This is no good

I will stop writing sad, sad blog posts. I promise I will.

One day.

The Doctor and I can never work because, all cards on the table here: I like him. And dating is crushing my soul. I'm really fine by myself. I'm good. I'm busy. I've got things to do. A career. Friends. Sleep, sometimes.

But really, dating is for people with incredibly good self esteem and character and virtuousness. Virtues? Clearly, not me. Because I tell you, dating will be the end of me.

Pecking order

Dating has officially put me in my place. While I think I am the epitome of cool, insanely attractive, absolutely brilliant, so, so funny, etc etc etc, it seems every other man does not think this.

Hmm. A quandary.

Crazy. Unedited.

Dating is making me a more paranoid nutso than I typically am.

The whole time I'm with The Doctor I'm thinking something along the lines of: is there something in my teeth? there's something in my teeth! should I go to the bathroom? can I go to the bathroom this soon? I was just in there! it hasn't been enough time! time, time, am I supposed to meet my sister for lunch tomorrow? oh, no, we're talking about meeting. so I should call her. yes, I need to call - ah! my stomach made a sound was it weird? wait, did he hear it? am I being weird now? what if he didn't hear it but now notices that I'm being weird? what's he thinking I'm thinking?

Black Bar

I censor myself around The Doctor. I do. True story: I cuss like a sailor. And maybe I'm being "polite" or something, mostly self conscious really, but I'm not a nice girl. Shouldn't I let him in on this?

"I cuss like a sailor, Doctor, oh, and also, I drink like a fish."

And truthfully: I don't even think I like him that much, now that I'm thinking about it. It's just the idea of him.

He is emotionally unavailable; he is moving in two months. Or is it chemistry? It's good but not great? Or is it both of us and our swords drawn? Our swords are drawn.

I kissed a boy

...and I liked it. I did.

The part though, the funny bit, the joke was lost on him. Well, the joke was on him. So.

I didn't want to talk to him. Seriously? You're an idiot. I don't want to talk to you. Enough talking, let's make out.

Bay of pigs

I will not hold him at bay. I will not hold him at bay. I will not hold him at bay. I will not hold him at bay. I'm not holding him at bay.

Morning love affairs of the past

A testament to my feelings immediately following The Ex:

I know I’m better off without him. I’m doing things that I like to do. I’m working like crazy, planning trips, meeting interesting people. I don’t miss talking to him, probably because we never had much to say. I miss the comfort of him. I was comfortable with him. I liked him in my bed. I knew the things he wore, and his habits. I loved waking up pressed against him. I had a love affair with this fleeting morning moment.

Let's sleep on it

The Doctor keeps saying he wants to continue this nonsense, and even legitimately asked me if I wanted to "sleep on it a few days" when I told him I thought we needed to stop seeing each other. It's not that hard. Let's stop seeing each other. I'm making time for you, you're not making time for me.

Blindsided. But in an obvious way.

Regina Spektor got me thinking.

I never loved nobody fully
Always one foot on the ground
And by protecting my heart truly

I should expound upon a few things. Upon my inability to feel feelings. I don't believe in feelings. Even with The Doctor, who seemed so nice at first, it appears as if: he is just the same.

If you're just the same, fine, just say it. If you're just the same, not a big deal, but let's be honest. I don't care. I don't care that you don't want to know me or my hopes dreams thoughts job siblingcount whereI'mfrom ifIhatebluecheese. I don't care. Just be up front.

The Doctor. He's sneaky. Or blatantly rude. Or blatantly the same as my latest crop of men. Or not blatantly at all. Or maybe I got sidetracked with his ability to take my pulse and his nerdiness and my new laugh (you know the one. The ridiculous one. It's embarrassing. Or pathetic.). I can't decide. I've been blindsided. In an upfront way?

But it's fine. It's fine if you're up front. If you're honest, I could care less. Let's be adults and up front and acknowledge that I don't want to know your cat's name nor yours, really. No. I don't care to know it. Don't act interested. Don't act like you care about my career aspirations or what kind of driver I am, don't. Don't talk to my roommates or make friends with my pets. It's just a bit ridiculous.

Thus the non-belief in feelings. Its such a waste of time if you ask me.

The Line Up

Lining men up. That's what I do. Two boys in heavy rotation, with The Doctor on the back burner. Hello Friday night.

How many in one night? How many can I get in there? How many can I have a drink with, can I kiss, can I shamelessly text? How many variations of men: short, tall, blonde, slightly in love with me, throwing around my feelings, can I include?

How do I know what's best for me? Why did I realize, while having a drink and playing a board game with The Doctor last week, that I don't want to be in a relationship with him? I can't let him know me! I don't want him to know me. I was losing pitifully at checkers and thinking about how I'd rather be home with a glass of wine and a book. I'd rather him not know me.

So I line men up, I have so much variety and so little time to get them all in that no one knows me. No one gets the chance. Just the kissing. And the board games.

Neatly typed placards

Scale of 1 to fucked up: I was being weird and annoyed at The Editor's party because he was there with his girlfriend. Because I previously had a thing with him.

Why didn't we get placards at this party? Mine would say: Slept With The Editor.

In the name of self-preservation

This is all in the name of self-preservation.

Truly, my feelings are hurt. So I am severing myself from this. My guard is up, I don't want to feel anything about the Doctor anymore. I'm guarded, I'm anxious, I want this to be done. I want it behind me.

L-o-v-e is just another word I'll never learn to pronounce

It's easy. It's easy to think of anyone but the Doctor right now. It's easy because it doesn't mean anything. I can kiss other men all day long, but it doesn't matter. The Doctor, the Doctor is more. He's more, he's more.

My feelings are so intricately involved, entwined in this Doctor business. That's the hard part. That's the part I don't want to think about. My feelings keep getting hurt. My feelings are going to continuously get hurt with his moving and my expectations being what they are.

I'm trying to cut the cord. I'm trying to be done with this. However. It feels like ending this would mean I'm missing out on this great man, and that's a hard pill to swallow. Give him up now, feel proportionately sad (as opposed to two months down the road proportionate), but know that it's okay, I'm sparing myself.

Do I want to be that person? That guarded?

We're not through; we should be. I'm neurotic, it's all or nothing with me. And clearly, it can't be all, so it has to be nothing.

Between a rock and a hard place

Tiny city. Unwittingly, I tell you, unwittingly! I found myself playing the 82% game again. Sitting between two men who know and I know and we all know, but talking as if no one knows. We all know. We're not stupid.

Slow ...fade

One of us is doing the slow fade, the Doctor or me, I'm not sure. I think it's closing, it's ending. It's over.

What a shame really, when I like him, I like him. But liking him now means that in a week, I will like him more. In a month, I will like him more than I will next week. In two months, when he leaves, my level of liking him may be unfathomable.

I can't go into this knowing that I like him and also fully knowing he is leaving. So before I care too much, give too much of myself, tell him all my secrets, hold his hand, it needs to be done.

And fine, judge me. Judge me because I'm guarding myself and because I don't want to deal with this. Judge me for knowing myself too well and knowing how I will be. How I already am. How I'm angsty and mad at him for no good reason. Mad at him for knowing that it's never going to work. Brooding over my shortcomings, brooding over my inability to go with the flow. Brooding because it needs to be over. It needs to be done.

I'm that girl

The Doctor makes me laugh in a certain way. An I-think-you're-adorable-slash-I'm-a-little-bit-making-fun-of-your-cheese-factor laugh. I caught myself doing it.

I'm in deep.

Sleeping arrangements

The Doctor and I were asleep. Asleep in my bed, yes. I am quite the fan of sleep, I will sleep 11 hours a day if given the chance.

He woke me up in the middle of the night. He had to leave.

Leave? Why?

He couldn't sleep, he had been awake for hours maybe. Or minutes, I don't know. I watched him pull on his shirt, bewildered. Not fully comprehending -it was 2am. Walked him downstairs. Peeked out my window to see him pull away. Went back to bed.

Woke up.

Felt very passive aggressive about it. He couldn't sleep, I get it. It has nothing to do with me in all likelihood. But if someone left you in the middle of the night would you feel normal about it? Would it feel normal? Would it feel a bit insulting? I felt insulted.

He apologized a couple times, first while he was leaving, and then again via text in the morning. I got his text immediately, and then brooded and didn't respond. This is me punishing him. He has no idea! This is silly. I'm punishing him by making him wait out a text message response?

Actually, after waiting the appropriate amount of time to serve as his "punishment," my response point blank asked him if his leaving had anything to do with me, and he said it didn't. It's fine. It's fine.

It's annoying.

Moral fiber

I am questioning it. Questioning my newest brand of ethics.

I have this blog as a cathartic sort of thing. But really, all the gory details of my life, my liasons, are not shared, are toned down. True story dear readers, you're not getting all of the details.

You're not getting the parts where I begin to wonder whether I'm turning into a monster. A home-wrecking, friend screw-er over, looking-for-trouble monster.

It's all fun and games until I start thinking back over the last couple of months. Start a mental tally. A tally of all the boys and all the ways I have lied and cheated and not followed the rules. There are rules, you know.

All the lining up of men and all of my insecurities and my need to line up men. Why do I line up men? What is this constant need to create difficulties and obstacles and awkward encounters? Why do I frequently find myself playing the game What-percentage-of-boys-have-I-kissed-in-this-room/in-my-phonebook/in-this-city? The number typically hovers around 82%.

Let's talk numbers. Or let's not.

It's not even about the numbers. I'm over the numbers. Numbers don't bother me so much. It's the morality card. The who-may-I-be-screwing-over? card. Just because I don't care about numbers and percentages of rooms and the lining up of men, just because I'm boy crazy, it doesn't matter. Kissing doesn't kill, but I do wonder if all this kissing is at the expense of others.

Gray or blue?

The Boy. Oh, The Boy. He makes me sound trite all of the time. He makes me crazy; I constantly feel bewildered. Obsessed. Immature. Tortured.

Neither one of us are interested in long distance, but I think we both still want to talk. I know we both still want to talk. But talking is difficult since he is living far, far away with limited phone minutes. And usually no means of communicating otherwise.

I am holding him at arm's length. It's not my fault. He started it! So there. It all comes down to the fact that I told him exactly how I feel (I believe in communication), and I feel very much at his mercy now. He wields the power.

He is in no way a malicious sort of person; he is not playing with my emotions. But I can't help but feel angry and resentful over his cut and dry attitude about our relationship. There is something between us, we know it. But our recent stilted communication has proved very troublesome for me. For us.