Baby, I love you. But if you do that one more goddamn time, I’m going to scratch you with my toenails.

The other day, The Lawyer and I were watching Jersey Girl.

(What? Jersey Girl was a GOOD MOVIE. Why did everyone hate on that movie so hard? On that note, why does everyone hate on Ben Affleck so hard? HE CO-WROTE GOOD WILL HUNTING, DAMN IT. AND KEVIN SMITH LIKES HIM, SO YOU SHOULD, TOO.)

Sorry, I’ll stop yelling now.

Anyhooter, we were watching the part where B. Aff’s character, Ollie, and his fatass pregnant wife Gertrude (played by J.Lo) are getting ready for an important something-or-other for Ollie’s job. Ollie is trying to get the two of them out the door in a timely manner and Gertie is just not having that shit. No ma’am. She’s pregnant. She’s enormous. She can’t poop. She has a motherfucking PERSON practicing kickboxing in her uterus. She wants. To. Cry. And do anything but leave the house, but she has to support her husband.

Ollie consoles her, while gently reminding her that they need to go. Like, now. Gertie, through tears, complies and says, “Just one more minute,” and runs to the bathroom to fix her makeup.

It’s at this moment that Ollie does that thing that, apparently, all men do behind their girlfriends’/wives’/hos’/boyfriends’/trannys’ backs: the “boyfriend cringe,” as Lawyerman called it. They do some kind of thing with their clenched fists in the air while looking extraordinarily annoyed. The kind of thing one reserves for times of great disdain. Sadly, I can’t illustrate this because, apparently, Googling “Jersey Girl movie boyfriend cringe gif” does not yield desirable results for this blog post.

Who knew?

But you know what I’m talking about, anyway.

Since The Lawyer mentioned it, I asked.

“Do you do that behind my back often?”

“Define . . . often . . .”

I thought about all the times in which I could have annoyed The Lawyer to the point of gesturing violently and wanting to silently throttle me as I slept.

“Once a week?”

“Well, if once a week is often, then yeah. Pretty often.”

-Record scratch-

“Wait, WHAT?”

I couldn’t imagine that I could ever be that annoying. Surely, I’m not! I thought. He annoys me way, way more than I annoy him! He’s perpetually annoying!!! HOW DARE HE!!!!

“What do I do that’s so annoying?” I implored.

“Well, I can’t really think of anything in particular right now.”

WRONG ANSWER.

Dudes. Don’t tell us we annoy you often and then not be able to back it up with examples. That’s just bad form.

Finally, after much prodding from yours truly, he came up with ONE thing he could think of that annoyed him on the reg.

You know those salt and pepper grinders you buy from the grocery sto’ . . . the ones that have lids on them . . . kinda like this?

The Lawyer and I use these to season our food. When we cook dinner at home, I usually serve myself first because 1) WOMEN AND CHILDREN FIRST, BITCHES, AND I’M BOTH and 2) I’m always hawngriest because I heart food and NOMNOMNOM and 3) he is extremely slow in putting his food on the damned plate already.

So what annoys Lawyerman about LRC?

It annoys him that I leave the lids off the salt and pepper grinders.

I LEAVE.

THE LIDS OFF.

FOR HIM.

SO HE CAN USE THEM.

ON HIS FOOD.

WITHOUT BEING BOTHERED TO TAKE THE CAP OFF AGAIN.

I can’t think of a more ridiculous thing to be annoyed by.

And now, you ask, what annoys ME about The Lawyer?

He corrects me. On everything. Even when he’s wrong.

Except I do the cringe/arms flailing/IMMA MURDER YO ASS face right in front of him, instead of behind his back.

Because I want him to be prepared for the middle-of-the-night throttling.

So tell me, bloglings (no, really, tell me. I’m curious). What is it that your current or former significant other does/did that makes/made you go ABSOLUTELY INSANE?

What do/did you do to a current/former significant other that causes/caused grave annoyance?

Another melodramatic one from yours truly. Yay.

Oh, dearies.

I feel the need.

The need . . . to blog.

I feel like I’ve been keeping you lovely freaders so out of the loop. And while I don’t blog just so others read it? I do feel a compulsion to blog, even though I don’t know exactly how to vom it all out into this little WordPress box.

When I write it down? It sticks. It’s more . . . real.

Dig?

I’ve started several drafts and haven’t finished any of them. This is highly unlike me, as I hate to let drafts just hang out there without being finished by at least the end of the day.

Have I wanted to blog about my trip to the quickie store to buy porn for Dating Without Pants (now defunct blog, tear) since he won my contest (even though I still haven’t sent his prize and I have an anal-centric porn DVD just chilling on my computer desk for anyone to find if they want to)?

Of course I have.

Have I wanted to blog about the fact that New York called me and asked me to come over to his house to pick up something, and when I went over there, he looked as if he hadn’t bathed in six days and his house was a complete wreck? And the fact that The Lawyer called when I was at NY’s house? And that I answered the call and talked to him while NY was standing right across the room from me? And that it was a big YES I AM OVER YOU and he hasn’t bothered me since?

You KNOW I have.

But I’ve been spending so much time with Lawyerman that I have barely any time to blog at home. And my brain has been unplugged at work recently because we’re between quarters.

And I’ve had zero alone time to sort out all my thoughts and emotions.

I’m going to need some “me” time away from The Lawyer, and I hope he doesn’t think I’m giving him the kiss-off. But lately? Since we’re around each other so much? I’ve begun to get weird feelings. About stuff. And I’m afraid if we never leave each other’s side? The Crazy is going to rear its ugly head far sooner than I’d anticipated.

I really, really want to talk about what’s going on, but I just don’t know what to say. No, The Lawyer hasn’t done anything wrong. It’s a difficult situation to explain and I’ve already had difficulty explaining it to my, you know, TANGIBLE friends.

I just feel so helpless in my situation and I don’t know what’s going to have to happen for the situation to become resolved. It’s a shitty feeling . . . sorta like purgatory. I can’t talk about how I feel without it becoming a HUGE, serious issue, yet I can’t just let it go. I’m not ready to break up over something stupid that I’ve probably fabricated inside my own mind. But I’m not ready to talk about it, either.

I don’t want my freaders getting off The Lawyer’s bandwagon. Like I said, he hasn’t done anything. It’s all right here bouncing around inside my brain.

At least . . .

I certainly hope it is.

Because I certainly can’t handle another heartbreak right now.

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!

Look, I know I’m awesome. But please, leave me the eff alone.

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.

Past mistakes and future letdowns

Love, or rather, the pursuit of love, is a very complicated thing.

Wow, did I actually start an entry without sarcasm or any mention of the word “vagina”?

I must be maturing.

How boring.

Over the past few weeks I’ve been doing some major thinking about what I want out of life and love. In the past eleven years of my life, I’ve gone through failed relationship after failed relationship and I’ve determined that I have a “type” of man that I tend to gravitate toward.

I go after sexy musicians who don’t appreciate me.

I’ve dated five of them, to be exact.

1. New York.
2. BrownEyes.
3. Murray.
4. Tom (the one with THE BOIL!).
5. And my high school boyfriend.

I don’t know about you, but to me, that’s effing SCARY.

It seems that by now I would have tried to break that pattern, huh?

I know these men are wrong for me. I know they’re going to eventually break my heart. But I keep. going. back.

It’s exhausting.

So New and Improved, Been Down That Road and Ain’t Goin’ Back LRC™ knows better. She deserves a man who treats her like the Super Swell Lady that she indeed is. She deserves a man who will appreciate the fact that sappy country songs and movies about talking animals make her cry. She deserves a man who will offer her the last cigarette. She deserves a man who thinks it’s cute when she burps (which is A LOT) and isn’t annoyed by the fact that she pees approximately thirty-seven times per day. She deserves a man who appreciates her and gives a shit about her well-being.

And at the present moment, she has that.

On paper, The Lawyer is top drawer (I’m totally going to start saying “top drawer” from now on. It makes me sound less “skanky” and more “distinguished”). He has a law degree. He’s gainfully employed (and wears a tie to work). He lives on waterfront property.

He also seems to have all the other elements going for him. He loves to cook. He has a great sense of humor. He’s intelligent. He’s nice looking with pretty feet and a nice ass. He is clean cut and dresses well. He loves doing things for me, and he treats me with utmost respect. He’s a good kisser. He even politely told a creep to shove off when he was bothering me at a bar.

My friends like him, and so do my parents (YES HE HAS MET MY PARENTS ALREADY OMG AND HE WASN’T EVEN FREAKED OUT ABOUT IT I WAS LIKE “YOU DON’T HAVE TO” AND HE WAS LIKE “I WANT TO” AHHHH).We enjoy spending time together. That’s not an issue at all.

Then why aren’t I dying to get between his sheets?

DAMN YOU, LRC, AND YOUR MEANBOY-LOVING VAGINA.

Le sigh.

I’m going to give him a chance—I’m not writing him off yet. There is definitely some promise there. I’ve got to break my sexy musician habit and go after a proper guy. I’m just hoping the OMG I MUST JUMP YOUR BONES NOW sensation comes soon. Because this is a quality guy I could be letting go just because he’s not sexy in the exact way that all those assholes that came before him were.

If not . . .

Am I doomed for a life of being attracted to the wrong men?

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.

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.

The cupcakes probably would have been too dry anyway

I’m trying to stay positive through all this crap I’m going through right now. Really, I am. I even wrote a post called “Today was a good day,” with a bulleted list of why that particular day (Wednesday) was so great.

And WordPress promptly ate it.

EFF YOU, WORDPRESS.

Sigh.

I’m kinda glad my post got eated, though. Because a few hours after I wrote it (about the random comment from a stranger that made my day, the fact that I was becoming okay with Murray’s new relationship status, and the fact that I’d decided to make cupcakes for New York for Valentine’s Day so that way if he didn’t actually get me anything for VD, it wouldn’t be as awkward as if I had actually gone out and bought him something), I had a nice little conversation with NY that pretty much negated my wonderful mood.

Basically, he’s not going to be home for Valentine’s Day.

Hear that sound? That’s the sound of me banging my head against the wall. Repeatedly.

Why can’t I just find a guy who makes a fucking effort? I am worth more than this bullshit. I know Valentine’s Day is a stupid holiday that doesn’t matter, but I am a girl, and he would have to be either dumb or apathetic to ignore the fact that his not being home for Valentine’s Day (when he very well could be) = not good.

Hint: he’s definitely not dumb.

Just, shit.

So he won’t be getting any cupcakes from me. Obviously. Or anything else for that matter.

He hasn’t mentioned That Holiday at ALL. For someone who loves cheesy holiday crap, this is unlike him.

The only thing that would make this acceptable to me would be him showing up on my doorstep tomorrow to surprise me. Anything short of that just isn’t going to cut it.

Apparently I was wrong in thinking that we were more than just friends. We do boyfriend and girlfriend stuff together. Why would this be any exception?

If he sends me some lame cryptic text on VD and that’s all I get? I am going to LOSE. MY. SHIT.

I need to talk to him. Not on the phone. DEFINITELY not via text or e-mail. I need to speak to him face to face and find out exactly what the hell this is that we’re doing. His not being here is really wearing me down. It’s like, we’re “together,” but we’re not. I feel like I’m just wasting time.

His arrival is in the homestretch, but he still hasn’t given me an exact day. Until then I’m just going to distract myself with whatever friends I can round up and try not to think about what the eff is going on with my “love life.” I have to pull myself out of this funk. My unhappiness right now can only be fixed by yours truly. And I’ve got to try.

I have GOT. To. Try.

Irritation

I’ll spare you any poeticism or whimsy I may have otherwise included in this post and just get right down to business.

I’m irritated.

With the New York situation.

I’m irritated that he’s not here.

That he was gone for a week, back for two days, and now gone for two weeks again. I’m irritated that the bulk of our contact with each other has consisted of random picture messages with little to no meaning. That he hasn’t been calling back when he said he would. That the frequency of his calls and texts is dwindling as the days pass.

That he could already be back but he’s chosen to wait a bit longer. That he’s apparently not as anxious to see me as I am to see him.

I’m irritated that I’m stuck here in Small Town USA hanging out with my cats and watching American Idol because all my other friends are too busy while he is in NYC with all his friends and plenty of shit to do.

I’m irritated that it seems I’ve been relegated to a secretary of sorts—checking his mail, watering his plants, shipping a package to him, and apparently serving as an Allergist Referral Service.

But you know what I am most irritated about? I’m irritated that I have no fucking clue how to deal with it.

He hasn’t wronged me or intentionally hurt my feelings. He’s really done nothing wrong. These things I’m doing for him? Are totally voluntary (except the Allergist Referral one—no, NY, I don’t know any good fucking allergists in this area, and you know damned well how to use Google). I’m being a good friend. I would expect nothing less from him if the tables were turned.

Then why do I feel like such a fucking pushover?

I love doing things for people. I’ve established this. Nothing breaks my heart more than disappointing someone. And if I needed help with something, I’m quite certain he’d have no problem offering it to me. I just haven’t asked him for help with anything.

I’m kinda curious to see how he’d react if I did ask for help with something. Now, don’t get me wrong. I hate games. But I just want to be sure I’m right about him—that he does want to do right by me and isn’t just using me for whatever mundane tasks he needs completed while he’s away.

Any ideas on something I should ask him to bring back for me, New Yorkers? Something unique to NYC? If he goes out of his way to get something for me that I have requested, then my doubts will be squashed. I figure it’s worth a shot.

But, I’m still fucking irritated.

No wonder I make men run screaming in the other direction

I feel like my life is repeating itself. Like I’m walking around in some fucked up circle of Single Womanhood. It’s like effing Groundhog Day!

(And yes, I know today is Groundhog Day. This only intensifies my point.)

Meet a new guy.

Like him  a little.

Make out with him.

Like him a LOT.

(Those last two happen in rapid succession.)

Begin having doubts.

(This is where The Crazy enters.)

Cry.

Go right back to extreme like when guy does something incredibly sweet.

Float on air for a few weeks.

Start having doubts again.

Fabricate an elaborate scenario in which guy decides to leave and begin needlessly resenting the guy in preparation, so that if he DOES leave, damage to the heart will be minimal.

Yep, that’s me. Preparing for my heart to get curb stomped before they even get the opportunity to love me.

Okay, that last sentence sounded really morose. It’s not that bad. I just wish there were some way to train my mind not to play tricks on me. I did this with BE and now I’m doing it again with NY. It’s like I just know he’s going to hurt me, even though he’s done nothing in the past to indicate that he would. I know that getting hurt at some point is inevitable in every relationship, but I’m not talking about the Oh God He Hesitated Just A Smidge Too Long When I Asked If These Jeans Made My Ass Look Like A Double Wide Trailer Barreling Down The Highway hurt. I’m talking about the I’m About To Up And Leave Your Ass You Worthless Pile Of Woman Who Is Not Even Worth My Time hurt.

I know I’m worth a man’s time.

I cook. I praise. I give BJs.

I’m a great girlfriend. I know this.

But do they know it?

I feel like I put so much time and energy into showing a guy all that I have to offer, that it’s just taken for granted. I don’t even know if it’s my fault or their fault, or if I’m just completely making it up. This dating shiz just has me so confused that there are days I just want to throw my hands in the air, scream “ENOUGH ALREADY!” and bang my head on the desk, never to pick up the “habit” again.

But no, I keep pressing on.

(Sometimes I wish I weren’t so obsessed with the peen. It would save a lot of stress and worry.)

I feel like I’ve got this constant Push and Pull thing going with the men I date. I won’t allow myself to be vulnerable enough to be beaten down, but then I wonder why things aren’t happening for me.

I’m not allowing them to.

(For the record, things are fine with NY. Nothing has changed except for the fact that I have turned into Crazypants McGee. He’s still up in the Big Apple. I’m anticipating his arrival back home this weekend, but he hasn’t nailed anything down for certain yet. He’s got unfinished biz to take care of [that makes him sound a lot more diabolical than he really is] in NYC and he needs to get as much of it done as he can while he’s still there.)

Having said that, I’m keeping my options open. I’m not dating other guys, nor do I want to. But I’m not going to throw all my eggs on one basket and risk breaking all of them just yet.

Blargh. I don’t even know if I’ve really said what I needed to say here. I don’t think I’ll ever be satisfied with the  picture I paint of my life on this blog. There’s just so much going on in Noggin de la LRC that I couldn’t possibly begin to show you what The Crazy is a-brewin’ up there.

But damn it, I’m gonna try.

And you’ll probably lose some sanity right there with me.

For that, I apologize.

But damn it feels good to have Partners In Crazy.