We've said it all before

Maybe I do have a few things to say. Maybe there have been a couple, several, fine, four instances in the last few days. Some old boy coming into play each day. But doesn't it sound stale? Trite? We've heard it all before:

The Musician and running into him on Sunday and he kept touching the small of my back while apologizing for his prior behavior, The Editor and his utter devotion to me and whywhywhy can't I just reciprocate? But I can't. I can't. And I can't talk myself into it and I shouldn't have to. And then Whats-His-Name, I saw him too. And we were trying not to be awkward and we said "hey" but there was no eye contact but also, also, I wondered if we were trying too hard. Was he looking at me? Are we friends? Are we not allowed to be cordial? Oh, the rules! He has a girlfriend and suddenly I can't wave politely?! And I can't give too many details to even you, you three faithful followers (haha, I jest. Three is a great leap of faith on my part.), because I fear his identity being found out. I do. There. I've said it. I'm throwing up my hands (very counterproductive to typing, mind you) and looking frustrated and incredulous that we all can't just be done with this.

But fine, you three fictitious readers, fine, he's cute. He's really cute.

And more on The Man With The Sombrero later. I'm brooding. Brooding because I want to see him but don't want to come across as desperate but wanting to hang out but not wanting to ask him because technically I asked him to do something yesterday. And ball is in his court. Am I'm completely insane.

I sober miss you often

Yes. I told that to the Doctor.

Damn you, Doctor!

In my defense: he started it. Last night, he told me: I'm in California, and miss you.

And then I told him that I'm here and wearing heels and thanks because I was then thinking of him.

And then he started flirting.

And then I asked if he was drunk (it being only 7pm in California and all did throw me off). And it seems he was. But then he said: I miss you at lots of sober times, too.

I miss you at lots of sober times, too.

Sex appealing

Thats what it is. Thats the part I can't talk myself into. Thats where the line is drawn. It doesn't matter that I think he's fascinating or funny or wealthy (yeah, yeah, sometimes I'm in a gold digging mood). He can be everything I've ever dreamed of, be just perfect on paper, but I can't fake attraction.

I've got it! I've got it! I can't talk myself into it. That's the part. I can't rationalize it.

Because, confession: I kissed the friend. The one with the sombrero who I shouldn't like. And it was good. I didn't have to tell myself I liked it. That I wanted it. Because I wanted it. I liked it. I didn't want to stop. Couldn't maintain conversation because we kept getting distracted kissing. Kissing kissing kissing.

(You know that part? That part where you fall into each other and can't get enough of each other and the chemistry is so good and the kissing is so good and you giggle and you can't stop touching just his hand just his hand maybe his neck maybe his hair maybe just the outline of his jaw. And he smells that good smell and is tall and yes, I like beards and now I'm thinkingthinkingthinking about him and smiling a little. And wanting to see him but wanting to play it cool. It could be nothing it could be something- what if its something?!)

Insanity

The words, all these words, are beginning to sound trite. These themes, these recurring patterns. Its sort of getting old, don't you think?

Me in a bar.

Me in the street.

Me in a bookstore.

Me at work.

Me meeting a man. Every time.

Ride it out

Is fascination reason enough to stay along for this ride? I am utterly in awe of this one man, think he is just, yes, fascinating, but is that enough? Am I going to eventually be more than fascinated? Because fascination is one thing. A relationship... is another.

Fake it til you make it...?

Is that really how it works sometimes?

If I'm doubting it, why would it work? I know its not all magical- relationships- but I also live by the rule of not talking myself into anything.

But I do miss his company. I do miss the things we did together. And I'm not following a man, and I told him that, but I sure miss him. If he were not a he, but a female, this wouldn't be a question. But because he is him, he is himself, himself who I have had two years of history, because of this, it makes it feel complicated. Is it though? Or do I just miss his friendship?

And this is news ...how?

I'm interested in the attention. I'm interested in this man's attention, even though I don't really think I'm interested in him.

(I'm going to do the thing where I act aloof but am secretly curious and then curiosity leads to drinking to kissing to waking up and repeatedly repeatedly calling myself an idiot repeatedly calling myself an idiot for ruining another friendship for making this town even smaller for kissing another boy and knowing that the list is getting bigger but options, those things? Smaller.)

Sunday funday

I'm up on a Sunday morning with no hangover, no bad decisions lingering in my bed. I certainly don't think this is evolution, don't you worry, but I do wonder if I really am making an effort to reel it in. To slow this adventure down.

Adventure or not, its fun sometimes, and sometimes, times like now, I want a break. I'm nearing the brink, if you haven't noticed. I'm at the point of not even calling a man back about a date because I may just be over it. Over dating. Over the games. Over the charade. So let me take a break here. Let me sit by myself for a moment.

Revel in Sunday productivity. Until brunch, that is.

Prim and proper

Its the guilt. Guilt gets me to text men back, to give someone the benefit of the doubt, to make an effort when I don't want to. Emily Post has ruined me. That bitch.

The neutral third party

Was he Swiss? Its too late to ask. Its been too late to ask.

Its not fulfilling, all this. All this kissing. Its wearing on me. I've seen better days. Its fun at the moment. Then. I come home. I sit at my computer. I write. I rant.

I let him hold my hand and kissed him and hoped, hoped hoped hoped, that someone saw us and thought we were in love.

But truthfully, I couldn't wait to get home and write. I would rather write. Rant. (You say potato, I say ...write.) I didn't for a second really want to hold his hand. I wanted the illusion.

I feel bad for the poor man whose hand I actually want to hold (whenever we may meet). I may never let go.

Take a hint

I've had it! I.Have.Had.It. I had a date with The Professor, and it was going well until he turned into a cheapskate and just plain cocky. And so then he called me, twice, and I responded to him that I am especially busy and I would get back to him about plans.

Of course I'm not getting back to him about plans.

But he continues, having left me another message a few days ago. And I'm in such a place right now, I'm in a such a fervor, such a state of absolute madness, that I feel as if I should let him know the truth about why I don't want to see him. He won't take a subtle hint? How about I tell him I'm just not that into you? Let's not beat around the bush. Let's not.

The best part of waking up

And why am I thinking about it? Why am I thinking about another man who will never happen? Probably because he will never happen. But I'm thinking about him. And it is a bit frustrating.

And we all get it. We all know. I only want him because I can't have him. Because he is not within reach, literally speaking.

Another of my [in]famous could have would have should haves. Knowing me and knowing that I only want it because I can't have it. I can't imagine willingly waking up next to someone. I think it's the quiet, the time alone, that gets to me. But the morning, the morning gets me to my senses. I don't want to wake up next to someone. Not just yet.

How dreamy

I had a dream about The Man of My Dreams (who we all know is not the man of my dreams because he never actually called me). It was one of those dreams that are kind of unbearable, because you wake up, and it's still your life. Nothing has changed.

How to fight loneliness

So there is a thing: its called loneliness, and it attacks the moment you think it won't. I've built my guard up, I've reasoned with it. I've given it the cold shoulder and told it to fuck off. But tonight: tonight at four AM and he's calling a cab and literally, as he's on the phone, giving my street address so he can be picked up: it's starts to rain. And then: pour. And I'm wearing a robe and not knowing how I should act. Because typically, this isn't a problem. But when a man goes out of his way to get away from me (when I know it's not a big deal, we've talked about it, we know this doesn't mean anything), it feels like a big deal. Its a blow.

I'm listening to the rain right this second and knowing that he'd rather be stranded in it than spend any longer next to me.

And this is why: this is why I keep my guard up. This is why I don't believe that you care what I say or the things I do. It's because I know: you are cheating on your girlfriend. I've never been that girl. Well, that I know. As we were lying in a state of undress, he told me I have someone.

Isn't there always someone? Or something? I'm used to the something. I'm used to men not really being interested, and me telling myself that its not me, its them. That I'm plenty interesting. That my guard, my anger, my bitterness- its refreshing. Men aren't used to dealing with such a mistrustful nutcase. It makes sense.

But tonight. Tonight validates it all. Everything is justified. Because we're in my bed, and he says I have a girlfriend. (And the thing is, we're not talking about girlfriends, secrets, bad behavior. We're just ...talking.)

So I'm just an [the] other woman. Another person he left. And her? I'm sick thinking about it. She is just another person he did this to, without much thought until it was a done deal. I felt bad for her, but worse for me. For my loneliness. For me knowing that I would still allow him to sleep next to me, even if I didn't let him touch me.

This human sadness. This humanity. It's such a divide. I keep telling myself that I'm okay with all of this, that I'm not that interested, but tonight, tonight I got a wake up call. Tonight. I'm usable. I'm dispensable.

And while he meant nothing to me, while I wasn't interested in knowing him all that well or having some kind of meaningful connection, I'm still awake. I'm still awake. Most people are just now waking up. And I can't sleep. I can't sleep over this insignificance.

Neither here nor there

The problem with sleeping next to someone? Waking up next to someone.

Return to sender

I'm deleting texts in my phone. Deleting texts, noticing a pattern: many men, all of varying degrees of interest, including: the Doctor.

I deleted every man around him.

Not him. Not him at all.

Magical thinking

Are we just putting off the inevitable? Am I going to realize one of these days that it's not all perfect? Because I can see us, I can see us right now: happy. He knows me. He does. He knows it all: from our highly inappropriate online chats during "work," to us finding each other despite my then-boyfriend. To him seeing me cry one night in the midst of our affair. To our argument that we always have where he doesn't say it, but I call him on it: I tell him he wants to be with me, and he denies it. To it being the best sex of my life. To us meeting each others' significant others. To us meeting for adventures, never quite knowing what we will find, but knowing it will be good. To him being the only man who can keep up with me, who thinks I'm strange, but goes with it. Who listens to my TLC playlists and laughs, but not at me.

So why does it still feel like I have to talk myself into it?

Is it time I need? Or is the magic, is that elsewhere? And will it come?

The digital age

Recently, instead of giving a man my number, I gave him a book.

The less I say the more I say

I don't have to convince myself. I don't have to tell myself. I don't have to think that if I give it time, if we just have time to get to know each other, if I learn to give up vodka, if I think it through, I will want this.

I don't want this.

I don't want your authority or your money or your scene. I want your friendship.

And you? You, Doctor, who is thousands of miles away? You? I want you. We had a shelf life and now we're honest but it's honesty that I don't know, that I've never had, and probably it's because you're far away and we had a shelf life -and because it's tortured. But maybe it's also serving the purpose of telling me, of letting me know: I shouldn't have to tell myself.

No love lost

It's my space I want. My bed and my time and my thoughts. I'm not ready to share.

And I will think life and relationships to death and schedule it in any way I can. I know good and well that it's not so neat, no so organized. But if it's just me, if I go it alone, I will never be wrong. I will never fight or feel sheepish or feel protective or jealous.

I will always win.

(And yes, I'm purposely not stating the obvious: that while I won't feel jealous, I won't feel love.)

Words for everything

Writing is my thing. It's my thing. I write everyday. So it says something, it means something, that for days, for days I've been sitting here.

Trying to find words.

Imma close my tab

It was all going so well.

Until we split the tab and he refused to tip.

Just the middleman

It makes me crazy. To know that you and you are talking, but not to me. You two talk to each other now. You no longer need me in the middle. It comes easily.

Lying eyes

I'm judging myself.

But projecting it on anyone else. On the nearest person. On anyone I can point a finger. It's not you, it's me. It really is me.

But I will tell myself that you're judging my actions and decisions like you even really care. Because let's face it: you don't care. We're all so in our own heads, so in our own decisions; we're so obsessed about what we did/said/looked like, and you know the truth? Everyone is so obsessed with what he did/said/looked like that he could care less about something you're obsessing over. No one noticed. No one cares.

No one is judging me the way I am. No one cares.

Look me in the eye

I can't seem to figure out where I've left my moral compass. I left it around here somewhere, I know I did, and while I'm looking for it, while I'm frantically searching, I keep looking over my shoulder, paranoid that someone is on to me. Judging me. Because I've obviously misplaced my moral marker, and now I just know that everyone is talking. Everyone knows. Everyone can see what I'm doing, acting like it doesn't phase me, and they're whispering. I'm walking into a room; they're averting their eyes.