So here is my first post on my new blog site. I had this blog on another site, where I could easily be identified and future employers could read about my drunken exploits, so I decided to move it. Now I can finally write honestly about EVERYTHING, for nobody I know will ever have this address and YOU people can't tell who I am just by looking at my picture on my profile because I have a microphone in front of my face. (Key West. So fun.)
Anyway, this will be my first honest post and yes, my friends, it's about booze and sex and a dude. A certain dude that I've been kind of dating off and on since September. "Kind of dating" because this is how it goes: he'll call me up, we'll meet up, we'll have drinks and maybe a jumbo slice, then we'll make out, usually he'll spend the night but I won't let him have sex with me, then we'll have breakfast, then he'll leave, then I'll call him or e-mail him and invite him somewhere, then he won't respond, then I'll hear from him for at least two weeks later when the event to which I have invited him has come and gone. Repeat.
Twice I've mentioned to him that this is bullshit, and only after I avoid his calls for a month or two but he keeps calling so I give in. He always tries to tell me that it's not me, it's him (heard that one before), and that of course he's into me and I shouldn't think he's not just because he doesn't call for two weeks or respond to my invitations (!).
But for some reason, I always break down and agree to meet him. There's just something about him. Truthfully, he's totally nerdy, and not in a really cool way. Sometimes, it's so obvious that he tries too hard to be smart and sophisticated or whatever and I just want to be like "Dude, just be yourself." Also, we have a lot in common and our playlists are very much alike which is something I've never found in another person. He has a job that I admire, and we have a whole lotta fun together. But what I think I'm most attracted to is that at the mere age of 22, he was sent to Iraq and was one of the first into Baghdad. This just fascinates me. Maybe it's that Fredrick Henry from A Farewell to Arms is the love of my life, maybe it's because I've been needing a hero for a long time and I associate all men in uniform with heroes, of maybe I'm just crazy. I don't know.
Anyway, saw him this weekend for the first time since January. It's funny because earlier that evening, I was thinking to myself how that night I'd just like to have someone who would stand next to me at a bar, throw his arm around me and pull me into him. And then he called. So I agreed to meet him. We got wasted, as usual, and he put his hands in my pocket and rubbed my thigh and pulled me into him. And I was high.
Then he started to explain to me why he's so undependable. He told me he has intimacy issues that are related to post-traumatic stress disorder for which he is currently seeking treatment.
Damn.
I don't know really what to think about this. Is it a cop-out? I don't think so. Is he really just waiting for something better to come along? Maybe. He assures me that he hasn't been seeing anybody else, and that he hasn't even been laid since July, he just seems to be in a funk a lot, but he's not interested in being my friend, but he's not interested in being my boyfriend right now, but he just has to work it out.
That night, he brought me to his house. We slept together, but we didn't have sex. We didn't even make out. He just held me all night and all morning. We woke up, had breakfast, he dropped me off, and I'm sure I won't hear from him for two weeks. But I can't help hoping that I will and looking forward to two weeks.
Showing posts with label dudes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dudes. Show all posts
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Thursday, April 26, 2007
missed connection
I saw you today, actually. You were standing in the lobby of my buidling, reading some sort of magazine. You had glasses, sandy hair, and a blue polo properly tucked into your kahkis. You looked up when I walked by, but I got scared and looked at the ground. I could tell that you were a smart boyfriend; the type to meet me at Afterwords for brunch after yoga and browse through the non-fiction section whilst schooling me on Cold War era American political campaigning and its relationship to racial segregation or something equally as fascinating.
I saw you last week too, while I was on vacation in the tropics. You had just returned from a chartered fishing trip, and you were excitedly talking about the marlin and the dolphin fish that you had caught. I saw you stealing glances at me from across the bar, but I got shy and looked away. I could tell you were a manly boyfriend; the type to bait my hook for me and clean the fish, then slide your arms around my waist while I stand at the stove, cooking your fish and pouring your beer.
I even met you once a few months ago, while some friends and I were cheering on our favorite college football team. You and I chatted about public transportation and local bars and skateboards. I knew you were flirting with me, but in case I was wrong, I pretended not to notice. I could tell you were a good boyfriend; the type to listen when I talk, pick me up from the airport, and send me nice text messages in the middle of the day just because.
Unfortunately, however, you just keep on passing me by. Someday, I hope you'll stop and ask me out. Because I'd make a good girlfriend.
I saw you last week too, while I was on vacation in the tropics. You had just returned from a chartered fishing trip, and you were excitedly talking about the marlin and the dolphin fish that you had caught. I saw you stealing glances at me from across the bar, but I got shy and looked away. I could tell you were a manly boyfriend; the type to bait my hook for me and clean the fish, then slide your arms around my waist while I stand at the stove, cooking your fish and pouring your beer.
I even met you once a few months ago, while some friends and I were cheering on our favorite college football team. You and I chatted about public transportation and local bars and skateboards. I knew you were flirting with me, but in case I was wrong, I pretended not to notice. I could tell you were a good boyfriend; the type to listen when I talk, pick me up from the airport, and send me nice text messages in the middle of the day just because.
Unfortunately, however, you just keep on passing me by. Someday, I hope you'll stop and ask me out. Because I'd make a good girlfriend.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
a dear sir letter
Dear Sir,
Sometimes, like today, I get to thinking about you and I get so mad that I want to spit. That was really helpful of you to totally throw me away when I was 16 just because my teenage angst was a little more involved than other's. Just so you know, a lot of that angst was your fault anyway. Also, it was extremely helpful the way you made a cameo appearance back into my life when I was 22. And to think, I got all excited over a fucking breakfast and some greasy ass diner at 6 a.m. As if that would erase the years of damage you had already done. It didn't matter anyway, because as soon as the issue of money came up, even though I wasn't asking you for anything and I've never asked you for a goddamned thing (I can't help it if my mother wants to stick you for everything you've got - must be some shit that goes all the way back since before I was born and has nothing to do with me), you disappeared out of my life again. For good this time, I presume. It was also very helpful the way you've managed to make your other children, with whom I grew up and knew since they were babies, disappear from my life as well. All of these things were very helpful to my healthy development into a young woman.
Asshole.
Other times, I just get too tired of being pissed off any more. Fuck it. Being angry never got me anywhere. Also, I take great pride in knowing that I am so much more than you ever were or ever will be. You're nothing, brother. A nobody in this world, and you'll never be anybody. And me? I made it. I'm educated. I'm fucking brilliant, actually, and the future's so fucking bright that I gotta wear shades.
But then I'll have a day like today, when I looked at recent pictures of your youngest daughter that I found on myspace, saw her looking healthy and smiling and pretty. I regretted that my bond with her is so broken because of you that I couldn't even e-mail her to tell her how pretty she is. But most of all, I wondered, how come you love her but not me?
Funny how I'm the most successful out of all your children, yet you couldn't even give a shit.
Funny how I'm not sure I will attend your funeral.
Sincerely,
The Biggest Mistake You Ever Made
Sometimes, like today, I get to thinking about you and I get so mad that I want to spit. That was really helpful of you to totally throw me away when I was 16 just because my teenage angst was a little more involved than other's. Just so you know, a lot of that angst was your fault anyway. Also, it was extremely helpful the way you made a cameo appearance back into my life when I was 22. And to think, I got all excited over a fucking breakfast and some greasy ass diner at 6 a.m. As if that would erase the years of damage you had already done. It didn't matter anyway, because as soon as the issue of money came up, even though I wasn't asking you for anything and I've never asked you for a goddamned thing (I can't help it if my mother wants to stick you for everything you've got - must be some shit that goes all the way back since before I was born and has nothing to do with me), you disappeared out of my life again. For good this time, I presume. It was also very helpful the way you've managed to make your other children, with whom I grew up and knew since they were babies, disappear from my life as well. All of these things were very helpful to my healthy development into a young woman.
Asshole.
Other times, I just get too tired of being pissed off any more. Fuck it. Being angry never got me anywhere. Also, I take great pride in knowing that I am so much more than you ever were or ever will be. You're nothing, brother. A nobody in this world, and you'll never be anybody. And me? I made it. I'm educated. I'm fucking brilliant, actually, and the future's so fucking bright that I gotta wear shades.
But then I'll have a day like today, when I looked at recent pictures of your youngest daughter that I found on myspace, saw her looking healthy and smiling and pretty. I regretted that my bond with her is so broken because of you that I couldn't even e-mail her to tell her how pretty she is. But most of all, I wondered, how come you love her but not me?
Funny how I'm the most successful out of all your children, yet you couldn't even give a shit.
Funny how I'm not sure I will attend your funeral.
Sincerely,
The Biggest Mistake You Ever Made
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
another douchebag story
When I was 17, my "boyfriend" (notice the quotation marks, please) waited for me to leave the room and asked Missmo for her phone number and suggested they hang out sometime sans me. Of course, Missmo immediately alerted me to the fact that I was dealing with a douchebag and that was the end of that. Because that, my friends, is a line that is never to be crossed. Lord hath mercy on he who crosseth that line.
It's not crossed very often, save for the few poor slobs who seriously think that there is a real possibility that Missmo and I are closeted lesbians, or worse, girls who kiss girls for attention, and have the audacity to seriously suggest a threesome. In the ten years that we've been friends, however, we've learned to shake that off. I mean, she's a good looking girl, and some like to say that I am as well. As they say, hate the game, not the player.
Recently, though, that line was crossed again by a guy down home with whom I made out like a year ago. We ran into him again at Benny's over Christmas vacation, and as is always the case, we threw a little afterparty at Missmo's place with a few of our friends. We invited him along for old time's sake, for him to promptly pass out sitting up in Missmo's chair, baseball cap and sneakers on and everything. Figuring that this was a good sign that he was too intoxicated to drive home, we left him to sleep it off, and when everybody else left, we went to bed and slept it off ourselves.
Now, anybody who is or knows a girl knows that girls have no problem sleeping in the same bed together. I even know some heterosexual men who have no problem sleeping in the same bed together, but I won't go there. I don't see really what the big deal is. When we woke up in the morning, the dude was gone, but he wasted no time sending us a text message (to Missmo's phone because mine was dead) that went like this:
"Hey - were you guys sleeping in the same bed last night? I should have jumped in between you guys."
Wha?
Not yet sure of the level of creepiness this text achieved, I responded sarcastically:
"Naw, then you would have interrupted our spooning and we would have been unhappy."
To which he responded:
"I wouldn't have interrupted! I luv spooning! Especially with two girls who are bringing sexy back!"
To which there was absolutely no response. "Luv?" "Sexy back?" For real?????? I wrote him off as a tool, and that was that.
Christmas vacation ended, and I went home. Missmo saw him out a couple weeks later, and being the polite and cordial girl that she is, said hello. We figured there was no harm in being friendly, so she would chat him up when she saw him out and we thought nothing of it.
That is, until one day, she received this text message:
"Anybody up for a mustache ride?"
Wha??? Is this even for real???? WHO SAYS THAT????
Needless to say, that was the line, he totally crossed it, and she hasn't seen or heard from him since. However, the text did land him a spot in the elite group of men that I will blog about, those who are such douches that I have no shame blathering their business to the internet.
So there you go. Another douchebag story. About a guy who once asked my best friend if she was up for a "mustache ride."
It's not crossed very often, save for the few poor slobs who seriously think that there is a real possibility that Missmo and I are closeted lesbians, or worse, girls who kiss girls for attention, and have the audacity to seriously suggest a threesome. In the ten years that we've been friends, however, we've learned to shake that off. I mean, she's a good looking girl, and some like to say that I am as well. As they say, hate the game, not the player.
Recently, though, that line was crossed again by a guy down home with whom I made out like a year ago. We ran into him again at Benny's over Christmas vacation, and as is always the case, we threw a little afterparty at Missmo's place with a few of our friends. We invited him along for old time's sake, for him to promptly pass out sitting up in Missmo's chair, baseball cap and sneakers on and everything. Figuring that this was a good sign that he was too intoxicated to drive home, we left him to sleep it off, and when everybody else left, we went to bed and slept it off ourselves.
Now, anybody who is or knows a girl knows that girls have no problem sleeping in the same bed together. I even know some heterosexual men who have no problem sleeping in the same bed together, but I won't go there. I don't see really what the big deal is. When we woke up in the morning, the dude was gone, but he wasted no time sending us a text message (to Missmo's phone because mine was dead) that went like this:
"Hey - were you guys sleeping in the same bed last night? I should have jumped in between you guys."
Wha?
Not yet sure of the level of creepiness this text achieved, I responded sarcastically:
"Naw, then you would have interrupted our spooning and we would have been unhappy."
To which he responded:
"I wouldn't have interrupted! I luv spooning! Especially with two girls who are bringing sexy back!"
To which there was absolutely no response. "Luv?" "Sexy back?" For real?????? I wrote him off as a tool, and that was that.
Christmas vacation ended, and I went home. Missmo saw him out a couple weeks later, and being the polite and cordial girl that she is, said hello. We figured there was no harm in being friendly, so she would chat him up when she saw him out and we thought nothing of it.
That is, until one day, she received this text message:
"Anybody up for a mustache ride?"
Wha??? Is this even for real???? WHO SAYS THAT????
Needless to say, that was the line, he totally crossed it, and she hasn't seen or heard from him since. However, the text did land him a spot in the elite group of men that I will blog about, those who are such douches that I have no shame blathering their business to the internet.
So there you go. Another douchebag story. About a guy who once asked my best friend if she was up for a "mustache ride."
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
we're adults. when did that happen?
Yesterday I learned that my first boyfriend, who is actually the only real boyfriend I ever had, is expecting a baby. I met him when I was 19, and we were together for two tumultuous years until I went away to college and opened a new chapter. Then, my first year of law school, we got back together, but ulimtately did not work out at all so that was the end of that. We went through a lot together in those early years, and the lessons that I have learned from my relationship with him are lessons that I will keep with me for the rest of my life.
We're not in touch or anything anymore, so I heard the news through the grapevine (a very old, very tangled grapevine at that). When I mentioned it to my roommate, she responded "Well, he's old enough."
Holy shit. We're old enough to be parents. And pretty soon, he will be.
It got me thinking about how my life turned out and how his life turned out and how very different he is from me and how very different I am from 19-year-old or 21-year-old or even 23-year-old Amy. A lot has changed since then.
A baby so does not fit into my life right now. I can't even begin to imagine how I could possibly find a place for a baby right now. I can't hardy fathom starting a family right now. But down in ol' Fort Myers, my ex-boyfriend is becoming a father. He's starting his family. Six years ago, we were sure that WE were going to have a family. It just blows my mind.
I wish I could get a hold of him so I could wish him the best for him and his new little family.
But maybe some things are better left alone.
We're not in touch or anything anymore, so I heard the news through the grapevine (a very old, very tangled grapevine at that). When I mentioned it to my roommate, she responded "Well, he's old enough."
Holy shit. We're old enough to be parents. And pretty soon, he will be.
It got me thinking about how my life turned out and how his life turned out and how very different he is from me and how very different I am from 19-year-old or 21-year-old or even 23-year-old Amy. A lot has changed since then.
A baby so does not fit into my life right now. I can't even begin to imagine how I could possibly find a place for a baby right now. I can't hardy fathom starting a family right now. But down in ol' Fort Myers, my ex-boyfriend is becoming a father. He's starting his family. Six years ago, we were sure that WE were going to have a family. It just blows my mind.
I wish I could get a hold of him so I could wish him the best for him and his new little family.
But maybe some things are better left alone.
Sunday, February 25, 2007
missing
I miss electric touches. Where he puts his hand on my arm and it tingles and I ask "Do you feel that electricity?" and he just smiles because he knows that of course I know he feels it.
I miss secrets. The most intimate words in a hushed voice in the night while his heart pumps against my ear.
I miss comfortable safety. Bury my head in his chest with one arm around my shoulders and knowing that there is no safer place in the world than right here.
I miss heartache. Having something so sweet, so pure, so real, that it my heart aches if I think about it too much.
I miss surrender. Giving my entire being to him to do what he will and wanting him to do anything, everything.
But in the meantime, I've found me. So I guess that's enough.
I miss secrets. The most intimate words in a hushed voice in the night while his heart pumps against my ear.
I miss comfortable safety. Bury my head in his chest with one arm around my shoulders and knowing that there is no safer place in the world than right here.
I miss heartache. Having something so sweet, so pure, so real, that it my heart aches if I think about it too much.
I miss surrender. Giving my entire being to him to do what he will and wanting him to do anything, everything.
But in the meantime, I've found me. So I guess that's enough.
Wednesday, November 8, 2006
a dear boy letter
Dear Boy,
It's been almost a year since you left.
I can still remember the way your hand felt on the back of my head, the heaviness of your body that time we napped together in my broken futon in my Gainesville apartment. I remember the exact look on your face when you stared at the ceiling and told me that my father must be fucked up; the way your lips pursed together when you smiled at me and rubbed my knee. If I put enough thought into it, I can hear every single word you whispered to me that night in Missmo's den.
I cried for days when you left. I was like Diane Keaton in Something's Gotta Give – as soon as I opened my eyes in the morning, the flood of tears would stain my pillow, and I'd roll over, not wanting to face the day if the day didn't bring you. Even when I'd be out with the girls, drinking and dancing and laughing and having fun, you'd always be in my thoughts. And then, if the night had been long enough and I'd had just enough Bacardi, I'd hide my face in the backseat so nobody would see me silently cry on the way home.
I couldn't understand how things were so different when you left. It was as if when you crossed the state border, all that intensity, all that earth-shattering magic stayed in Florida. I told you to abandon all rational thinking and to just follow your heart, like I did. You wouldn't though. You held on to real life and real life problems – jobs, money, distance, difficulty. And just like that, as you said, you "walked out of my life."
It took me months to get over you. It wasn't until a sweltering day in August, sitting on my mom's lanai, when I realized that it was all so wrong from the beginning. Nothing healthy is ever that intense. Your world views suck, and your competitive streak would never mesh with mine. I was a fool to believe it was right. It was the relationship and its loss that I couldn't get over, not you. It was having somebody who understood me on much more than a superficial level and appreciated me for who I was, who I am, and who I will be that I longed for, not you. And with that, I was over it.
Weeks sometimes go by when I don't even think of you. I have successfully banished you from my thoughts. But lately, you've been coming back in my dreams, and that I can't control, no matter how hard I try. I've always dreamt of you, but they used to be terrible, heart-breaking dreams wherein you are there but want nothing to do with me, or you are there but you're with somebody else. I'd wake up from these dreams feeling empty, sad, and remorseful. The entire day would be grey.
The recent dreams, however, have been nothing short of beautiful. In one, we're sitting together, Indian-style, discussing the romanticism of Hemingway's A Farewell to Arms, my favorite love story ever. The colors are bright, the mood is light, but still, I hate this dream. It reminds me of what is and what could never be. I might have been your Catherine Barkley, but you, my dear, were never my Fredrick Henry.
Last night was a new one. We dive into the ocean together, like we did that day we spent alone on your family's boat, and let the sea salt cake our bodies and our hair. I don't remember any more details, just you and me and the sea. But I know that I'll be thinking about you all day now. And mostly, I'll be thinking about the possibility that next month, fate may have us cross each other's paths again.
Part of me hopes that it doesn't, part of me hopes that it does. But all of me wishes that for the time being, you wouldn't haunt my dreams. I finally got you out of my thoughts, now please get out of my dreams.
Sincerely,
Curly Girl
It's been almost a year since you left.
I can still remember the way your hand felt on the back of my head, the heaviness of your body that time we napped together in my broken futon in my Gainesville apartment. I remember the exact look on your face when you stared at the ceiling and told me that my father must be fucked up; the way your lips pursed together when you smiled at me and rubbed my knee. If I put enough thought into it, I can hear every single word you whispered to me that night in Missmo's den.
I cried for days when you left. I was like Diane Keaton in Something's Gotta Give – as soon as I opened my eyes in the morning, the flood of tears would stain my pillow, and I'd roll over, not wanting to face the day if the day didn't bring you. Even when I'd be out with the girls, drinking and dancing and laughing and having fun, you'd always be in my thoughts. And then, if the night had been long enough and I'd had just enough Bacardi, I'd hide my face in the backseat so nobody would see me silently cry on the way home.
I couldn't understand how things were so different when you left. It was as if when you crossed the state border, all that intensity, all that earth-shattering magic stayed in Florida. I told you to abandon all rational thinking and to just follow your heart, like I did. You wouldn't though. You held on to real life and real life problems – jobs, money, distance, difficulty. And just like that, as you said, you "walked out of my life."
It took me months to get over you. It wasn't until a sweltering day in August, sitting on my mom's lanai, when I realized that it was all so wrong from the beginning. Nothing healthy is ever that intense. Your world views suck, and your competitive streak would never mesh with mine. I was a fool to believe it was right. It was the relationship and its loss that I couldn't get over, not you. It was having somebody who understood me on much more than a superficial level and appreciated me for who I was, who I am, and who I will be that I longed for, not you. And with that, I was over it.
Weeks sometimes go by when I don't even think of you. I have successfully banished you from my thoughts. But lately, you've been coming back in my dreams, and that I can't control, no matter how hard I try. I've always dreamt of you, but they used to be terrible, heart-breaking dreams wherein you are there but want nothing to do with me, or you are there but you're with somebody else. I'd wake up from these dreams feeling empty, sad, and remorseful. The entire day would be grey.
The recent dreams, however, have been nothing short of beautiful. In one, we're sitting together, Indian-style, discussing the romanticism of Hemingway's A Farewell to Arms, my favorite love story ever. The colors are bright, the mood is light, but still, I hate this dream. It reminds me of what is and what could never be. I might have been your Catherine Barkley, but you, my dear, were never my Fredrick Henry.
Last night was a new one. We dive into the ocean together, like we did that day we spent alone on your family's boat, and let the sea salt cake our bodies and our hair. I don't remember any more details, just you and me and the sea. But I know that I'll be thinking about you all day now. And mostly, I'll be thinking about the possibility that next month, fate may have us cross each other's paths again.
Part of me hopes that it doesn't, part of me hopes that it does. But all of me wishes that for the time being, you wouldn't haunt my dreams. I finally got you out of my thoughts, now please get out of my dreams.
Sincerely,
Curly Girl
Monday, September 25, 2006
just a whole buncha randomness on a monday afternoon
SEEN & HEARD THIS WEEKEND
A woman's t-shirt:
(front) Men are like parking spaces
(back) All the good ones are taken and the ones that are left are handicapped
A homeless man and woman on the sidewalk:
Woman (in old drunk lady tone): Fffffffffuck you.
Man: Fuck you too, bitch!
Woman (again in old drunk lady tone): Fffffffffffuuuuuck you.
Man: Fuck you in your fuck you face. (ß best comeback ever)
Tour bus driver to me: Excuse me. Where's the White House?
ANOTHER ONE BITES THE DUST
I broke up with a friend this weekend. A strictly platonic guy friend. It sucks. We weren't friends for that long, but I thought we were pretty good friends. Turns out it doesn't matter if you are romantically involved or platonically involved – the majority of them will sell you out at the drop of a dime for a big butt and a smile.
BREAKING UP IS HARD TO DO
Then I have this other one that's kind of a friend, kind of something else. He's great. But the platonic friend who sold me out also made problems for me with the not-so-platonic friend which is making me think that maybe I should just cut it out with the not-so-platonic friend. Does this make sense? No? Good. It's not supposed to. This is the internet, for God's sake.
WE'RE GONNA GET BELIGERENT
I'm in trouble. Missmo is coming back this weekend. She can't get enough of the District. Which is what I want to see, because I want her to move up here. Unfortunately, however, I've been on these 7-day work weeks and 3-day going out binges, so I'm just about exhausted, and amazingly, BROKE. I even made a vow yesterday to cut back on the going out. BUT this time, she's coming with the bawsiest of the bawsy, Mr. G. Thompson. He's the man. He's a lot of fun, and let's face it girls, not too hard on the eyes. (He's so gonna read this and have a head the size of Texas.) (Hi, Geoff. Be sure to bring your boxer briefs up here with you because while Missmo gets to watch you run around the house in them all day, Jane and I could really use a little excitement in our house.) So I'm really excited. We're gonna have so much fun.
A woman's t-shirt:
(front) Men are like parking spaces
(back) All the good ones are taken and the ones that are left are handicapped
A homeless man and woman on the sidewalk:
Woman (in old drunk lady tone): Fffffffffuck you.
Man: Fuck you too, bitch!
Woman (again in old drunk lady tone): Fffffffffffuuuuuck you.
Man: Fuck you in your fuck you face. (ß best comeback ever)
Tour bus driver to me: Excuse me. Where's the White House?
ANOTHER ONE BITES THE DUST
I broke up with a friend this weekend. A strictly platonic guy friend. It sucks. We weren't friends for that long, but I thought we were pretty good friends. Turns out it doesn't matter if you are romantically involved or platonically involved – the majority of them will sell you out at the drop of a dime for a big butt and a smile.
BREAKING UP IS HARD TO DO
Then I have this other one that's kind of a friend, kind of something else. He's great. But the platonic friend who sold me out also made problems for me with the not-so-platonic friend which is making me think that maybe I should just cut it out with the not-so-platonic friend. Does this make sense? No? Good. It's not supposed to. This is the internet, for God's sake.
WE'RE GONNA GET BELIGERENT
I'm in trouble. Missmo is coming back this weekend. She can't get enough of the District. Which is what I want to see, because I want her to move up here. Unfortunately, however, I've been on these 7-day work weeks and 3-day going out binges, so I'm just about exhausted, and amazingly, BROKE. I even made a vow yesterday to cut back on the going out. BUT this time, she's coming with the bawsiest of the bawsy, Mr. G. Thompson. He's the man. He's a lot of fun, and let's face it girls, not too hard on the eyes. (He's so gonna read this and have a head the size of Texas.) (Hi, Geoff. Be sure to bring your boxer briefs up here with you because while Missmo gets to watch you run around the house in them all day, Jane and I could really use a little excitement in our house.) So I'm really excited. We're gonna have so much fun.
Wednesday, August 9, 2006
further proof that you can't trust 'em as far as you throw 'em
Bill Clinton.
JFK.
My mom's ex-boyfriend.
Missmo's ex-boyfriend.
Brad Pitt.
Beer on the Lap Boy.
What do they all have in common?? An extremely slimey disposition and a complete inability to uphold even the lowest standard of morality.
So Beer On the Lap and I spent about a week trying to make plans. I thought it odd that he would only make tentative plans - never anything definite, and always call the next day with some reason why we couldn't get together. However, I thought it considerate that he would call each time and never make any promises, so I continued answering his calls and inviting plans.
This was the week that DC was on fire from the heat wave, and simply stepping outside would cause me to become a puddle of sweat, which is totally unsexy. Moreover, he was a hippy like me and had no car, so the easiest plan was for him to come over to my house, and we'd sit on the porch, drink some beer, smoke some cigarettes, and just hang out.
So the day finally arrived and the plans came through. He arrived at my door promptly after work, dripping with sweat, and we sat down for a beer. I started trying to initiate the conversation, and I noticed that he wouldn't look at me when he answered my questions and all his answers were monosyllables. I started to feel a little uncomfortable, and started to drink my beer faster. Finally, after the third beer, the awkwardness disappeared. We talked, we laughed, we joked, we were really having a good time. I told him about myself, my family (i.e., Missmo, my mom, and my mom's big fake boobs), Dougie's adoption story, etc., etc. He told me about his home state, college, his friends, his parents, etc., etc. He was getting along splendidly with Dougie, which always makes my heart melt. Then, after a few more beers, he'd tell me how hot I am, what a nice girl I am, how very cool I am, etc., etc. I'd tell him "thank you." Then he started pulling the grab-and-kiss move, which is my absolute favorite. Very sexy, very cool.
However, during one of these grab-and-kiss sessions, it all fell apart. Whilst caressing my cheek, and again telling me that I'm just such a nice girl, his whole demeanor changed. Suddenly, he had to go, he had to leave, he had to go RIGHT NOW. Confused and a little drunk, I followed him out to front porch for one more cig before he left. There, he jumped on his cell phone, started calling everyone he knew to come pick him up. I heard him talking to the one who ulitmately came to get him, and I heard him telling the friend that he was BEGGING him to come get him and to SPEED THROUGH INTERSECTIONS. A little drunk and a lot of mad, as soon as he got off the phone, I lamented to him that I was compltely and utterly insulted by what had just happened and WHAT THE FUCK was going on???????
At that, he tried to hold my hand and told me that it wasn't me, it wasn't me at all, it was him. I, of course, would have rather held an octopus's hand than his at that point, and told him "Okay, George Castanza."
"No," he replied. "Really. I haven't been very honest with you."
"What?" I asked.
"I have a girl."
Goddamnit, people!!!!!!!!!!! Am I destined to be a fucking spinster for the rest of my life or what???? I mean really, what does it take in this world to find a nice, fun, cool guy with who does the grab-and-kiss move????
Upon further inquiry, I found that he has been with this girl for FOUR YEARS, and he followed her here from the friggin' midwest for graduate school. Also, she had called him three times while he was with me so he was pretty sure that she was going to know that something was up. Finally, since he had just met me, and I'm so cool, looks like he was going to have to dump her, or at least could we just be friends??? Of course my answer everything was "GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE. DO NOT EVER CALL ME."
He didn't take my advice, however, and called me fifteen minutes after he left (with my cigarettes, might I add. Motherfucker stole my cigarettes!) to apologize once again because again, I'm just such a nice girl. Then, he had the nerve to call once more at 3:30 in the morning the next night. I of course didn't answer and he left no voice mail but I wish he would have only because I'm so curious as to what the objective of the call was. Another drunken, slurred apology? A declaration that he had left his girl, could he come over? Or to propose that both he and his girl come over????????
Dudes. Can't trust 'em as far as you can throw 'em.
JFK.
My mom's ex-boyfriend.
Missmo's ex-boyfriend.
Brad Pitt.
Beer on the Lap Boy.
What do they all have in common?? An extremely slimey disposition and a complete inability to uphold even the lowest standard of morality.
So Beer On the Lap and I spent about a week trying to make plans. I thought it odd that he would only make tentative plans - never anything definite, and always call the next day with some reason why we couldn't get together. However, I thought it considerate that he would call each time and never make any promises, so I continued answering his calls and inviting plans.
This was the week that DC was on fire from the heat wave, and simply stepping outside would cause me to become a puddle of sweat, which is totally unsexy. Moreover, he was a hippy like me and had no car, so the easiest plan was for him to come over to my house, and we'd sit on the porch, drink some beer, smoke some cigarettes, and just hang out.
So the day finally arrived and the plans came through. He arrived at my door promptly after work, dripping with sweat, and we sat down for a beer. I started trying to initiate the conversation, and I noticed that he wouldn't look at me when he answered my questions and all his answers were monosyllables. I started to feel a little uncomfortable, and started to drink my beer faster. Finally, after the third beer, the awkwardness disappeared. We talked, we laughed, we joked, we were really having a good time. I told him about myself, my family (i.e., Missmo, my mom, and my mom's big fake boobs), Dougie's adoption story, etc., etc. He told me about his home state, college, his friends, his parents, etc., etc. He was getting along splendidly with Dougie, which always makes my heart melt. Then, after a few more beers, he'd tell me how hot I am, what a nice girl I am, how very cool I am, etc., etc. I'd tell him "thank you." Then he started pulling the grab-and-kiss move, which is my absolute favorite. Very sexy, very cool.
However, during one of these grab-and-kiss sessions, it all fell apart. Whilst caressing my cheek, and again telling me that I'm just such a nice girl, his whole demeanor changed. Suddenly, he had to go, he had to leave, he had to go RIGHT NOW. Confused and a little drunk, I followed him out to front porch for one more cig before he left. There, he jumped on his cell phone, started calling everyone he knew to come pick him up. I heard him talking to the one who ulitmately came to get him, and I heard him telling the friend that he was BEGGING him to come get him and to SPEED THROUGH INTERSECTIONS. A little drunk and a lot of mad, as soon as he got off the phone, I lamented to him that I was compltely and utterly insulted by what had just happened and WHAT THE FUCK was going on???????
At that, he tried to hold my hand and told me that it wasn't me, it wasn't me at all, it was him. I, of course, would have rather held an octopus's hand than his at that point, and told him "Okay, George Castanza."
"No," he replied. "Really. I haven't been very honest with you."
"What?" I asked.
"I have a girl."
Goddamnit, people!!!!!!!!!!! Am I destined to be a fucking spinster for the rest of my life or what???? I mean really, what does it take in this world to find a nice, fun, cool guy with who does the grab-and-kiss move????
Upon further inquiry, I found that he has been with this girl for FOUR YEARS, and he followed her here from the friggin' midwest for graduate school. Also, she had called him three times while he was with me so he was pretty sure that she was going to know that something was up. Finally, since he had just met me, and I'm so cool, looks like he was going to have to dump her, or at least could we just be friends??? Of course my answer everything was "GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE. DO NOT EVER CALL ME."
He didn't take my advice, however, and called me fifteen minutes after he left (with my cigarettes, might I add. Motherfucker stole my cigarettes!) to apologize once again because again, I'm just such a nice girl. Then, he had the nerve to call once more at 3:30 in the morning the next night. I of course didn't answer and he left no voice mail but I wish he would have only because I'm so curious as to what the objective of the call was. Another drunken, slurred apology? A declaration that he had left his girl, could he come over? Or to propose that both he and his girl come over????????
Dudes. Can't trust 'em as far as you can throw 'em.
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