of them have already been expressed on other blogs, but I am going to mention them too, because damn it, this is my blog and I can do what I want to and you can’t stop me, bwahahahaha.
First, what is so freaking appealing about Bella? I mean, I understand Edward’s reason, because she be smellin’ all good to him and shit, but the other guys? Seriously? Is small town life that dull that you have to latch on to every new possibility that comes to light? Although, if ditzy, stereotypical high school girls like Jessica were the only other option, I might be lusting after the first thing that moved as well.
Second, I am impatient, and A) I want Edward to just turn her into a freaking vampire already so they can be together forever and ever amen, or B) I WANT THEM TO FUCK LIKE RABBITS. But then there would be no buildup. No “fun.” Bah.
(I BET EDWARD HAS A BIG DICK.)
Yeah, I just said that.
So I was a huge dork today and I went and saw the movie. By myself. And not only did I see it by myself, I got upset when the colors on the screen were wrong (purple and green, anyone?) and went to complain to an employee because DAMN IT I WILL JUST NOT BE SATISFIED IF I CAN’T SEE EDWARD’S CARAMEL EYES IN TRUE FORM. Then when I came back inside the theater I held my hands up as if to say LOOK PEOPLE I HAVE GOT THIS UNDER CONTROL and said, “THEY’RE WORKING ON IT!”
The audience let out a sigh of relief. I felt like a hero.
Just kidding. But I did feel kinda brave for being the only one to address the masses, as several other people had already complained and not said anything.
The movie itself? Enh. Cheesy. If you haven’t read the book, then you’re probably going to wonder “why are these two kids so in love with one another? They’ve barely spoken and now they’re all YOU ARE MY LIFE RIGHT NOW BLAH BLAH BLAH.” Although, it kept me entertained. And Edward was way hot.
I think the reason Edward is so appealing to so many women is because we love it when guys treat us like shit. Also, when they say one thing and do another. Seriously. It’s like this:
Edward: GO AWAY. DIE. We can’t be friends.
Bella: YOU ARE SO FREAKING HOT.
Edward: I know.
Bella: Ugh you are so FRUSTRATING.
Edward: I love you.
Bella: WHAT?
Edward: I love you.
Bella: OH MY GOD I LOVE YOU TOO. I AM SO PREPARED TO DIE FOR YOU RIGHT NOW IT IS NOT EVEN FUNNY.
Disclaimer. Guys. Please don’t treat us like shit. Even though we FREAKING LOVE IT.
I’ve been doing some thinking lately about why I blog. Why I choose to share what I share, and withhold what I withhold.
When I returned to blogging around October of 2007 (previously I’d had several personal websites and a LiveJournal, on and off, since about 1996—when I was THIRTEEN. Literary masterpieces, my first “blogs” were not), it was mostly just to share my interesting and comical thoughts (although, how “interesting” or “comical” these thoughts were is debatable). I had become bored at work and needed something to fill all the moments in my workday after I’d checked Facebook and MySpace eleventy bajillion times, after I’d finished my work and there was little to occupy my time.
I was in a relationship with Murray at the time, and while I did blog about things related to him, our relationship was not the focus of my blog. I started out at Blogger, then moved to WordPress a few months later, deciding that it was the superior of the two. I used my first name and Murray’s first name (although I switched to using only his first initial upon my move to WP), and would only post photos of myself periodically.
One day, not long after the breakup with Murray, when checking my blog’s stats, I got a sinking feeling that my privacy was about to be compromised. I made the impulsive decision to close the blog and open a new one, and only told those in my gmail contact list about it.
This is that blog. I named it Long Red Cape after a song about letting go of something you had been holding onto for far too long. Not only was I in love with the song, but I thought its meaning was very fitting for the phase of life I had just entered. Moving on. Letting go.
Through blogging, I have “met” throngs of amazing women and men, and I’m grateful for the experience I’ve gotten through all of this.
When I look at my entries that garner the most attention—higher stats, more comments, longer and more emotionally-driven comments—are the ones that relate to my dating life, post-breakup.
While I don’t write this blog for my readers, I also don’t do it JUST for me.
That being said, I think one of the things that makes my blog unique is the theme it has adopted as the months have passed (almost six months since the breakup! CRAZY! Seems like five minutes ago I was writing the five month post) is this: dating in a small town.
You may be thinking, Whoop-De-Fucking-Doo, LRC. Congratulations. I don’t give a shit.
I know many of you who read inhabit large cities. I live in a town of less than 20,000.
Dating in a small town? Is some TOUGH SHIT.
Do you know how hard it is to hang out with someone ONCE and then find out the next week everyone is talking about how you are in a relationship with that person?
So all the crazy stuff that has been happening to me has largely been the result of living and dating in a small town. Because Murray? And BE? And New York? And even Adam?
Yeah, they all know each other.
For example, the other night, after drunkenly giving NY my number and probably being more flirtatious than usual, I saw Murray, and he said, “So, I saw you talking to [NY] . . .”
Me: “Yeah . . .” (thinking: NONE OF YOUR DAMNED BUSINESS, HOLMES.)
And the other night when I was out with NY? One of his friends said, “I see your car over at [name of intersection] sometimes, who lives there?”
Me: “Um . . . [BE]’s parents.” He asked me this RIGHT IN FRONT OF NY.
So, uh, don’t be surprised if the craziness continues. Because I am in like with two boys right now, and I hope, for my sake and theirs, that the shit does not hit the fan.
In NY-related news (you seem to all like him so this should make you happy): we hung out again on Friday night, and I actually did sleep in his bed. Still no sex, which is the way I want it to be, but there are times when we’re getting hot and heavy on the couch that I am thinking GOD WHY DON’T YOU JUST RIP MY CLOTHES OFF ALREADY. He doesn’t snore, which is fantastic, because I have a hard time getting to sleep when it sounds like someone is choking on a windmill. I cooked dinner for him last night and we played Scrabble.
Can I just say? I LOVE THAT HE WANTED TO PLAY SCRABBLE WITH ME. I always feel like I’m being an imposition on someone if I ask them to play a game with me. Most guys I date, do not play games (well, not games like SCRABBLE anyway . . . they play MIND GAMES. Totes different). I ended up conceding because he was ripping me a new one.
I actually think he might be too smart for me. He writes shit. Shit that gets published. He has a very quick wit. And he has a phenomenal vocabulary.
And I? I write this little blog that is basically just a dump for my brain and emotions. Not exactly on the same level as his stuff, as I have read some things he has written (GOOGLE = MY BOYFRIEND).
I know this sounds bad, but I’m not used to being the less intelligent one. It’s not that I need to feel smarter than the other person to feel in control. It’s not that at all. I LIKE smart guys. They TURN ME ON.
I just feel uncomfortable if I’m unable to communicate with someone on a higher level than myself. I think things like, “Does he think I’m just another one of those cute, dumb girls who has gotten through life on her looks alone?” I mean, I know I’m no beauty queen, but I have felt judged on my looks before. People think that since I’m young and cute, that I can’t possibly know anything about life, because things have just been handed to me.
I didn’t mean for this to turn into a long-winded rant on feeling pigeonholed, because I really don’t feel like that most of the time. I guess I’m just not used to being the less intelligent one.
BUT. That doesn’t stop me from being SERIOUSLY IN LIKE with NY. He makes me giggle, and he gives me the WHOOSH feeling when think about kissing him.
—–
In other news, Ashley of Turquoise Ribbons gave me this lovely award:
The award says: “This blog invests and believes in proximity” (meaning, that blogging makes us ‘close’-being close through proxy). These blogs are exceedingly charming. These kind bloggers aim to find and be friends. They are not interested in prizes or self-aggrandizement. Our hope is that when the ribbon of these prizes are cut, even more friendships are propagated. Please give more attention to these writers!
So here are the folks I’m passing it on to:
While watching election coverage on MSNBC, I got bored (oh, the ADD) and began perusing the internet. When I saw Mim online, I gchatted her to tell her how much I loved her recent vlog.
We got to talking about miscellaneous things. BE. The election. Movies that make us cry, etc.
(For the record, the movie that makes me SOB audibly—so much so that I usually have to towel off afterward—and usually causes me to end up sleeping like a baby that night after all that melodramatic catharsis, is Charlotte’s Web.)
Mim suggested I watch What Dreams May Come, as it is one of those types of movies.
(Just READING the description of that movie made me want to cry. Damn this IUD and these unexpected hormones.)
So I added it to my Netflix queue and went on my merry way.
Or, so I tried.
This thing Netflix does when you add a movie to your queue, which is incredibly useful and convenient, is that it suggests other movies SIMILAR TO the movie you just selected.
One of those movies it selected for me after I added What Dreams May Come was The Science of Sleep.
I have never seen this movie. I do not know, nor do I care to know, anything about it.
Then where are you going with this pointless rant, LRC?
Well, I’ll tell you.
A few months ago, a friend of mine had a going away party because he was to be moving away to California for God knows how long. During the party, he had everyone draw numbers. He then threw every DVD in his collection on the living room floor. Whoever had their number drawn, got to pick a DVD. The process repeated until every DVD was gone.
Adam picked The Science of Sleep.
AH. NOW it gets interesting.
Remember Adam? The younger guy who absolutely stole my heart (and my sense of reality) for a few weeks and then discarded it like it was the watered down remains of a skinny iced vanilla latte?
Yeah, that one.
So eventually the DVD ended up getting left at my house. We were going to watch it, but, uh, OTHER THINGS prevailed.
(Sex.)
So when things started going sour with us and Adam basically curb-stomped what was left of my self-respect after the breakup with Murray, I pulled that DVD out from my TV stand.
And commenced to smash it into tiny pieces.
There was screaming. There was crying. There was melodrama.
(And an ensuing hangover the next day.)
The point of my post is this. All that pain. All that confusion. All that ANGER I felt that night?
Is gone.
And has been for months.
At that moment, I felt as if I were this pathetic, insignificant little flea who could NOT see the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel.
I felt used. I felt unloved. I felt . . . empty.
And now?
. . . Adam who?
Things like this serve as a reminder to me. Remember that phrase, This too shall pass? It may sound cliché, but damn it. It’s clichéd for a reason.
IT’S TRUE.
That thing that may be absolutely ass raping your emotions? That thing that may cause you not to want to get out of bed in the morning?
In a month . . . hell, in a week, maybe even by TOMORROW . . . that thing will be SO INSIGNIFICANT to you.
And you’ll move on.
And you’ll be able to enjoy that skinny iced vanilla latte with a ginormous grin on your face because DAMN IT, YOU ARE GOING TO BE OK.
GOOD, even.
Remember that.
13,219,200 seconds.
220,320 minutes.
3672 hours.
153 days.
21 weeks.
Five months.
It’s been five months since the breakup with Murray. It has simultaneously been the longest and shortest five months of my life.
—
Before the breakup:
I had been having doubts. Serious doubts. Murray and I had been dating for three years and marriage was still the furthest thing from his mind. He still had a lot of maturing to do. He had all these wonderful traits that hardly any of my previous boyfriends had exhibited, but there were definite problems. Our sex life became virtually nonexistent. He didn’t pay very much attention to me. He would come home, and then immediately start doing yard work, which he would do until sunset. When he spoke, I just wanted him to SHUT THE FUCK UP.
Yeah.
Not good.
I had numerous discussions with Murray about how my needs weren’t being met. I told him what needed to happen in order for me to be happy (my depression was beginning to spiral out of control again), and I gave him the opportunity to tell me what HIS needs were that weren’t being met, because I could tell he wasn’t happy, either.
So began the cycle. We’d have a “talk,” he would promise to do better, and he would. For about a week. Then we would be right back where we started.
When he initiated sex, it felt forced. Like if we didn’t have sex, he was going to have to face my wrath or something.
(For the record, I would never YELL at a boyfriend for not having sex with me. It’s been done to me before, and I HATED it. If I didn’t have sex with him at least once a week, he would scream at me and accuse me of cheating on him. The truth is, I had gained 30 pounds and I didn’t feel sexy naked. Not to mention he always wanted to do it in the morning, when sex was the FARTHEST thing from my mind. I would actually start getting nervous when I realized it had been almost a week since the last time we’d had sex. Yeah, THAT was a healthy relationship.)
So after a few failed attempts at improving the weak spots in our relationship (there weren’t many, but the few weak spots? Were MAJOR), I sat down with Murray for what would be one of our last discussions about the relationship.
I wanted a trial separation.
Murray said it hit him like a ton of bricks. He was opposed to it at first, but as I stated my case (with a lot of tears) about how it would be good for us to be alone for a little while to assess if what we were doing was really the best for both of us, he agreed that it was something we both needed.
He moved in with a friend for a week.
Then a week turned into a month.
Then a month? Turned into two months.
We had to stop putting off the inevitable.
—
The Breakup:
I remember the scene well, but I don’t remember everything that was said. We were standing in the kitchen. I was standing between my Granny’s antique pub table and the pantry. He was standing between the stove and the refrigerator. Other than that, it was kind of a blur.
I’d been going through hell in my mind because I knew that a breakup was best for both of us, but I didn’t want to hurt him. After the way he reacted when I initially brought up the trial separation, I thought he would take it pretty hard. So we danced around the issue for a bit.
Then, Murray actually took control.
(For once in his life.)
“Do you want to make this permanent?”
While this made things easier for me in that I didn’t have to actually SPEAK the words, at the same time I couldn’t help but be a little bit hurt. Really? He liked not being with me? He’d rather be alone?
I know, ridic, right? I felt the same way . . . why did I give a crap?
Because we dated for THREE YEARS.
THAT’S WHY.
But we both knew what was best. I nodded. I cried. He hugged me.
And that was that.
—
After the Breakup:
Things were pleasant at first, but then they quickly got nasty when we couldn’t come to an agreement on the house. Ultimately, I got stuck with it, and Murray took the easy way out. I wanted to wring his neck.
During our trial separation, I’d heard that Murray had been going out a lot.
Every. Single. Night.
And he continued to go out, every. Single. Night. for the first month or so after our breakup. Which became pretty awkward when I started dating and he, well, didn’t.
Not too long after the breakup, there was Adam. He was fun, exciting, and unbelievably gorgeous. He constantly complimented me, and treated me like royalty. Also? The sex was AMAZING.
He was exactly what I needed. Someone to shower me with affection and give me what I’d been missing with Murray.
Right up until the point when he decided he didn’t want a girlfriend, and that he’d rather just ignore me.
Awesome.
I was particularly vulnerable because, hello? I’d just gotten out of a three year relationship, and now this guy I was crazy about had gone from one extreme to the completely fucking other.
So I cried. A lot. He went on a five week vacation. I moved on, vowing not to wear my heart on my sleeve anymore. Not to let another guy dictate my happiness.
Then came BrownEyes.
(BE for short).
You all know the story on BE.
(Unless you don’t, then . . . start here.)
I know some of you have a love/hate thing going on with BE (some of you, just a hate thing). Believe me, I do too. But I will say this.
I have had SO. MUCH. FUN. in the past three months.
All the silly games and confusion aside, we have a damned good time together. The sex is great (although not quite as often lately as he has had a series of recent ailments). We’re always laughing. We just have FUN.
Fun is good, right?
Our quasi-relationship is far from perfect. Believe me, I know. But as Little Miss Obsessive commented in my last post:
But I think deep down you know if he’s worth it or not. You know him and the relationship way better than any of us so good luck!
I think she hit the nail on the head with that one. I KNOW a lot of what I say about BE sounds bad. But if you’ve never been around us? You have no idea what we’re like together. Nothing I could ever write here, in black and white, could ever encompass everything. Of COURSE I write about the bad stuff. I use this blog to vent. The good stuff, while good to me? Is not always what I want to write about. This is my outlet.
Also, I like to TRY to keep it entertaining.
(Whether or not I actually SUCCEED at that, well . . .)
I think the next couple of months are going to be eye-openers for me. The holidays are coming up, and I’m curious to see how BE reacts regarding the whole family/holiday thing. Also, a week from Saturday will be our first Wedding Appearance together, and there will be a LOT of people there we know.
But.
If it doesn’t work out with BE? Will I be sad? Of course. Will I let it ruin me?
Hell. No.
I hope the next five months yield as much growth and insight into relationships as the last five have.
Onward!
Got a text from Soccerboy on Thursday afternoon:
Well off to go fishing sorry that we did not get up last night maybe we can get up next week or not a little confused on the situation
Yeah, buddy. You and me both.
“maybe we can get up next week or not” <— How about NOT. Kthxbai.
Also not helping my Single Woman Situation? Murray has been looking super sexy every time I see him. UGH. Those baby blues get me every time. Oh well, I guess it serves me right for dating attractive men!
Speaking of good-looking men who are wrong for me, I know you all want me to stay the eff away from BE. I know I need to, but it’s easier said than done. I’m sure you have ALL had relationships like that (don’t lie!). We still see each other, and we have a good time when we do. He hasn’t been acting like a drunk asshole, so that’s on the plus side. The thing that is keeping us from having “the talk,” though — to see what each of us is expecting out of this whole situation – is the fact that we are NEVER alone. There are ALWAYS other people around.
I don’t know if he’s doing that on purpose, or if it’s just a coincidence. Is he afraid to be alone with me because he doesn’t want to have “the talk”? Does he want to make sure his friends like me? Or does he just like being around a bunch of people all the time?
Maybe it’s a combination of all three, but I think it’s mostly the third one. He’s a social butterfly (God I hate that term–someone think of a replacement, quick, so I never have to use that term again) and has lots of friends. A lot of the time I think he’s honestly just clueless about relationships. He has done some crappy things over the past few months, but I really don’t see how any of them were DELIBERATELY meant to hurt me.
I feel like I’m just wasting my time on him. I HAVE to know where he stands on whatever the hell it is we are doing with each other. Is he trying not to get too close because he doesn’t know how long he’s going to stay in this area? Is he just not that into me? I’m tired of all this analyzing, re-analyzing, and over-analyzing. I want some answers, damn it.
All of these man woes, in addition to the fact that I think I may have ADD, throw in the fact that I wasn’t able to pay my TV bill this month, and stir with a little bit of My Dogs Chew Everything In My House While Simultaneously Stinking It Up and a dash of I Can’t Afford My Mortgage Payment . . . these things do not exactly bode well for my state of emotional health. The Depression is still here, and some days it’s worse than others. I feel like a big emotional trainwreck and I just want to crawl into my bed and stay there until 2019.
Then when I start thinking about all these things and feel sorry for myself, I THEN feel guilty because hey, my life is really not all that bad, and there are people that have it a lot worse than I do. So then I feel like a spoiled brat who is sad because everything doesn’t go her way.
So yeah.
More depression.
I told Andy I’m going to stay away from the menfolk this week because they are not good for my psyche.
But also, right now? Not much else is good for my psyche, either.
I hate these funks. Bleh.
Well, I am now a year older and a year wiser (although, I don’t always feel wise. Most of the time I feel like a fool). I really do feel like my twenty-fourth year was a year of tremendous growth.
I had a pregnancy scare. (I found the entry about it on my old blog. I’ll share it with you here because it isn’t very long and I actually thought it was pretty funny when I re-read it.)
This weekend, I had quite the scare. I looked on my pocket calendar to see when my last period was. The last day I had marked with a yellow highlighter was September 6. I thought, I know I had a period last month. I must have forgotten to mark it. So I casually strolled into the bathroom while [Murray] was cleaning out his closet to take the extra pregnancy test I had tucked away in my linen closet. Just to ease my mind.
NOT a good idea.
Since my dumb ass self forgot to save the instructions, I was unsure about the result of my test. There were two lines, one horizontal and one vertical. HOLY FUCK!!! That means pregnant, right? So I took the test out into the hallway to show [Murray]. He said, What is that?
What do you think it is?
I . . . don’t know.
It’s a pregnancy test! And I’m pretty sure it’s positive!
Then we hugged, and he told me he loved me. I had to have a second test. I wasn’t going to take that as an answer, especially when I wasn’t even sure that’s what the result meant. I drove down to the grocery store (why is it that when I am in a gigantic hurry, everyone just takes their sweet fucking precious time to get where they need to go? They drive 5 mph in a 25 mph zone, they waddle their fat asses down an aisle that obviously will only accommodate themselves, and have no regard for the person behind them that desperately needs to buy a pregnancy test!) So, of course, this particular grocery store does not carry pregnancy tests. Of course, there are tampons and diapers. No pregnancy tests. Gee, thanks a lot. So I left, drove to Wal-Mart, and picked up a two-pack of pregnancy tests, as well as some vitamins (I had needed some anyway, and I was definitely going to need them if I had a small fetus growing inside me.
The entire time I was thinking a million things. My body is going to go to shit. I am going to be a complete fat ass. Where will I send him/her to school? Can we afford this? Should I get an abortion? Will I have to take off work for that? I only have one day left this year, I really don’t want to have to use it for that. What should I name it? What will [Murray]’s bitch sister think, that I’m some whore? We have to get engaged like, right now, so this can happen in the correct order. How did my parents fool people into thinking they were already engaged when they found out they were pregnant with me? I’ll have to ask them about that. Maybe I will have to borrow my mom’s engagement ring to fake it. But it’s gold . . . all my friends know I would have told [Murray] never to buy me gold jewelry.
So I took the test home.
Negative.
NEGATIVE NEGATIVE NEGATIVE. As negative as you could possibly be.
So I celebrated by getting as drunk as I could possibly allow myself to do.
Okay, back to the real topic. Things that happened in my twenty-fourth year.
Claire vomited onto the side of my car.
I saw Keith Urban in concert. Twice.
My cat dropped a medicine cabinet onto my car’s windshield.
My parents almost got a divorce.
I got a new job.
My aunt and uncle moved back home.
My dog had puppies.
I reconnected with an old friend.
I broke up with my boyfriend of three years.
I started a new blog.
I dated an asshole.
I rediscovered my sex drive.
I cried. A lot.
I laughed. A lot.
I injured myself. Many, many times.
I met a blog friend. And promptly made an ass of myself.
I finally invested in semi-permanent contraception.
I began dating the BMOC from my high school.
I got two drunken I-love-you’s.
I had lots and lots of great sex. LOTS OF IT.
I finally realized that I don’t need a man to be happy.
I lost a pet.
Quite a year, eh? It was filled with equal parts pain and pleasure, but y’all? I SERIOUSLY hope my twenty-fifth year is much calmer. I don’t know how much longer I can handle such stress.
The day before my birthday, about 45 minutes after I texted brookem to tell her I was D.O.N.E. with BE, he called me. Earlier, I had gotten off the phone with him to answer Andy’s call. BE had finally (or so I thought) pulled the straw that broke the camel’s back, and I was NOT going to call him back. But I answered his call this time, because I am stupid like that. He said, “Hey, I didn’t get a chance to ask you what I was going to ask you earlier!”
“What’s that?”
“Well, I heard someone was having a birthday tomorrow . . . I wanted to see if you wanted to go out!”
Leave it to BE to call me the night before my birthday and assume I don’t already have plans.
Well, I HAD to invite him to dinner with my parents. It would’ve been rude of me not to, right?
(I KNOW. I AM STUPID.)
But he was nice. And he attempted to dress like a gentleman. And he didn’t do anything to cause distress to me. So it was a pleasant evening. And we won second place in trivia.
So blah. I don’t really know what else to say about that. We’re not moving in any kind of direction, backward OR forward, and I think I’m OK with that. I’m not allowing him to hurt me anymore, and we’re just having a good time. It doesn’t have to be anything more.
Here’s to twenty-five! And ME doing what’s best for ME.
