Somebody to somebody

Why does there always have to be someone? Why do I always have Nobody waiting in the wings? Nobody to me but Somebody to someone, one day. But this present Nobody, for me, he's just a place filler. An in between. How does it always work out that way? And is it just me? I worry it's just me.

Expired

Why is the Doctor allowed to be important? Why is that few months of dates turned into fighting turned into nothing so revered? Why am I stamping it "important in the grander scheme of things?"

The only thing that made it different from all the other short-lived affairs (you know there are too many to count), is the expiration date we knew it had. We knew it would end. We knew we wouldn't have time to internally combust. Is that why we treated each other with such respect (now, is that why now, we send each other thoughtful messages?)? Is that why we got over the petty issues? Because we knew we didn't have the time to even consider them? So why not enjoy it?

Really? The shelf-life kept it cordial?

Edited

The Editor. Back. He's back.

What is that? I remember all too well what happened, how it got weird, how I knew it wasn't right. But I'm still intrigued. I'm interested.

But aware.

Flinging

I met him, and then again the very next morning, snuggled up in my bed. Oh, hello.

And let's not get confused: this is new. This flinging. But it's also: honest. I'm trying very hard to be honest with myself and my decisions. To know that this is a weekend fling. To know this is one of those tiny nuances that create The Big Picture. This nuance that adds up, that desensitizes me to further nuances; to further flings. As long as I'm honest and know that it is what it is, it is what it is, I'm alright.

Let's capture it, shall we? Alone on my porch people watching smoking Indian cigarettes my cat clothes clothes who needs clothes? Asleep. Then: awake. Awake. Should I cuddle should I keep my distance let me try both methodologies. And no cuddling. No closeness. Alright. I'm awake. He's sleeping. He's sleeping.

I gave him my copy of White Noise because I thought he'd enjoy it. I left a message and signed my name, and hoped that this makes me cool and collected. But does this inscription actually make me narcissistic to the point that I must leave a tangible mark on his life? To the point that I did the thing again, the leaving my entire name instead of just my first initial, because I worry I would be easier to forget with just the initial.

Obviously, I need more flings.

Metaphorically speaking

I am busy. I have things to do.

But I want to throw it all away. I want to toss aside my plans and wander around town, flirting shamelessly, kissing this new one. But I have things to do tonight (red wine and Sex and the City are legitimate plans!). I have plans.

Metaphor for my life?

Eye of the beholder

Maybe my changing perspective does have to do with men, and how my [former] natural thought process was one in which a man would change my life. That love would change my life.

I must change my life.

What a fascinating specimen

I'm trying my hardest to sound eloquent, to use some decorum, to be vague but still get the idea across. But what is this, my quasi-fascination with a man who I don't really want to be seen with in public? (When do I want to be seen with him, you ask? Read between my prim and appropriate lines, please.) So I ran into him last night, and secretly wondered if he was sort of stalking me, then shied away when he touched me, then didn't really want to talk to him, and wanted him to leave, didn't want anyone to know I know him, but still, I'm fascinated.

Red hat society

Happy hour lasted 'til 3am. But before that, I kept drunkenly telling the friend who I shouldn't like, yes, him, I kept telling him that I hated his hat and that I would gladly bring him a sombrero next I saw him.

Niceties

I came home last night to find the Musician in my house. Second night in a row we're running into each other, except this time? Well, he was at my house. So that doesn't count as much, seeing as though I spend a good deal of time in my own home. But welcome, hello, so glad to see you yet again when I wasn't expecting to. I'm certainly glad I don't have another man with me this time. Perhaps I'll pick up your bass-playing friend next? Oh, do you have a cellist friend? Perhaps a xylophonist? I hear they're big these days.

After my initial annoyance, it became easy. Almost, dare I say, friendly. Like old pals. Sharing stories and telling jokes, we ended up making drinks for the gang. (Oh yeah, the gang. I'm hip.) He played piano, I played nice. It became surprisingly nonchalant. It's been so convoluted, so complex and hard to read with us, this whole un-thing, but last night had a pleasant easiness. I do hope it continues in this fashion, that perhaps we can put it all behind us, that we can start afresh, be friends and run into each other and it won't be weird, it won't be weird. It feels pretty good the way it is. I know you and you know me and you play some mean piano, and sure, I'll play nice. I'll play nice.

Extremely close

Last night went something like this:

A scene in a crowded bar, a small group sitting in a round booth:

"Hey random guy I've met before. Going well. Yeah? Good to see you again. Blah blah blah, not a big deal, no I'm not taking any crap from you, so there, so there! Why do you want my number? Ohhh, just to send me a mean but funny text? Alright. Let's be friends."

Enter stage right: The Musician.

"Oh hey Musician, this isn't awkward. Glad to see you. No, it's fine that you haven't called. Not a big deal. I feel a little sheepish about the whole pity text thing, but as long as we pretend it never happened, I'll be fine. So. So. You're good? Oh, do you know my newest friend here? Allow me to introduce you - what? Y'all know each other? Y'all are in a band together?"

This town I live in? Terrifyingly small. I'm not sure how much longer I can stand it.

Like a bad habit

I am setting myself up for failure. My newest visual interest? No. No. No. Red flags are all there. I barely even know this man, he has been an acquaintance for a year or so, but I know enough to know to not. To not even start this. He's too much like me, shares too many of my bad traits. I can already predict the outcome, the turbulent end, before I even give it a beginning.

Oh, and thanks for bringing that up. Thanks. We all know I'm a self-sabotager, looking to destroy anything in my path. Friendships, my favorite bar, my testament to doing the right thing. The right thing right now would be to tuck this away, to not take him up on his offer to stop by on Saturday, to relinquish this urge to talk to him before then, to obsess over the details, to know that he knows and that I know and want to say it, want to say it: has anyone in the room not noticed the sexual tension here?

He's playing hard to get. I will not give in to his game.

What I wish I could say

I was thinking about all the bigger questions en route home, like, why did I wear my rainboots? they're really annoyingly impractical right now, I surely hope I don't get mugged by someone with a penchant for ladies in rainboots and bright orange raincoats, and of course, obviously- 6'5"? Nuh uh.

Nuh uh.

The weakness is me

I would never tell you that I think you’re weak for being in love. For being vulnerable. I can’t be vulnerable. I can’t. I put my guard up. I put it up and I keep it up. I don’t want anyone in here. I don’t want anyone to know. I don’t want to tell my secrets. I don’t want to give myself away. Piece by piece, I would be giving myself to someone. Giving myself to someone when I’ve never thought it could work. I’ve never met a man with whom I thought it could work. It could work for a few months. It could work for a year or so. But I’m going to hate you and distance myself from you and leave you on a Tuesday morning. I’m going to blindside you. So what’s the point?

Another bullet dodged

Man of my dreams?

He hasn't called. Pretty sure this means he's not the man of my dreams.

Signed, sealed, delivered

This is not me. This isn't me! I'm logical and level headed (hey, hey! Stop laughing. Stop! So I sound crazy sometimes. Sometimes my writing makes me sound like an insane, obsessed, sex-crazed teenager. Sometimes. Sometimes...). In my work, in my life, in all facets outside of relationships, outside of the opposite sex, I like to think I am mostly sane. Mostly coherent. Pulled together. But.

The crazy is coming out. The madness. Suddenly, The Entire Package, suddenly, I know he's not going to call. Because why would he? We met, we had great conversation, but truthfully, I just assumed he was interested in a relationship. Because ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I am.

What? you ask.

But if he doesn't call, well, then that means he doesn't have it. He's not The Entire Package. I’ll try not to add him to the collective Men I Wish I Never Met. I’ll try not to take it personally. Why would I take it personally? I don’t know what’s going on in his life. This has nothing to do with me. I met him once. One time and I’m taking his avoidance as a testament to my worth. My value.

However, one time and I’m interested in him enough to take it personally. One time and I left before it got heated; I left before I could be foolish, I left the ball in his court. I like him. I alluded to this. I like him. I’m interested enough to be a bit taken aback that he hasn’t called. I’m interested enough to be mentally preparing for letdown. To not let it get to me. I’m distanced already; I’m angry but pretending not to be. I’m offended but acting nonchalant. Like I didn’t expect any different. Because in my experience, I shouldn’t expect any different.

I’m writing this and sounding like a maniac, and all the while I’m also thinking about how I can’t even remember what he looks like. We had good conversation, but what exactly did we talk about? What was said? What looks were exchanged? Was he tall enough?

But maybe I’m saying this because I’m proving to myself that it doesn’t matter. That my feelings aren’t hurt. I will not let this man hurt my feelings. I will not. It was nothing. It was kissing. And kissing doesn’t kill. Why don’t I follow my own rules? Why?

Man of my dreams

It was The Entire Package.

All of it.

I can't shut up about it even though I think I should hold it close, keep it to myself, not shout it from the rooftops. It's more precious if it's close to me. If I don't tell anyone. If I leave out the part where all of my feelings suddenly feel trite and cliched and done before. If suddenly my life, my writing, sounds straight out of "Love, Actually." If my bitterness has ebbed. If I'm smiling like a fool. If I'm sleep deprived and my lips feel swollen and tender because of the kissingkissingkissing. (You know that feeling? That look you get? Your lips are red and puffy and you wander around replaying the cause. You wander around in a bit of a daze, daydreaming about all that kissing, all that newnessclosenesstouchingslowfast can'tgetenoughravenousmagic. You know.)

I can't seem to contain myself and want, no, need to describe the magnitude. Need to use trite phrases and be forgiven, be cut some slack, because that kiss? That first kiss with him? I didn't know it could be like that. I didn't know it could feel that way.

Me. The heartless, sarcastic girl who can't shut up, can't stop ranting about the injustices in the world (read: how much I hate/can't trust/have issues with men)- I couldn't talk. The kiss. And then: nothing. I couldn't come back with a sarcastic comment. Couldn't let my feelings show. Couldn't speak. Couldn't speak.

There was something there.

And today, his name is on my lips. On my tender, red lips. I'm gushing. I'm gushing. I can't keep it to myself. I can't stop it. I can't let it go. I can't stop the thoughts. The thoughts of him. Of how perhaps he's just my type. That mental checklist I have? That one where I can see a man and know if it's even worth it, because that checklist is specific. And this boy, this boy, I'm checking boxes. It's looking good. I'm being trite and checking boxes and wanting thinking talking. He is on my lips. He is in my head.

Oh, it was nothing

I'm better as the tortured version of myself. Picturing The Doctor here with me, with my friends, celebrating and drinking on the water, him touching me, him being mine, I can't stand it. Because I don't want that. I don't want the touching and the non-wandering eye. I don't want strings and reasons.

I want to be tortured. I want to be flamboyant and spiteful and angry and tortured.

And now, us, its being turned into a thing. A thing that it never was. Why are we doing this? Why do we occasionally send each other sweet, thoughtful text messages just to say hi? Just to say something made me think of you how are you? We're acting like it was something. It was nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

Keeping the faith

Why do I let it get to me? Why do I want to assault people for silly inconsiderate coincidences? She didn't mean it I keep telling myself. But if that bitch so much as fucking looks at me I'll flip my shit. That doesn't add up. My anger at this innocent bystander.

My anger at drunk girls.

My anger at myself.

Am I acting the part? No. I can't even continue this thought process. I'm just angry. I am angry.

There was an incident. And without giving too many details, without divulging names and places and feelings, let's just say: My best friend. Moved out of town. Came back. Surprise! Except he'd been back for days. And then he was ...biting.

And like that I've lost all faith in men. Like that. One swift blow. Everything is affirmed. Every man who didn't call me back. Every man who acted like he cared. Every man I pass on the street.

I can't even look at him. I can't even look at him on the street. Because you know what? I'm convinced he will never see past the exterior. The part where I can be undressed and touched and talked into and walked home and not walked home and let me be a pseudonym please and let me kiss you just let me kiss you and this isn't something I do and you're beautiful no you're hot, so, so hot but by the way: I have some kind of excuse that will stop this. I have a reason. It's beyond my control. But I will leave you. I will not stay. I will not stay. I will leave you.

But for good reason.

It's not you. It's for a good reason.

(Job family fucked up mindset we're-not-in-love I-think-you're-slutty you-drink-too-much you-work-too-much I don't like all those polo shirts you wear you look like a douchebag.

Oh, wait. That was me. Mostly. Polo shirts aside, that was me.)

Playing defense

Is it inevitable? To revisit and revise and play it again? I caved under the pressure one of the woodsmen was applying, I conceded to a drink. So we drank. And I had not eaten (thus the story of my life: forgetting that eating bit). I was composed, yes, I do a good job at composure, but I was chatty. Chatty chatty chatty. And frank. Those two never go well together when you're meeting a man you haven't seen in a year. And all this was his initiation. It was because of his persistence.

I've come to realize that I'm perpetually playing defense. I'm constantly on alert and I don't easily trust a man. Even as I'm writing this I'm thinking of one man whom I trust. There is no one man. There is no one. So this defense in mind, I wanted to subtly pick his brain. Subtly understand why he felt the sudden desire to contact me. And then the touching. (Who is being subtle here? Me or him?) He was subtly touching me. And after all that vodka (read: two. Food should have come into play, obviously.), I didn't mind his hand on the small of my back.

However, the honesty minded. And so then I had to call him on it. I had to tell him that he wasn't being very suave, that I knew what he was doing, but why was he doing it? Why? Don't touch the small of my back like you know me like you're allowed like you are interested in what I'm saying like you'll still want to talk to me in the morning like I'll still want to talk to you in the morning. Just don't.

Calling all applicants

I can't even keep up. These men coming out of nowhere. Out of everywhere. Every man I have ever met, ever looked at, ever discarded, has found me. Has tracked me down. Wants to "reconnect." Wants to say hello. Wants to buy me a drink.

What is this? I keep thinking it'll stop, it'll peter out, but it has not. Men I haven't talked to in literally over ten years (I didn't even think I was old enough yet to say that!) are now finding me. Howhowhow. Why? Why is my name forming on the lips of all of these men?

(And you may think this is my ego and my vanity and that I'm secretly so super psyched, but really, I'm not. I'd prefer them to stay where they are. I'd prefer them to tone it down. Keep their emailing and their texting and drink offerings to themselves. I'm taking ideas for a blanket response to all of this unwanted communication. Please apply here.)