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?

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.

LRC Makes Bad Decisions, Vol. 17

I’m going to attempt a lighthearted approach at this post, because 1) it’s FRIDAY! and 2) mi vida es muy loca lately and I need to start turning the negatives into positives. Or something.

Or, after speaking all that Spanish, maybe I just need a margarita.

Whatevs.

So, I effed up. But this time, I don’t think it was so detrimental that I don’t want to show my face in public ever again. I didn’t call my boss drunk or anything. I just gave in to a moment of weakness.

I mentioned that New York wanted to be friends, right? Well, what I did not mention was the manner in which this information was revealed to me.

In response to that well-thought-out, heartfelt, compassionate letter, I received a three-sentence text message.

“I got your letter. Twas very nice. Thanksfriend.”

Huh.

While all the friends I’ve told this to think this is an outrage because, honestly, is that the response I got? After writing perhaps one of the most perfect letters of all time?  It’s been hard for me to feel anything but numbness and/or complete depression about it. I haven’t been able to feel anger toward him yet because I’m still so enamored with the kid. I can’t just turn my feelings off like a light switch. It doesn’t work that way. I need time to get over him, and I haven’t allowed myself that time yet.

So we tried the friend thing for about a week. He texted me to make sure my animals were inside when there was a tornado warning. I texted him telling him we should have a moustache growing contest (idea totally stolen from My Boys) with the loser earning a free milkshake and the winner getting a creepy moustache. Insert miscellaneous friend chatter here.

But last night? I got drunk.

Like, Let’s Make Bad Decisions drunk.

So I called NY. And much to my surprise? He answered!

And he was happy to hear from me!

And he wanted me to come over!

Like right now!

EEEEEEEEEEEE!!!, right?

No.

NOT “EEEEEEEEEEEE!!!”.

Bad LRC.

So I went over there, and he eagerly greeted me at the door. We hugged big time because we hadn’t seen each other in about a month. Then we went and plopped down on the couch with his arm around me and my head nuzzled against his neck, like old times.

We started talking for a few minutes. Mostly small talk and chit chat. Catching up and whatnot.

And then we started making out. Big time.

Clothes started coming off.

When things started to progress toward The Sexy Time, I could feel him pulling back. So I asked him a question I had always been too afraid to ask him, for whatever reason.

“Don’t you want to have sex?”

(Note [possibly TMI]: I have already given him a BJ at this point, which was met with great approval.)

“No. [insert random excuse here].”

Pause.

Blink.

“Why not?”

“I don’t like to have sex unless I’m in an intense relationship. With the possibility of my leaving and everything . . .”

And then I just stared at him for a few seconds.

“You’re telling me this . . . after we’ve . . . already had sex?”

(This is about the extent of my ability to take up for myself when I’m drunk. At least, with a guy I’m head over heels for. If I didn’t give a shit about him, I would have let him have it.)

So I just gave up on the conversation at that point. I don’t remember what his response was (I’m HAMMERED, remember?). I just fell back into his arms and he held me close. I cried silently, but I don’t think he noticed.

And then I realized, you know what? I don’t need this shit. I’m just letting him treat me however the fuck he wants. He’s handing out misery, and I’m the first in line.

I wordlessly got up, put my sweatshirt back on, picked up my purse, and walked toward the door. He came after me, but I just kept going. Walked out the door, got in my car, and left.

And cried. And cried. And cried. And cried.

And then. AND THEN? I sent him a drunk text. “I wish I wouldn’t have taken so long to ask you that.”

(Please ignore the bad grammar. Remember, I’m wasted. And yes, I should not have driven. I know this. Save the preachin’ for your Sunday School class.)

I don’t know what I thought that drunk text would solve. Hell, that’s the point of a drunk text. Saying things you probably shouldn’t have but seem like a GREAT idea at the time.

Then I realized, you know what? There I go placing all the blame on myself again. He should have been honest with me from the get-go. If he never saw this going anywhere, he never should have invited me to that James Bond movie. And, at the very least, he never should have made out with me afterward.

So I texted him again.

UGH.

“Then again i dont think it is my fault”

FUHHHHHHHHHH I wish there was a CTRL+Z for text messages. But you know what? He needs to realize what he did was wrong. He led me on, and wasn’t honest with me from the start. And I got all bajiggity about him because he rocks my world. And then he curb stomped my heart.

So yeah.

I guess that settles that. I can’t be makin’ out with boys who are just gonna inevitably hurt me over and over again.

It sucks. But I’ll move on.

Speaking of moving on, I mentioned joining an online dating site in my last post. I was very reluctant at first, but my mom, seeing my unhappy state, basically forced me into it. I think it’s a bit too soon to start dating because I’m still batshit insane enamored with NY even though it’s never going to happen. But I don’t think it will hurt to make some new friends and have a boy take me out on an actual DATE. One in which we go to a restaurant that’s not Quizno’s and doesn’t end with Jager Bomb shots and a massive sense of regret the next morning.

I’ve been in contact with two guys, one of which seems really fun and has a lot in common with me, but, to be brutally honest, he’s not someone I see myself being attracted to. He seems more like the big brother type. He’s not model hot like NY, BE, and Adam (but then again, “model hot” never seemed to work in my favor). However, he has a lot of friends and has a lot of fun things going on in his life, and that could be the breath of fresh air I need. I will probably have to explain to him that if we do date, things have to go reeeeeally slowly. I’m damaged goods here, and I don’t want to play any games.

There’s also another guy I’ve been talking to less frequently, but holy hell is he hot. And he’s an athletic trainer. HOT. BODY. Hold me. I didn’t think he was that into me at first, but after the second time we “talked” (we used the lame IM thing on the dating site), he asked if I wanted to do something next week. I said yes, but I think we’re definitely going to keep it casual. He’s new to the area and is looking for new friends. At the very least, maybe I’ll have a new hang out buddy.

I’ll keep you all posted for sure. I’ve got my sights set on dinner, drinks, and tomfoolery with the girls tonight, and from now on when I’m faced with a tough decision, I’m going to ask myself, “Is this necessary for my happiness?” and if it is, I’ll do it. And if it’s not, vice versa.

Happy weekend, lovelies.

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.

I’d love to see my Google Analytics after this one

Topics of discussion on gchat with Andy today:

• Steve Jobs
• The Dark Knight
• Blue balls vs. pooping in terms of importance (not as in, which should I take care of first—no, no. We discussed which was more newsworthy)
• Trans fats
• Jennifer Aniston
• Naked teens
• Robot sex
• Throwing away Christmas gifts from relatives
• PMS/Bloating
• Wagering on someone’s death (Andy’s co-workers actually do this)
• The abstract nature of happiness and love and how our perspective distorts our hopes for both
• Pooping in the river
• Purses made out of cat fur
• Medicaid reimbursement rates for rural hospitals
• E-Penis
• Dog farts
• Analog to digital conversion
• What does Edward do when Bella is on the rag (Related topic: Oxygen content of period blood)
• Actual topics of relevancy

OK, that last one was a lie.

We clearly have too much time on our hands. Although, we did manage to cover a myriad of topics in a relatively short period of time. You know what that means—we got SKILLS.

Either that, or we’re slightly retarded.

Where to draw the line?

Some of you wanted updates on the NY sketchy past/just effing talk to him about it, you stupid, stupid woman situation. Let me clarify a couple things here.

Without going into too much detail . . . pretty much the gist of what I was told was this: NY used to be a player and kind of an asshole.

There are several issues I have with this situation. Let’s make a bullet list, shall we?

• This is really shitty slash disappointing to hear. Having said that . . .
• . . . it’s in the past. He was young then. When I was younger? I was kinda, well, slutty. And I wouldn’t want people I know telling NY about my past promiscuous behavior. Who am I to judge him? I wasn’t exactly an angel back then, either. I mean, as recently as November, I was still dating BrownEyes when I went on my first date with NY. Does that make me a “player” or a “slut”? I don’t know . . . I don’t really think so. It’s all relative, I suppose. To an outsider, I probably look like a turboslut, but you know what? I’m single. I’ll date who I want.
• Although, I dropped BE like a hot potato when I realized that HOLY SHIT NY ROCKS MY WORLD. And I’d be pretty peed off if I found out NY was dating someone else right now.
• It’s not really any of my business. What’s done is done. I’m not one to discuss old relationships/sexual partners in great detail with my significant other unless I’m in a serious relationship with the person, and even then, it’s uncomfortable for me. In some situations I can see where certain information would be vital to disclose, but most of it? I don’t want to hear.
• I’m definitely much more guarded now as a result of this new information, so as not to allow myself to be hurt (AGAIN), but all his actions up to this point? Have indicated that he is not using me. For sex or otherwise. We go out on dates all the time—he takes me to lunch, dinner, the car wash . . . THE CAR WASH, PEOPLE. We have FUN. At the CAR WASH. He never, ever booty calls or texts. That, to me? Is not how a “player” acts. A “player” uses one for sex, acts aloof and disinterested, and has at least two girls he keeps on the backburner. With the amount of time we spend together? He would surely have super powers if he were able to be dating someone else.

Please, enlighten me if I’m being dumb. I really don’t see a way in which I can positively bring this to light without looking like a whiny bitch. It almost seems like a moot point now. I’ve observed his behavior more closely since the information was revealed to me, and he seems to be anything but a player. And he has never acted like an asshole to me. Ever.

I honestly don’t see any good coming of asking him if he used to be a player. That just seems like an incredibly rude question to me. If he asked me if I used to be a slut?

Yeah, that would not go over too well with me.

Am I being a coward/pushover if I just ignore the whole thing?

(Please consider this as an aside: I have not used the “men make me want to take a cheesegrater to my eyeball” tag in a while. THAT, my friends, says a lot. I don’t leave a lot out on my blog, so if NY had done something ultra-shitty to me, you would have heard about it. His behavior so far has been excellent. And you know how smitten I am with him. That hasn’t changed.)