I secretly want to punch you in the throat if . . .

. . .  you interrupt my busy day to ask me to come to your office and help you with a technology-related issue. I work in the marketing department, not the IT department. Call an IT person. I guarantee you they can fix it. LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE. I GOT SHIT TO DO. I swear to you, there is a woman on my floor who asks me how to download a picture from her e-mail EVERY TIME.

. . . you come in my office while I’m eating lunch, stand over me as I’m putting the fork to my mouth, and ask nosily, “WHATCHA EATIN?”

. . . you call my office phone, which does not have caller ID, and start yapping away about some favor you need from me and expect me to know exactly who you are and what you are talking about. INTRODUCE YO SELF, FOOL.

. . . you ask me why I’m not married yet or why I don’t have children. Mind your own beeswax. I don’t ask YOU why you’re a no-neck cockwaffle, so shut the shit up.

. . . you force me to listen to Christmas music before December 20th.

. . . you refuse to have sex with me because you have a sprained ankle. I’m looking at YOU, Lawyerman. Man up and let’s do the sexytime. Just dangle that bitch off the edge of the bed. Problem solved.

. . . you URINATE ON MY FUCKING STOVE. What the hell, Berta? The internet wants to tell me my cat has a urinary tract infection. I just think she’s being a little bitch.

I’m KIDDING, y’all. I totes love my cat. I got her some canned cat food and a heating pad. Chill out. Happy Friday!

Dirty texts, body farms, and incest

Oh, hello there, blog!

I almost forgot you were here!

I was telling Andy the other day that I feel like I should be blogging more regularly. That I shouldn’t start being boring just because I have a boyfriend. And while I don’t want to blog only to have something up here and be able to say, “Well, I blogged. Now I can get back to reading TFLN my low-paying job,” if I stopped blogging now, I’d feel that it was a result of being boyfriended.

And I can’t be havin’ that.

I’m an independent woman, yo.

This is MY SHIT.

Anyway.

So after all that whining about Being My Own Person and Not Allowing My Relationship To Define My Blog, I’m going to talk to you about my boyfriend.

Swell.

So, this past week was the longest we’ve been away from each other. He had some continuing lawyer education crap in Buttfucky starting Tuesday, and I had a wedding to attend on Saturday. He was coming home Friday, and I was leaving that same day, before he got back home. So it was Sunday before we could see each other again.

In a new relationship? Where it’s all sex, all the time?

Six days is a Long.

Fucking.

Time.

So what did we do to pass the time?

We sent naked photos of ourselves to each other!

Awesome!

I admit, this was my first foray into amateur porno photography. No man before The Lawyer has ever received a dirty picture from me, except that one time I sent Murray a picture text of my boobs. So I felt a bit cheesy doing it, but we did have a lot of fun. It’s a good thing we’re both on Verizon, because holy hell the amount of texts we sent each other last week. Lawd have mercy.

I had some real gems from The Lawyer: Drunk In Buttfucky Edition. I would have saved them, but there wasn’t enough room on my phone. They were somewhere along the lines of “I cn haslryd stadn up rghhtnow” and “jesus peprmnt telphone ham sandwch.” These were still going strong into the weekend when I was in South Carolina at my cousin’s wedding.

So I spent about 40% of the reception going into the bathroom to meet his demands of “show me your boobs/ass/vagina.”

Class. I has it.

Some other lovely bits of information I picked up at the wedding?

One of my cousins works on the body farm at [Southern University], where he has the distinct pleasure of boiling the skin and meat off dead human bodies, then piecing back together their skeletons. Hello, dream job! JEALOUS!

And here’s the really sad/fucked up info.

The mother of the bride? AKA my dad’s sister? Dating. Her. Stepson.

Let me repeat that. Step brother of the bride? Is dating the bride’s mother.

If you STILL haven’t wrapped your head around that one—this means that my aunt is dating her ex-husband’s SON.

They even have the same FIRST NAME.

FUCKING. KILL. ME.

Someone pissed in my gene pool.

Then vomited and shat in it.

I hate the fact that I’m even admitting this. It makes my family sound so trashy. But hey. The things we admit for blog fodder.

And if THAT weren’t exciting ENOUGH . . . when I went to The Lawyer’s house upon my arrival back home, we immediately got down to business and were promptly walked in on by his mom, who is visiting town to watch his swearing-in.

FAIL.

TMI Thursday: It rubs the lotion on its skin

Does everybody know what time it is?

TOOL TIME!

No, damn it. Get out of my blog, Tim Allen. And put down the coke straw.

It’s . . . TMI Thursday!

Okay, let’s get right down to business.

So once I was dating this guy. At this time, we’d been dating for about a month and had yet to do the nasty. I really liked him and I hoped that inviting him to a party and getting him drunk enough would result in a little after-party sexytime.

I’m such a man sometimes.

Except when I cry at my desk. Like this morning.

But I digress.

ANYWAY. So we went to this party and proceeded to get sloppy, nasty drunk. After becoming sufficiently wasted, we stole some cookies from the snack table (this was a Grown Up Party with actual food in place of a drug buffet a la college parties).

What, your college parties didn’t have drug buffets?

Loser.

So my man friend and I left the party with our stolen cookies, went back to his house, and began sucking face.

It’s finally going to happen! I thought.

Oh yes. It did happen. I’d gotten him drunk enough to slip me the tubesteak.

However . . . apparently, it had been a while since he’d had sex, considering the fact that he lasted all of about, oh, three minutes.

Yeah. Lame.

So we started doing Other Stuff.

The details are fuzzy at this point considering we were both tanked, but I do remember this. At one point, he shot his swimmers all over my back.

And instead of going to get a towel? Like a NORMAL person would do?

He proceded to rub his semen into my back. Like lotion.

Vigorously.

My mouth was agape in horror. But I was too drunk (and too enamored with this dude) to say anything. I just waited until he was finished and we got back down to business.

Is this, like normal? Do other people do this? Because it sure as shit weirded me the fuck out.

So I guess I just had a nice cum lotion layer on my back all night. Awesome.

Maybe he was trying to give me a sensual semen massage?

(Doubtful.)

And what was even weirder? The next morning, when he requested morning head (which I graciously gave, because, again, enamored with the kid), he pulled my head out from under the covers when he was about to come . . .

and then he came all over himself . . .

and never cleaned it up. He put his clothes on and went about his day.

Maybe he had some kind of weird evaporating semen?

I don’t know. But I never quite figured it out.

My guess is, he was just gross as fuck.

I sure know how to pick winners!

The Four Horsemen of the Dating Apocalypse

I’ve had so many dating fiascos, it should be illegal. With numerous relationships gone awry, I have even contemplated giving up The Dating and joining a convent. Then I remember that the whole “religion” thing would get in the way.

Also, no more drunken mistakes sex.

I digress.

However, despite being unlucky in love, and at the risk of sounding arrogant, this does not mean I am not a desired woman. I’ve had several men pursue me recently, and it has reached levels of effing retardedness I can’t even track.

First of all, I have a sort of, Mini-Stalker, if you will.

Saying “if you will” makes me feel smart.

I say “mini” because he’s not to the level of saving my bubblegum wrappers and making a shrine to me out of strands of my hair. He’s only marginally creepy.

A student at the college at which I work, he habitually drops by my office to chat, and I habitually stare straight ahead at my laptop, typing away while giving “yes” or “no” answers to his queries, and hoping he will take the hint and go away.

Okay, that makes me sound like a turbo-bitch. But this guy just won’t get it. I’ve tried being nice, but that just fuels his desire to follow me around. While I can’t be straight up rude to him, because that’s just not something I am capable of doing to someone who hasn’t been rude to me first, I can’t lead him on. He seems a little slow in the head and honestly, he won’t get it unless I act like he’s not there.

If he sees me at a bar, which has happened a couple times, he practically surgically attaches himself to my hip and follows me around. Meh. Such is the stigma of being seven different kinds of awesome. What can you do?

Incidentally, on one of these bar nights, I managed to duck outside for a smoke (I’m trying to quit . . . yay?) and escape the little bugger for long enough to strike up a conversation with a (male) friend of Claire’s. Our paths cross sometimes but for some reason I have never really been as close to him as I am with some of his friends. I was talking to him and his bandmate about one of their upcoming gigs (these two are in a popular local band) and all of a sudden he was asking me when we were going to go on a date, and his bandmate was totally going along with it.

I wasn’t really sure how to react to the situation, so I just kind of laughed it off, but I thought, “Would it really be so bad to date him? He’s funny and cute, but I just don’t know . . .”

So I asked Claire what his deal was, and she admitted that he’d asked her before to hook us up, but she, too, just laughed it off. I think maybe that was his way of putting himself out there, asking me when we were going to go out, and effectively putting the ball in my court.

Whatevs. It is what it is.

My third pursuer, whom I will call The Lawyer because The Guy Who Has Already Passed The Bar In Another State But Had To Take It Again In Our State Because I Guess That’s How Lawyers Do It Even Though He’s Not Technically A Lawyer But He Will Find Out In May If He Passed The Bar Then I Guess He Will Be A Lawyer is a bit cumbersome. Sandra (again, of having a brother who shat on the porch because he got so drunk at her wedding reception fame) is trying to set us up because she works with him, and he seems to be a very nice, funny guy. He also lives on the water, which, OMGBONUS (am I a terrible person for possibly exploiting him for his waterfront property and boat access?) Sandra, her husband, and I went to his house Saturday night for us to “get to know each other” and I had some of the best ribs I have ever tasted. The man can cook.

He’s supposed to call me tomorrow and we’re going to go to trivia night at a local bar. I hope it’s with a group of people though, because 1) trivia’s always better with a group and 2) PRESSURE!!!!!!!! NO PRESSURE PLEASE! I always feel “forced” to like someone if I’m being “set up,” and well, I just don’t like feeling that way. I like to ease into things.

Except when I’m falling head over heels for someone who will inevitably hurt me.

But again, I digress.

And last but not least, I got a text message from Glen. Oh, how we love Glen. First, his crazy girlfriend called me a skank in a bar, then shortly afterward I received a Hea-VY text from him about how he wanted to be with me instead of her. So imagine my surprise when I received a text from him at NINE FREAKING THIRTY IN THE MORNING on Sunday with this gem of a pickup line:

I want to lick u from head to toe

Lord, have mercy.

When I told Claire about this unfortunate beginning to my Sunday, she painted me a hilarious mental picture.

Glen’s girlfriend, Amy, lives in a semi-heavily trafficked part of town. So as Claire was driving by Amy’s apartment the other day, she saw Amy standing on the porch, arms flailing about and screaming at Glen, who was playing with a golf club in the yard, paying her abso-fucking-lutely NO attention.

God, sometimes I love this town.

So this leads me to believe that Glen is having “girl trouble” and wants to rekindle an old flame in a weak moment.

NOT MY PROBLEM.

I realize this post is getting extremely lengthy, and for that, I apologize. But stay tuned for some vom-worthy Murray news in the upcoming week.

On insults, sperm, and booze

So, I received a negative comment on my last post, and I’m going to try not to go into a long rant about it, but I felt I should address what was said.

I’ve only read the comment once, and I read it hastily because my friends were on the way over to my house, so I don’t remember what all exactly was said in the comment. I know the words “slutty” and “immature” were used, and I am neither of those things. Yes, I have issues. I have problems I need to work on. I’m human for fuck’s sake. I can be a red hot mess sometimes. I acknowledge this.

Something I have a problem with is that I think too much. If I didn’t analyze, re-analyze, and over-analyze every situation, I probably wouldn’t have a blog. And if I did, it would probably read something like this: “I went to work today! I have a cat! I like Diet Coke! I am having a good hair day! Taco!”

And no one wants to read that.

I don’t want to write that, either.

So I’m going through a rough patch right now, and I’ve had a few weak moments. BEE. EFF. DEE.

That’s all I’m going to say about that. Moving right along . . .

I previously mentioned that I joined a dating site. I realize that I’m moving too quickly back into dangerous territory. But there’s a reason I’ve taken this step.

My mother.

Now, don’t go hating on my mom because of what I’m about to write. My mom is, in my mind, the greatest person to walk the planet and as far as I’m concerned she could have three heads and  fart out her eyeballs and I’d still think she was the best thing ever.

But my mom? Has baby fever.

Bad.

I’ve dubbed it Sperm Watch ‘09.

I suppose it all started a few weeks ago when I told her I went to a psychic and was told I would have two children—both girls.

(Also filed under Topics I Am Not Discussing: The validity of psychics and tarot card readings)

My mother is the youngest of nine. She is the only one of her siblings who is not already a grandmother (a couple of them are GREAT grandmothers—holy shit!!!!). Granted, she is the youngest, and she only had one child (that’s me!), so of course her chances of being a grandmother by now are slimmer than those of her older sisters and brother. But that still doesn’t stop her from trying to get me a husband RIGHT THIS SECOND so I can start becoming a baby factory and squeeze out some little tax deductions already.

Now, I’m not giving her false hopes. I told her when I DO get married and have kids, she’s not getting any more than two grandchildren. She wants three, but tough shit.

I also told her I was apprehensive about getting into a serious relationship. But I do want it to look like I’m trying so she’ll get off my back about it a little bit.

It’s really bad. Andy thought I was exaggerating until he saw my mom’s neurosis in action.

I shit you not. I was out at a restaurant with my parents this weekend, and when I came back from the bathroom my mom asked me, “Did you meet anyone on the way to the bathroom?”

“Yes, mother. I’m engaged.”

WTF?

As far as the dating site goes, I’ve met three guys. The first one to contact me who seemed decent enough is a guy who is 6′5″ and a little on the larger side. He’s nice, but I’m just feeling sort of meh about the whole thing. He doesn’t excite me. I haven’t e-mailed him back in a few days.

The second guy is an Athletic Trainer and he is HOT. He’s new to the area and wants to meet people. He’s supposed to be getting in touch with me about doing something this week, but I haven’t heard from him yet. Whatevs.

The third guy is Asian, and is also really cute. I think he and I have the most in common, but he lives the farthest away. We exchanged numbers and mentioned going to a sushi restaurant, but again, whatevs. I just wanna have fun.

And to end this post I am pleased to report that I am cutting back on the booze and cigarettes. I’m trying to concentrate on my health and happiness, and hopefully after that everything will fall into place as it should.

Trying isn’t always enough

Allright people, let’s get this over with.

So remember how BrownEyes wanted to get back together with me?

Well, he called me on Friday and asked if I wanted to come over and see a movie. I said yes. There are various reasons for this. Let me show you dem.

1. I’m a fucking idiot.
2. I’m a masochist.
3. I hoped at the very least I could get some sex out of it.
4. Blog fodder!
5. I wanted to see if he’d changed for the better. (HILARIOUS, right?)
6. I’m a fucking idiot.

Probably not the best reasons, but reasons nonetheless.

I told him I’d call him when I got out of the shower. When I called, instead of  him being at home (as he said he’d be), he’d walked to a nearby bar and was having a drink. He invited me to join him. I was not looking my best as I’d slicked my hair back into a bun and was definitely not dressed for a night on the town. But I decided to join him. For ONE drink.

One drink? Always turns into 5 or 6 or 42 drinks with BE. Stupid, stupid LRC.

He was incredibly inattentive to me the whole night, trying to be his usual center-of-attention self. I’m sure the look on my face said it all. To everyone ELSE, that is. Everyone with a fucking CLUE.

(Hint: BE does not belong to this elite club of Those Who Get It.)

Every time he’d ask me to go outside and smoke with him, he’d open the door for me and motion with his hand for me to go ahead. I would walk through, and EVERY. SINGLE. TIME he did this? He would stop and talk to someone else. Leaving me standing there by myself like a jackass.

EVERY.

SINGLE.

TIME.

THAT got annoying really fast. When I insisted that he go first, he’d say, “no you go ahead!” and then he would do the SAME. EXACT. THING.

Do you know how FRUSTRATING that was? It got old reeeeeally fast.

Aaaand the straw that broke the camel’s back? As if I weren’t turned off enough as it were?

While I was talking to one of his female friends (while he was inevitably making his rounds around the bar), she told me that he’d been telling people that HE was the one who broke it off with ME.

[record scratch]

Shut. The. Front. Door.

HELLLLLLLLLLLL NAW.

I was furious. So I did what any normal person would do. I made him buy me Huddle House at 2am and when he fell asleep on his recliner I dipped the fuck out of there and never looked back.

Speaking of BE, a few minutes ago I got a text from one of his friends, who, last time I saw him, I WAS with BE. But this had to be at least five or six months ago.

not going to [name of bar] tonight is ya?

What’s going on at [name of bar]?

well it’s just poker night but thought maybe you and [BE] might wanna go up there for a little while

Forehead? Meet desk.

I don’t date [BE].

oh for some reason i thought yall were. well if you wanna go, no [BE] that’s even betta

Is this my life? Seriously?

Did I just get a random ass text from BE’s friend asking if I wanted to bring BE and join him at the bar? And then when I said I wasn’t dating BE, did I also get HIT ON by BE’s friend?

Is the universe trying to give me the middle finger? Is it because I arranged all the stickers on the Rubik’s cube when I was little and tried to pass myself off as a genius? I APOLOGIZED FOR THAT A FEW YEARS AGO. LET IT GO, UNIVERSE.

And to end on a more somber note, I don’t see myself getting over New York anytime soon. I had (still have) it bad for that boy. New developments have been brought to light about the situation and I feel torn. Every day when I get home, and every morning when I wake up, I feel like I’m being punched in the face and given a wedgie simultaneously. A wedgie of sorrow.

I had to make the melodrama humorous somehow.

ARGH

Folks, I honestly don’t think I like the way my blog is becoming only about my love life lately (oh, who am I kidding, it’s been like that since I started Long Red Cape last year). I’d love to write about things unrelated to relationships and heartbreak, but in order for that to happen? Men and their penises need to leave me the fuck alone.

Scenario.

I’ve mentioned before that I work at a college. Our basketball team recently won the state tournament (WOOT!), and now they’re in the national tournament. It’s kinda a big deal around town because we’ve never gotten this far before. A group of co-workers, myself included, arranged to go to a local bar last night and listen to the game over the radio.

BrownEyes was there.

I could see him eyeing me in my peripheral vision. I ignored his glaring as long as I could, greeting my co-workers and a few other people I know. As I was chatting up a friend (who had just finished asking me if I was still dating New York, ughsauce), I waved to BE and his friend. They waved back, smiling. I went and sat back down with my co-workers.

I could tell BE wanted to talk to me by the look on his face. So, in an effort to not be Ms. Bitchface Turdpants, I stopped by his table on the way to the restroom. He, his friend, and I ended up talking for a few minutes about our respective St. Patty’s Days and what we’d been up to lately.

It was at this point that BE asked me to go outside and smoke with him. I said sure.

BIG MISTAKE, LRC.

So, basically, BE wants to get back together with me. He explained how he’d had so much fun with me when we were together (this is true, minus the asshattery) and he hasn’t been having much fun lately. He thought it was nonsense that we quit talking. I told him, “Well, you acted like you didn’t give a shit!” He told me I “think too much.”

ARE YOU HEARING THIS PEOPLE?

ONE DAY after chucking NY’s shit back to him and, yes, lots of crying, BE explains to me that he wants to get back together.

FUCK. ME.

And this morning? At 7:30 a.m.? I got a “Gnite”* text from Guess Who????????

Again.

FUCK. ME.

Is he DENSE?

Does he NOT understand that the act of my putting his shit in his mailbox and texting him “You’ve got mail” is my way of saying “FUCK OFF WITH YOUR FLAKINESS, YOU CUNT WAFFLE”?

I should seriously fucking move to Egypt.

*This is NY’s way of being “funny” or “cute” by sending me a “Gnite” text BEFORE 8AM.

I just don’t have words. (OK, I actually have 981 words, but who’s counting?)

Things just go from bad to worse, don’t they?

Sigh.

I kinda went on a roller coaster of emotions on V Day. I woke up feeling really happy and positive, because I just felt like I needed to be, so I forced it upon myself. I decided to go shopping because I hadn’t bought myself anything in a while and I needed some new clothes.

I guess I wasn’t feeling it because I didn’t buy a single. damned. thing.

That is just wrong.

So I got some cookies and took them over to Andy’s and hung out with him for a while. I was feeling down at this point about my failed shopping attempt and no contact yet from New York. So I went from really happy to really blah and kinda sad. But I tried not to let it get to me too badly. You’re only as happy as you allow yourself to be, or some bullshit like that.

When I got home, I found a cute postcard from New York in my mailbox. It was very him. Not mushy-gushy, but he made a cute pun with my last name and it did arrive on the right date, so props for that. I also got a “happy valentines” text, which is a vast departure from the funny stuff he usually sends me. I called him later and we talked for about 30 minutes, and that was that.

After talking to him and feeling better in general about the situation, my mood lifted. I sang to my dogs and played my karaoke game. Don’t judge. I was on fire with that shit. I ended up having a really good time by my damned self. Then Sandra texted me to come up to the bar.

I decided, why the hell not.

And, uh, BrownEyes was there.

Shit.

Well, I knew I was going to have to see him eventually. So I tried to make it as painless as possible.

“Hey, how have you been?”
“Good, and you?”
“Good.”
(hug)
“It’s good to see you.”
“You too.”

And that was that. Like pulling off a band-aid. Now that it’s over with, I feel better.

New York got back home on Monday night. Yay, right? Enh. We’ll see. He was ultra tired from his trip so he went straight home to bed, which I get. I don’t blame him for that at all.

But yesterday? I had the day from hell. Boss lady was on a rampage and was really bitchy to me and my co-worker. I ended up having to work a bit late, and you know the only thing on my mind was getting out of there to see New York, (who earlier had gone by my house to pick up the stack of mail I’d obediently retrieved from his mailbox, like a fucking Labrador).

He told me to call him when I got off work, so I did. I told him about my crappy day at work, and he listened until I was done. He got distracted trying to find a picture on his computer, so he told me to call him when I got home.

I was really stressed out from my effed up day at work, and at that moment, heaven to me would have been having dinner and wine with NY, catching up on things, and not having to worry about work, or anything else for that matter. At least for the night.

So I gave him some time, and I called back. No answer. Whatever. He called back like an hour later. He’d been taking a nap. Fine.

NY: [Friend] wanted me to go with him to the movies. It starts in ten minutes.
LRC: Are you gonna go?
NY: Yeah.
LRC: Cool.
NY: I mean, I think I’m gonna go.
LRC: Huh?
NY: I don’t know. I’m hungry.
LRC: So you either want food or a movie?
NY: Yeah.
LRC: And you want someone to make the decision for you?
NY: Ha. Yeah.
LRC: Well, I’m hungry . . .
(I don’t remember the details of the conversation at this point. I was very confused indeed. NY had just woken up from a nap and was therefore a bit disoriented. Somehow we got back on the topic of going to the movie.)
NY: I don’t think I’m gonna go to the movie. I only have two dollars in my wallet.
LRC: Yeah, I have zero dollars in my wallet.
NY: Well, let me text [Friend] and tell him I’m not going to the movie. I’ll call you later.

UGH. I should have just told him, “TAKE ME OUT TO DINNER, YOU HALF WIT,” but I don’t think I should have had to do that. It’s kinda rude to like, demand that someone take you out to eat. Highly annoyed at this point. Giving up on dinner plans, I munched some Ruffles potato chips and scowled.

I finally heard back from him at 9pm.

“Fnd enuf coin 4 a sandwich!”

Are. You. Fucking. Serious?

I texted him back, “You ain’t eat yet?” <— please ignore my horrible grammar here. This is my attempt at making fun of the rednecks I converse with on a daily basis. Yes, people talk like that here. It’s frightening.

He texted back: “Jst”

What the fuck does that even mean?

He is just not even trying at this point.

LRC: huh
NY: huh?

I was beyond pissed. He obviously wanted me to do all the work here, and it’s apparent that I’m not a priority in his life. I decided to go to bed after that (this was around 9:45).

He called me at about 10:10, but I was in the bed and didn’t hear the phone ring.

I can’t believe this shit.

We haven’t seen each other for three weeks and he’s not knocking down my door to see me? He wants his mail and a sandwich.

I hope he went to bed hungry.

Good Lord, make it stop

Well, it’s “Facebook Official.”

Murray is now in a relationship.

Murray, the guy I dated for three years, bought a house with, and thought I was going to marry.

Before the breakup last May, he’d grown complacent, and felt “safe.” We weren’t sleeping together anymore and he spent all his time outside, working in the yard. I knew he wasn’t the one for me when I enjoyed my alone time immensely more than the time we spent together.

But it still hurts.

Not only because, well, he’s my Murray. Or he was. And there will always be a part of me that misses him like crazy.

Also? It’s just a big “fuck you” from the dating gods that Murray, who has NO GAME whatsoever, has managed to land himself a girlfriend, and I can’t even get a guy to admit we are more than friends.

When I woke up Sunday morning after a Super Swell Saturday Night of crying myself to sleep because all of my friends were ignoring me and here I was crawling into bed at 9:00 p.m. because I’d rather sleep than be lonely (melodrama. I has it), I went on a routine E-Mail/Google Reader/Facebook check and was bitch slapped with the news that Murray had finally moved on.

And I had to find out via that God Damned Social Networking Site Which Shall Not Be Named From This Point Forward.

What makes it worse is that I know the girl. We were very good friends growing up. BLARGH.

And to top it off, she posted pictures of them all over her profile, looking all happy and shit. And in those pictures, posing with the happy couple, were some of my best friends.

I feel replaced.

I had already felt like people took sides after the breakup with Murray (which is silly, but it sorta does feel that way), and most of them sided with Murray (even though our breakup was pretty drama-free and neither of us had wronged the other). I just feel like I have no one left. Claire, Andy, and my parents are pretty much the only real friends I have that actually want to hang out with me. And New York, of course, but he’s not here right now.

Aaaaaand he had to torture me on Sunday with a text that said, “[Name of eating establishment where LRC and NY frequently eat lunch on Sundays]?” as he does almost every Sunday (when he’s actually here, that is). It was his idea of a cute joke, because DUH, we can’t go eat there but haha isn’t it funny that I’m suggesting it? but given my emotional state it was just a reminder that no, he isn’t here, and no, we can’t go to lunch together. Or see each other. Or touch each other. Or kiss each other. At all.

Aaaaaand he may not be back for Valentine’s Day, either. He has a follow-up appointment with his doctor on Thursday. He hasn’t mentioned when he’s planning on coming back.

Aaaaaand what is the effing deal with all the BrownEyes sex dreams I’ve been having lately? I DO NOT WANT TO HAVE SEX WITH BROWNEYES. I don’t. What’s funny about them, though? In the dreams, we are doing more bickering than sexing. That is a pretty close representation of how things were when we were dating.

Aaaaaand I have a bag of Murray’s things that I’ve been meaning to give back to him for the past couple weeks that’s just rolling around in the back of my car, and if I give the stuff to him NOW, even though it’s in my way, I’ll look like a resentful bitch.

Things can only get better, right?

Because this shit has just got to stop. Like right now.

This girl can’t catch a break

Friday evening when I got home from work, I did a little tidying up and sat down at my computer to catch up on all the blogs I didn’t get a chance to read while I was, you know, working (sit in front of a computer for eight hours, come straight home and sit in front of a computer some more. My life is awesome).

As I was clicking away, all of a sudden I heard a noise. Kinda like “eee! eee! eee! eee!”

I knew immediately what it was.

I didn’t want to face the creepy little thing in fear of it flying at my head (I’m not afraid of being hurt by a bat, I’m just terrified of it touching me. NASTY), but I knew I had to remedy the situation sooner rather than later.

I tiptoed into the kitchen, where the sound was coming from, trying not to make any sudden movements. It was sitting on the rug, next to my dog.

GROSS. Those things are so vile.

So I went back into my computer room and did the first thing I always do when faced with an icky rodent situation.

I called my Dad. Duh.

“Dad, uh, there’s a bat in my kitchen. What do I do?”
“Open the door and get a broom to swat it out.”
“Ew, I don’t wanna do that. What if it flies at my head? OH SHIT. AHHHHH! AHH! AHHHH! AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

It was at that VERY MOMENT that the bat decided to fly into my computer room, TOWARD MY HEAD, screaming “EEE! EEE! EEE!”  in circles the whole mother effing time.

So I did what any sane person would do. I ran, phone in hand, still screaming at the top of my lungs while my poor Dad listened to my embarrassing ordeal. Where did I run to? Anywhere that bat was NOT flying toward.

When I thought I was safe, I put the phone back to my ear, apologized profusely for all the screaming, and said “I’ll call you back, Dad.”

(He told me later that he’d let my mom listen in on my embarrassing ordeal.)

So I did what he said. I opened the door and grabbed a broom. Then I went to look for the little beast.

I found it in my living room, which is on the other side of the house, so I had to swat it across the room, through my kitchen, and once we got to the laundry room (ALMOST THERE!), he decided to crawl the rest of the way behind my cats’ litter box.

It took some maneuvering, but I coaxed him out from behind the litter box, made sure his disgusting little head was facing toward the door, and pushed him into flight.

DIRECTLY OUT THE DOOR.

Oh, but that would be too easy, right?

As soon as he was crossing the threshold, my kitty Pepper SWATTED HIM BACK DOWN, and he flew past me, back into the laundry room.

Fuck.

Thanks a lot, Pepper.

So I repeated what I’d done before, making sure Pepper was out of the way in the process (not an easy task, as she was WAY TOO INTERESTED in this bat situation and wanted to have him as her plaything).

SUCCESS. He flew out the door.

Directly into my dog’s mouth.

I closed the door. I wasn’t interested in what transpired after that. I just wanted to make sure the damned thing didn’t get back inside.

NASTY NASTY NASTY.