The kind of woman I am

(Blatantly stolen inspired by this post by Chelsea)

Photo by my Ma

I am the type of woman who: does not like turtlenecks because she feels like she’s being choked when she wears them, who thinks today’s bowel movement (or lack thereof) is a perfectly acceptable topic to discuss with her boyfriend, and who appreciates a good bourbon on the rocks.

I’m the woman who works well under pressure at work but not in relationships. The woman who buys peaches in the hopes of becoming healthier but eats the potato chips instead. The woman who will always come to your party if you invite her.

I’m the woman who can’t listen to an entire song, let alone album, without skipping to the next track. The woman who likes the gooiest and brownest of the boiled peanuts and always chooses a flat hot wing over a drumstick. I’m the woman who will get angry if you try to teach her because she wants to learn it herself.

I’m the woman who doesn’t understand those couples that have been together forever but have never farted in front of each other. The woman who thinks people in general just need to lighten the fuck up already. The woman who has to write everything down because SHE WILL FORGET.

I’m the woman who slathers her sandwich with far too much mayonnaise but won’t eat a french fry if it has ever made contact with ketchup, and will pick a burnt hot dog over a steak on most days. The woman who still jams out to California Love (do not judge me that is a BAD ASS SONG). The woman who forgets to pay her Target bill but will always remember your birthday.

I’m the woman who bawls at movies like Charlotte’s Web but remains dry-eyed at funerals. I’m the woman who prefers Marshall to Ted, in spite of the fact that especially because he’s goofier. I’m the woman who refuses to wear pajamas.

I’m the woman who gets annoyed with people who think they own an entire week (sometimes even a MONTH) just because they have a birthday. I’m the woman who prefers dresses to pants. And I’m the type of woman who will cook you dinner with love, serve it to you, then clean up the dishes.

But you’d better fucking rub my shoulders afterward if you know what’s best for you.

Hungry for love and it’s feedin’ time

You’re getting bullets. Deal with it. I’m leaving work in four hours and I don’t have time for B.S.

• After watching a Sex and the City episode involving Samantha, the guy of her dreams, and his tiny penis, I began to worry. Oh God, I thought, What if The Lawyer has a tiny penis?!?!??! because seriously? I can’t be havin’ that. I don’t need a Dirk Diggler or anything, but sex shouldn’t be like throwing a hot dog down a hallway. Not that I have a  hallway down there or anything, I mean, oh God. There’s no way I can talk myself out of this one. The hole has been dug. So I will conclude with this: The Lawyer does not have a tiny penis. Praise Allah.
• Earlier in the week, The Lawyer and I were exchanging e-mails, and he mentioned coming over to my house after eating dinner at his grandpa’s house. About 30 minutes before I left work, he mentioned that there might be a slight change of plans. His grandpa wanted to meet me. Immediately. So I did the good girl thing and agreed. It actually wasn’t terrible. The hilarity of it all was the fact that they served boxed red wine, chilled, with hamburgers. There were two awkward moments in the night . . . the first was when The  Lawyer’s grandpa said, “Hey we’re selling this house, y’all should get married and buy it” (WHAAAAT????), and the second one came when there was a misunderstanding about my age, and The Lawyer’s uncle thought that he in fact was dating a 19 year old. Okay, I look young, but I don’t look that young.
• New York , in true NY fashion, decided it had been too long since he sent me a random ass text message, so he sent me a message that said only, “corn bread!” I, of course, replied with the obvious response, “turnip greens!” and went back to my NY-free routine. Then, Wednesday night while I was playing bar trivia with The Lawyer (we won first place, by the way, and all our drinks were free), I received yet another text from NY. The gist of it was that his car had died on the way to the airport (which is 2.5 hours away from where he lives) and he had a 10am flight the next morning and no way to get to the airport. He never out-and-out asked me to give him a ride, but honestly? Why the fuck would he be texting me about it if he weren’t trying to hint toward it? So he more or less tells me I’m not important enough to him to make me his girlfriend, goes over a month without seeing me, then all of a sudden wants me to offer to make a 5 hour round trip drive at 10pm on a weeknight so he doesn’t miss his oh-so-important flight to Who The Fuck Knows Where so he can blow his inheritance even more on sushi and promotional materials for his “band”?
  No thanks.
• I’m pretty sure I heard Murray’s name on the radio this morning for getting arrested for DUI. It may not have been him because his name isn’t terribly unique, but the person in question was arrested on the street right next to a bar where one of Murray’s favorite bands was playing last night. If this was, in fact, Murray, whose money management skills are atrocious, then he may not be able to fund the refinancing of the house after this. Also, if he gets his driver’s license taken away without a permit to drive for work (his job requires him to drive around in a truck and watch other people work), he may lose his job. Balls.
• I got a mani/pedi with Ma yesterday and my toes are all smooth, painted, and ready for the beach! I leave at lunch time to head south with The Lawyer.

  We had this e-mail exchange yesterday:
  
  aaand I think that about sums up what we’ll be doing on our trip. Have a fabulous weekend, freaders! Mwah!

Pregnancy! Also, the Ideal Man

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

Just like those last two sentences.

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

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

Who dis?

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

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

You better be glad my baby daddy dint see dis

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

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

Until yesterday.

When Glen called me at work.

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

To ask me if I was pregnant.

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

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

They’re all fucking idiots.

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

THEY’RE REPRODUCING!

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

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

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

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

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

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

You know what else I’ve discovered?

There are men out there who like to make plans.

Sometimes days in advance!

Holy fucking shit!

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

And that is a pretty great feeling.

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

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

(He’s funny.)

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

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

I found one!

Happy weekend, y’all.

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.

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.

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.

I heart vlogging

Every time I vlog I feel like it’s gratuitous (oh, but vlogging, why can’t I quit you?), and this is two minutes of your life that you will never get back, but I got inspired when Rachel at I’m a Mom in Real Life vlogged about the winner of her contest.

Guess who won, by the way?

ME!

And all I had to do was vote for her new comic blog, which, incidentally, you should be reading. So go there now and add it to your reader.

See what a good contest winner I am? Gettin’ all linky and shit? Future contest holders, take note.

I’m ecstatic about all the prizes, but I am especially excited about this little gem. I <3 it!

So here’s my vlog. You’re welcome. Or I’m sorry. It could go either way.

And yes, I know I have a ridiculous southern accent. Do it, y’all! REDNECK POWER!

Ahem.

Also, in the spot where I focus on my cat Oliver, you can see my foot, and I am wearing the shoes NY so lovingly calls “pilgrim shoes,” because they look like, well, pilgrim shoes.

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.

This post is all over the place and will probably not make any sense

Today, after much procrastination, I finally gave in and went to my friend Sandra’s to get my hair cut (remember Sandra? She’s the one whose brother [and BE's best friend] made a complete shitting fool of himself on her wedding night). I love Sandra to death, and the time we get to spend together is limited because she is a mother, and now, a wife.

As I settled in to her styling station, conveniently located in her guest bedroom, the gossip began to flow. Friends, weddings, and cheating husbands became our immediate topics of conversation.

After a few minutes, my curiosity got the best of me.

“So, how is [BrownEyes] doing?”

(Remember BrownEyes? The devastatingly handsome guy I dated for about, oh, four months? Who gave me many, many happy moments but made sure to balance them out with some equally painful ones? The guy whom my parents thought I would marry but turned out to be nothing but a noncommital flake? Yeah, him.)

“I have no idea. [BrownEyes] acts like I don’t even exist.”

Oh, so I’m not the only one.

Honestly, I don’t miss him. More than anything, I am inquisitive. I do want him to be happy, whatever that entails. But aren’t we always masochistically curious about our exes?

As my brown curls fell to the floor it became even more evident to me how foolish I had been to put so much effort into our “relationship.” Who was I kidding? Was I so desperate to have someone around that I resorted to such logic that would inevitably cause me so much disappointment?

Yes.

Yes, I was.

And then, in true LRC fashion, I began to contemplate whether it was my fault or not. How things with BE turned out.

Of course, whatever I had with BE was ridiculous. We never had a real relationship. But something my mother had told me a few weeks ago resonated with me.

My mother knows me better than any human being on this planet. Of course, she’s not always right. I’m not the most predictable person on the planet (blame The Crazy). But when she said this to me, I began to wonder, Is this why all my relationships fail?

“You push people away. I can see men trying to get close to you, and you just have this ’stay away!’ attitude.”

I am sure, blog friends, that the opposite seems true to you, based on what I write here. But this blog? Is my catharsis. I put into this blog everything else that I do not say or do. On this blog, I wear my emotions on my sleeve. In life? I guard my emotions. Probably more than is healthy.

I’ve been hurt and disappointed in my life more times than I care to recount. I mean, haven’t we all?

But the thing is this. I can’t seem to find a balance between being completely vulnerable and being extremely guarded.

When I’m in a real relationship, you get every part of me. I’m a package deal. I’m extremely loyal, caring, considerate, and loving. You will meet no one more attuned to your needs than me.

But when does that happen?

I feel that when I show an inkling of that girl, the girl that I really am, is when men start to flee. I’m not that mysterious girl anymore, the girl who men can’t quite figure out yet. I’m just another “crazy bitch.”

And that infuriates and depresses me at the same time.