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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.
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.
So, you want to hear about my date?
Fine.
If you must.
It wasn’t a terrible date. It wasn’t even a bad date. It was . . . unimpressive.
He was the same height as me. I was wearing 4″ heels, but still. I knew this going into the date, but actually being eyeball to eyeball with a guy was a little weird for me. I prefer to look up at my guy and be able to tell if he needs to trim his nose hairs.
The sushi was good. Conversation was good. After getting past the whole “what do you do for a living / where are you from / what’s your favorite color” bullshit, we started just talking like normal people. He was really impressed with me and how I was “different” from how he’d originally perceived me to be. I thought I was enjoying the conversation greatly until I realized why I was enjoying the conversation.
Because he was kissing my ass.
I haven’t been the recipient of a good ass-kissing in a while, and it felt good. I’m accustomed to my friends being used to the extreme dryness and unapologetic “ME-ness” of yours truly, so while on the date with Smartass Engineer I was just being my (un)normal self. Instead of my quips being met with silence, indifference, or disgust, as they usually are with those who know me, instead I was hearing scores of laughter and praise.
Basically, he was more into me than I was into him.
Once we were properly sushi-ed, we got in his car and decided to go to a bar for a drink.
He put in a burned CD.
And Nickelback permeated the speakers.
You have GOT to be fucking kidding me, I thought.
Then, he asked the dreaded question.
“So, do you like Nickelback?”
Blink.
Blink.
“To be completely honest with you, no. I do not.”
I figured “Actually, I would rather eat Rosie O’Donnell’s toe jam while being photographed in a nylon, camelt0e-highlighting pantsuit and being run over repeatedly by a half-ton pickup truck, all the while watching baby bunny rabbits get curb stomped by Ann Coulter than ever hear another Nickelback song again” was a little harsh for the first 90 minutes of a date.
NICKELBACK.
Let me repeat that.
NICKELBACK.
His. Favorite. Band. Is. Nickelback.
Normally, music taste does not fall into the category of Things That Matter Greatly to Me in another human being. But when your favorite band is NICKELBACK?
I have to question your intelligence.
Nee, your sanity.
I think irony is fucking with me because THE DAY BEFORE THE DATE, I tweeted this.
If I had to describe my personal hell, it would involve Nickelback, inaccessibility to alcohol, and ironing.
So there you go. This band belongs in my personal hell, and my potential suitor is on Ticketmaster buying presale tickets for the concert.
Also, I had to iron my shirt for the date. So we’re batting .667 for LRC’s Personal Hell components.
(Of course alcohol was involved. His favorite band is Nickelback. How else was I supposed to enjoy myself after that?)
Don’t worry, it gets worse.
After the Nickelback fiasco, AS IF THAT WEREN’T BAD ENOUGH, the worst song ever recorded ever in the history of mankind, ever, came through the speakers. And SaE then told me a lovely anecdote about how his neighbors used to complain to him because he listened to this particular “song” on repeat.
Hold me.
I had driven a whole hour to get to this particular date, so I tried not to let his horrible, atrocious, unforgivable taste in music ruin it. We had a few drinks at a cheesily-named bar, and at nearly 1am it was time for me to go home. He was nice enough to drive me around until we found a place that was open and served coffee since I had to drive another hour home and I was getting sleepy, but by the time we got back to his house (where I’d left my car) I found myself reciting the chant “pleasedontlethimkissmepleasedontlethimkissmepleasedontlethimkissme” over and over in my head.
When I got out of the car, I tried to maneuver my body in such a way that I could slip around and get into the driver’s side of my car unscathed and dry-lipped.
No such luck.
He appeared seemingly out of nowhere with his arm hooked around my waist and a grip that said he wasn’t letting go. He leaned in and pressed his lips to mine, where I let them rest for about .00000000042 seconds before I pulled away, thanked him for dinner and drinks, got in my car, and dipped the fuck out.
He left me a message yesterday about how he wanted a second date and this time he would come to my neck of the woods. I just frowned. He was very nice. Very funny. But I’m just not that into him. And he has vomit-inducing taste in music.
And I didn’t like his shoes.
I’ve put my profile on the dating website on private for the time being. I’m starting to get over New York and I’m realizing that I can be comfortable being alone again. I don’t always have to be surrounded by people or get approval from guys to be happy. It always seems that they come along when you’re not looking, anyway.
And whenever I start to miss NY?
I just think about how I used to cringe when he would bend over and have Plumber’s Crack, and he has an extremely hairy ass.
That makes me feel a little better.
Well, something good did come out of being pursued by BrownEyes’s friend. After he texted me like a billion times the next day, I decided to just be honest with him and tell him I was having trouble getting over a guy who’d, apparently, recently decided that he’d rather not have me in his life. It was then that he admitted to me that he’d been recently dumped, too, and since then we have formed a quasi-friendship in which we cheer the other on in our respective Efforts At Finding Happiness.
So I’d call that a mini-success. It’s nice to be able to text him at a particularly weak moment and have him reply with something encouraging, and vice versa.
BrownEyes apparently didn’t “get” that I was dipping out on his ass again, and has been blowing up my phone. I’ve only answered once (out of the 8 or so times he’s called), yesterday, just to tell him I was still at work and I would call him later, to buy myself some time to figure out how I was going to break the news to him that he was being dismissed. I came home and wrote out some talking points because when I have to confront someone I get flustered and forget what I was going to say.
Also, despite not being the sharpest tool in the shed, BE has a gift of Conversation Manipulation. He could probably talk a telemarketer into buying HIS shit instead.
Come to think of it, that’s probably why I stayed around as long as I did. Because he convinced me I was having a great time when in actuality I was miserable.
Anyhoots, so I called him back once I was ready to have what would ideally become my final conversation with him before I could talk myself out of it, and this time, HE didn’t answer.
So I plugged my phone up into my charger and began writing some more.
Only this time, it was a letter to New York.
Previously that day, I’d drafted an e-mail that I was going to send to him. Remember how I said there’d been some new developments with our situation that was kinda throwing a monkeywrench into the whole thing? Well, I was going to let him know, through this e-mail, how I felt. While NY and I had loads of fun together, we’d never quite gotten to the emotional level that is so vital in successful relationships. I poured my heart into it while making sure not to sound desperate or vulnerable. I let him know that it was not okay that he was avoiding me (save for the occasional “hope you’re doing well”-esque text he’d send me) but told him if he was having personal issues I was there if he needed me, and not there if he didn’t. I attempted to express that I wanted to salvage what we could of a friendship before he just wrote me off altogether.
I didn’t include that sentiment in the letter in false hope that he’d come crawling back to me to say YES OH LET’S HAVE A RELATIONSHIP INSTEAD AND WE CAN NAME OUR FIRST CHILD DEREK BUT ONLY IF IT’S A BOY AND THEN WE CAN BUY A FORD FOCUS AND OPEN A RETIREMENT ACCOUNT. I honestly DO want to remain friends with him. We have way too much fun with each other to waste a perfectly good friendship on account of his commitment-phobia.
So I concluded the letter stating that if I didn’t hear back from him I’d be hurt, but I would get over it eventually. And also that I couldn’t take not knowing if it was [issue NY told me he currently was having] or the fact that he just didn’t ever want to speak to me again that was causing him to avoid me.
I sent it to several friends, detailing the situation and asking their opinion on it (and thank you SO MUCH to those who gave their input. Heart. You.). One person told me it’d be more personal if I hand-wrote it, and I had to agree.
So after my failed attempt at calling BE from home, I printed out the e-mail and began to write it, almost verbatim, on some leftover wide ruled notebook paper from my college days. It ended up being two pages exactly, with ample spacing and non-threatening penmanship. I folded it up and placed it in an envelope with only NY’s first name on the outside of it.
It was a masterpiece.
I constructed the letter so that anyone who did NOT respond to it had to be the biggest asshole jerkface on planet Earth.
I delivered the letter at approximately 7:30 p.m. in NY’s mailbox and sent him a text that I’d left a note for him there.
I still haven’t heard back from him at 4:45 p.m. the following day.
And if he doesn’t respond? Well then.
Good.
Fucking.
Riddance.
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.
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.
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.
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’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.
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.
