In the aftermath of my thing with Ryan, I found myself dating, for want of a better term, someone else. You know how it is after a relationship ends and you’re shaken up and unsure of what happens next. So it was that this man asked me to dinner, called me intoxicating and then we had something resembling a vaguely functional relationship for the next 8 months.
And then, at some point, I felt a determined need to ask him questions that I very much didn’t want the answers to. They were the kinds of questions that once asked would mean only the end of a relationship. But I asked them anyway, partly because they’d been gnawing at me for months and partly because I felt the need to self-immolate a bit.
Was there anything about me in particular that you liked, or was I just the first girl to say yes? I asked in not so many words.
He constructed his answers alternately carefully and condescendingly, and I found myself, to use an overworked term, heartbroken — not that I had ever garnered any expectation that I would spend the rest of my life with him.
But it wasn’t that confirmation of a lack of possibility, but the thought that I had nothing really to bring to the table that hurt. I was convinced it meant that I was as grossly stupid and ridiculous as I’d always suspected I was.
In any case, enough time has passed that I’m trying to figure out what happens next. If you know any nice guys I can eventually take home to meet my (increasingly skeptical) parents, I’m happy to take his contact information off your hands.
I need to start saving tha dolla billz for Stockholm. This means that as of 7/5 (one cannot be austere on Independence Day!) I go into the new austerity. No more cabs home from the therapist, even though it’s guaranteed to be seven thousand degrees the whole summer and I always walk out of there with a face that probably looks like it’s contracted genital herpes of the eye.
Speaking of genital herpes (by which I of course mean the far more generic subject of sexual intimacy), anyone want to lie in bed with me and tell me I’m not hideous so that I can turn away and feel condescended to and self-loathing? Anyone up for that? I think it’s way more fun than I’m making it sound. Maybe you have to be there.
OH! But back to the new austerity. I’m going to live on $15/day (I’m more flexible on Friday nights and weekends). I guess I’ll see how it goes. Anyone think I should do a Kickstarter project about trying to live on $15/day? NO? Seriously, that is probably an idiotic idea.
Wish there were 10 feet of snow on the ground and I could jump out of my window onto it. I love winter.
Your foot that’s a two shot you for keeping the feeding you kissed you on the bus okay love you too if I go to come clean with the following call stack ask yourselves lasagna trays I’m sad need to clock designed to please even give it to you I would send you need some decent if you got the flat today marks and had a cigarette death but said that I thank you not to vote for Shawn a little homey East Asia doing baby stuff we can go home I love my dad a call otherwise I’ll have to skew sweet tooth Cugini of you who love to ski show that you can’t get a chance you may be loved not in love identifies my son loves you can’t get into anything when I probably just glad that Casey did you honey thank you honey for divine to Boise ask you about taking
“The Fiver has always been fascinated by the French. Their air of fag-smoking existential mystery. Their cheeses. Their sixth form day-trip resorts brimming with flick-knives and CS gas. Their Kicker shoes, still unfashionable after all these years. And of course, their high-faluting philosophical bent, that production line of Left-Bank-lurking, cognac-quaffing, teenage-girl-seducing intellectual heavyweights. Sartre, Gainsbourg, Houllier, Clouseau: the list goes on. And to that number can now be added the current World Cup squad who, it seems, have spent the last two weeks conducting a series of experiments into the essential Descartian reality of being at the Fifa World Cup 2010.”—
Wouldn’t mind running away for a bit to Lapland or the southernmost part of Tierra del Fuego and having zero human contact or something.
I’m so not a heat person.
In the midst of drafting long, philosophical — or if not philosophical, at least pensive — emails to a few folks. I don’t think any of them include come-ons.
Even so, it would seem that things have slipped into their summer habits: The Republican has started IMing me again asking if he should take, “the long way home,” and drop by my apartment, presumably so he can get some sweet, sweet Democratic ass. I keep telling him no but I’m so awkward about it he probably thinks I really am just super-busy all the time and would otherwise see him. I wish I could be better at the brush-off — especially when it’s toward someone who, during the 2008 election, told me that my glasses weren’t as sexy as Sarah Palin’s.
“But to echo the words of representative Joe Barton, I don’t want to live in a country where our elected leaders FUCKING APOLOGIZE TO COMPANIES THAT ARE LITERALLY DESTROYING THE WORLD, LIKE, IN A WAY THAT IS BOTH VISIBLE AND MEASURABLE FOR AGREEING TWO MONTHS AFTER THE FACT THAT THEY SHOULD PROBABLY DO SOMETHING TO CLEAN UP THEIR IMPOSSIBLE MESS. Are you fucking kidding me? I apologize in advance for bringing down the tone of the rhetoric, but Representative Joe Barton can seriously go suck a dick.”—