Text And The City

I send texts. You send texts. We all send texts. Everyone's doing it. But are we doing it...wrong?

There is nothing quite so degrading as when you realize you're giving your phone the evil eye, waiting for it to ring after you send someone a text. I mean, for chrissake, it's an electronic lump of plastic, and here we're thinking giving it the look that would freeze hell over will galvanize someone miles away into action, manipulating them to reach for their similar hunk of plastic, and redeem all of human kind to us. We all know, I think, how often this actually happens. The opposite of what we'd like to happen happens more often than we'd all like.

Wow. Our expectations and misplaced steely stares are grossly over-sized. So, how do we learn how to text...better?

First, we need to recognize a fundamental fact to communication between the sexes: Women perceive their relationships better than men. A study done by Hebrew University of Jerusalem showed that after surveying 97 couples in the United States, women are more perceptive than men in describing their relationships. The study, which was published in ScienceDaily, reported that women were much more accurate in describing the perception of their partners than men. Sometimes this hurts more than it helps. This means that, technically, a woman texting should know the situation that she's getting into and the sense of decorum that it comes with. Is this always true? Fuck no. How many of you ladies have sent those texts that as soon as your thumb lifts off the "Send" button, you start cringing? I start shaking, myself. Like I have palsy. It is tres, tres attractive, I'm sure.

I really, and I mean really hate the phone. This should be apparent by now. Which is exactly why I've spent so much time and off-the-mark texts researching what the best ways to compose and send them are. And this is what I've found:

We all have options about the way we have text. There are easy options, ambivalent options, and leave no pris...I mean, hard options. Most texts are usually ambivalent options. If he says he's got other plans when you ask what he's up to tonight, you probably won't be heartbroken. The general variety "Hey, do you wanna go get a drink?" or "What are you up to now/later?" are ambivalent options. Ambivalent option texts are usually safe texts to send and receive because the sender generally wants little other than some sort of contact with another life form for the sake of feeling not so bored and there's not so much pressure. Unfortunately, these are the sort of texts least likely to get responded to. It happens, though it still really pisses me off, primarily because like stated, they generally aren't threatening texts at all, merely curious and mostly seeking beer or other forms of entertainment of a purely friendly kind, no ulterior motives. (Well, ok, I mean, everyone always has ulterior motives of one kind or another.)

But sometimes, you need to hardball. Sometimes, you need to put you first. Maybe you had plans you need to know are definite. Maybe you forgot the notebook with your calc notes in it at his place after spending the previous night, and you've got a test in 2 hours. Maybe you really need advice on a matter, and value their opinion nearly more than your mother's. This is when you hardball. You don't want to force a no-options text when you think you want to spend the night. That's like using The Force for evil. That's turning over to the Dark Side of being one of Those Girls. (Pink lightsabers are not good lightsabers, people.) Text "I have to get my _____. What time will you be home so I can get it?" No options. You're getting that _____. Today.

A "soft option" or "easy option" looks like an ambivalent text at the beginning. It usually starts with a "Hey, what are you up to?" or something equally breezy and conversational, then it gets to the point after the "Not much, what about you?" response. A "soft option" then gives a time limit and easy out for the recipient to say either "yes" or "no" to, no pressure. "Can you chat for 5 minutes?" DON'T use "talk." NEVER use the word "talk" in a text in the context of "Let's talk," or "I want to talk to you" or "We need to talk." This makes sirens go off, and if you seem overly seriously, it's another no-no. They'll run for the hills. Seriously. Always stay light and informal. Now is a good time to be delicate about asking for things. This makes it a "soft in," because there are good chances that you'll get that in for 5 minutes or an invite. The main difference between an ambivalent text and an easy option text is that an ambivalent text is very direct and to-the-point without being overly polite or seeming like you're asking for a favor, like an easy option text usually takes the form of. The point of an ambivalent text is that you really don't give a fuck, which you do with easy option texting-- which is why you're making it an easy option.

Some other rules of texting thumb and phone etiquette:

- Always ask yourself, what am I trying to communicate in this text? Is it clear? Can anything be misinterpreted? Unfortunately, the answer to this last question may still be "yes," but at least by now you've done your best.

- Keep the text to one point. Abbreviate what you can, without it looking like a 14 year old wrote it. Keep it classy, and abbreviate using shorthand. "With" becomes "w/." "Because" is "b/c" or "bc." "And" becomes my favorite symbol, "&." "At" is "@." And although I really hate it, and it's the last thing I abbreviate, and only then if I really can't help it, "you" can be "u." God. I feel so awkward and tweenage all over again. And unless you're texting your best friends, keep it to one text page at a time. Getting slammed with a consecutive 2 or 3 in a row is so overwhelming.

- If you want a text back, a good place to end is on asking a question. A pertinent question. People are more apt to respond back to questions, even if it is only with one or a few words.

- Sass is hard to pull off without sounding like a bitch unless the other person knows your humor as well as you do. Watch ya tone.

- Use a fresh opener that other people won't. A "ciao" means it's from me. Conversely, using a gender-bending opener like "Yo" or "Dude" is great for fending off the advances of men you think of sheerly platonically, or alternately if you want to make your guy friend feel more comfortable with the informal tone of your text.

- Only if you call and don't leave a voicemail message can you text a "voicemail message" instead. I actually suggest this, as it's clever because it means your name is seen twice, and if they didn't answer the call because it wasn't an appropriate time, I think we all know that by now, texting mid-conversation, or at least reading a text, is considered de rigueur. That means twice the chance that they'll know to get back to you.

But always remember-- when in doubt, and if it's important: Call.

XOXO

Go Shark Yourself.

I'm not really someone who has excessive anger. Passive-aggressiveness is the name of my game. True, sometimes I have violent tendencies (such as the face-into-the-dashboard incident), and I can be extremely vindictive, but mostly, I prefer to stew in my simmering emotions like a criminal mastermind too lazy to really take over the world who prefers to just daydream a lot about it instead.

In fact, I've achieved a kind of Zen-like mentality about a lot lately. Last night, one of my guys looked at me when conversation turned to an ex and began to get a little heated. I was not the one getting heated; Alli was. "This is between you and him," he told me. "You've got to settle it for yourselves."

"Hey, I'm not saying anything," I said. "I know. I'm fine."

Truth be told, while I am past verbally ripping new ones, there are still some quiet moments in which it still rankles me. So when a friend of mine (that would be a shout-out to Melissa,) introduced me to the Discovery Channel's website in which in honor of Shark Week, you can "sharkify" a picture, and I read the directions to "upload a photo of yourself or anyone else," I knew what had to be done.

I sharked myself first, because I am not above making fun of myself. (That's the creepy-ass image above.) I even captioned it when I published it with "I'm pretty sure I have some exes who think that this is my true form." Anger and insulting people-- I know it's two-way street. You can be mad at me if I can be mad at you. All I ask is for equal-opportunity name-calling. And while I have a fearless friend who toilet-papered THE SHIT out of a guy's house after she found out he was cheating on her, but wait for it-- TP-ed his house WITH THE HELP OF THE GIRL HE CHEATED WITH (and that has to be every man's worst nightmare come true right there,)-- I prefer a less direct approach to redemption:

And then I sharked my ex.

It's currently a desktop image.

Seriously, if you need a nice, quick, artistic pick-me-up guaranteed to put a smile on your face, a whistle on your lips, and a spring in your step...go shark your ex.

XOXO

Carissa Goes To Jail

Jeepers Creepers appeared again for an encore show the night after his first performance, now with a new act: masturbating in front of his window while looking up at ours to see if we were watching. For what we pay for rent, we should have a view of shirtless hunks washing dishes or carrying heavy lumber, not a man who only gets close and personal with blow-up dolls, his palm, and apparently, us. While variety may be the spice of life, his little variety show understandably turned us way off, so the living room blinds have been closed for the past two days, and today, Alli and I went to Burlington P.D to lodge a formal complaint against our unsightly scenery.

Considering the last time I talked to two cops, I was drunk and said "good evening" like a Transylvanian brothel madam, I was understandably a little nervous. That, and I may or may not engage in some activities not exactly kosher with the law. And I always feel cops just know that about you. Like psychics. But with handcuffs instead of crystal balls. And arrest records seem to be far more damning than birth charts, from what I've seen, at least. But knowing that I am a grown-ass independent girl (or at least, should be), I sucked it up, and went.

In hindsight, I really shouldn't have been worried. My behavior never came up-- just his. If you were wondering, "lewd and lascivious" is the definition for it, and in Vermont, you can only be fined up to $300, which to me is a pittance when compared to what you're knowingly inflicting on other people, or spend under 5 years in jail for it. Unfortunately, unless Creepers initiates more attention from us than just standing full-frontal in his window and whacking it silently, there's not much the police can do about it, given it is technically in his own apartment, as I suspected. I voiced my concerns about the fact we're two small young blonde women living together, and that this may be his way to seek attention, be it positive of negative, along with the fact that I wouldn't recognize him if he and I were both out on the sidewalk checking our mail, which is just icky to think about brushing shoulders with this freakshow and not know it.

However, I was pleased as-- no pun intended-- punch when the Corporal gave us permission to either have a male friend talk to our Chippendale's wannabe or, and I quote here, "kick his teeth in." So-- how many male friends do I have who are willing to help me out of this awkward skin-pinch? Because we really do need some help, guys. We would do it, but we were instructed to not involve ourselves with him in order to not egg his delusions on any more. We're here for another year, and I don't want to be afraid to walk in or out of the front door to my own apartment or feel forced to not stand by the same window the cat loves to sleep in. After being grabbed in Italy, I'm more sensitive to these things than I'd like to admit. I wasn't able to do anything in Florence, but I'll be damned if I do nothing on my own home turf. That's just not cool, at all.

Later, as Alli and I sipped our restorative Slushies from Cumbies in the oppressive afternoon humidity and discussed our dilemma, I looked at her and said, "I can't tell if I'm disgusted by it or if I really like it."

She looked horrified for a minute before I caught myself. "I mean the slushie. Not the creeper." Obviously.

XOXO

Mad Men and Madder Women

I'm a little bit behind the curve with some things: I've (thankfully) never heard a Jonas Brothers or Justin Bieber song; I've never felt the urge to pierce anything on my body; and before Sunday night, I'd never watched Mad Men. Despite being told numerous times that I should. I figured it was kind of like flossing-- everyone says you should do it, but when it comes down to it, if you brush as much as you're supposed to, it's not really necessary.

Well, here I am, bowing and scraping and saying "mea culpa"s and "You were right." That is one hell of a good show. It's smart, and fast-paced, and not too far-fetched while at the same time not being totally predictable. It is, in fact, a very human show-- it showcases the workplace, the home life, families, relationships, how men act with other men, how women act with other women, how men and women act together, and men and women behaving badly, either together, or apart.

In other words, it's truthful and realistic.

When I was in Florence, I realized, for maybe the third time, but the most painful and hurtful time, that the guy I had left behind at home was still seeing the girl he had slept with while we were together. I felt vindictive, and devil-may-care-and-take-the-hindmost, and like there wasn't some glass ceiling for him that seemingly wasn't allowed to me, who had just hit it, and why the hell was that?

It was my friend's 21st birthday, and after lots of sangria, we ended up at a club, with two Australian guys who were in town for the week around Easter. They were great. One of them was cute, and reserved, and funny in that smart way that's more about plays on words and maybe hints at humor than of sheer smacking wit. I was hell-bent on ending that night with him to settle my invisible score; to understand what makes you go from one person to the next; to have more secrets to tack on to my list so that inevitably, when all was revealed in the in digressions on the home front, I would have one more ace up my sleeve, one more circumstance to smack in his face and say, "This is what neglect and looking elsewhere so carelessly and blatantly will get you."

It was, and still is, very petty and childish. "Evening the score" is not exactly the answer to equations like this. But regardless, that night, just as I was about to make my move, my friend Kara appeared at my elbow. "Someone stole my wallet," she said, and just like that, the spell was broken. The Aussie walked me home that night, but in the moments between my insecurity and having to grow up and help someone else's crisis, I realized that my own sleeping around wouldn't solve anything. It wouldn't make me feel better. It wouldn't teach my Lothario anything. And while the Aussie may have gotten a good night of fun out of the deal, he'd be gone the next week, anyway, probably to never be seen again.

So what, then, was it all about? Human beings are remarkably complex. Just as the characters on Mad Men are never truly translucent in their actions, but rather opaque, so are real people. You can see action-- you can watch someone jump ship, bail like a seasoned sailor, and pour themselves from one cup of their life to another for fear of becoming solid or stagnant. You can watch someone slip away from you, or lash out. You can watch someone burn bridges and go down in flames. And you can watch yourself do things you're not proud of, just because you're human, and you can't help it. But the logic behind the actions? That still remains in the dark, unknown even to your own heart.

Seems like we haven't changed that much since the '50s, after all.

XOXO

American Girls, or Why I Evidently Should Have Studied Abroad In Switzerland

Do you know that internet access is a human right in some countries? Not only does Switzerland consider it a human right, they also have some of the fastest broadband internet speeds in the world. Estonia, Greece, and France all consider internet access an inalienable human right.

So why, then, did I choose to come to Italy, land of the "Yeah, we'll get around to it...someday," public services and apparent lack of affection for making sure students studying abroad can like, I don't know-- actually keep up with their loved ones, do homework for online classes, and run blogs?

Monday night, I was laying in bed, streaming The Nanny (no judging), being generally happy, when it crapped out. I called the internet company the next day, and they told us it was a problem in the telephone lines (I believe it-- the entire neighborhood is holed up in the corner bar, the only place with functioning Wi-Fi in apparently, a 2 block radius,) and that they were leaning on the phone company to get it fixed. Great. The next day, I called back to check progress on the strong-arming. "A technician will be coming tomorrow, probably in the morning," I was told. Awesome. Thanks. Next morning, no show. Next-next morning, still no tech. An apartment full of 8 angry women. 6 angry guys above us. Peeved American students all up and down the block. And the only thing I can think the phone company is doing is sitting and rotating on their thumbs.

I'm sorry. I'm a little steamed. It wasn't so much of a big deal when I KNEW I didn't have internet, but now that I'm paying a REDICKULUS amount of money for it per month, I would really, really like to exploit it as much as possible. I would really like to be able to talk to the people at home that I miss. Like, reassure my parents that I'm ok and to ignore and not open my monthly bank statements, or to be able to make Spring Break plans with my roommates in Dublin. Potentially, even-- TRY TO FIND AN APARTMENT TO LIVE IN WHEN I COME BACK SO I AM NOT HOMELESS IN BURLINGTON.

Because do you know what internet-less American girls resort to for entertainment? It's nasty, nasty stuff, my friends. Retail therapy. Chainsmoking. Consuming entire bottles of wine, and starting to drink just after the sun reaches the zenith. Unsafe behavior. Risky road-crossing. Gelato addictions. Baked good and chocolate abuse. Spending horrific (HORRIFIC) amounts of money on new books to keep one's self occupied in lacking electronic pages. Talking to the local men. Taking far, far too much time to gaze at Michelangelo's David. (By far the hottest man in Florence. Those abs. Those buns. That...ball-sack. That's carved out of marble? Seriously? Seriously?)

While I am whining, let's insert a few other general complaints:
- I absolutely despise sleeping alone.
- The guy above me blasts “You are my everything, everything, everything, everything,” while having bed-post banging sex. This is why I do not sleep with bros. If I heard that song, I would be out of there before the end of the first chorus.
- I live in a madhouse. Please save me. Except for Alli, I never want to live with women again.
- I want a good beer like I want a fucking hard-on inside of me. And then, I think I want the beer more. Something tall, dark, full-bodied, with great head. And we’re still talking about the beer, here. Italy-- not a place for internet, or good beer.
- After seeing Avatar and beautifully joined-up alien/alien animal relationships, I really, really, miss Saph. This is the longest I have ever gone without seeing her. I am missing my other half, people.

If I make it back home alive, you have Robin to thank for the majority of this. He tried, really hard, to find me functional internet without the cost of a pint-and-a-half beer or banana and Nutella milkshake. He makes sure I am properly entertained and don't walk alone at night. He hears speeding mopeds before I do. And last night, he cooked dinner and got my Avatar ticket in advance. Along with the general fond company and lack of interest in each other, I think this is what an old marriage is like.

XOXO

Of Men, Women, And Italian Escapades, Part 4:

Italian Escapades:
Vespa Man, or Why Am I Such A Fuck-Up?

The dog is cute. It looks kind of like my best friend’s Australian shepherd, and it’s waiting patiently outside the small grocer’s down the block from my apartment for its master to return. It grins up at me, panting slightly, and, a sucker always for the canines, particularly good-looking ones, such as this one (just like with men and green-eyed people, or green-eyed men especially,) I smile back.

As I am smiling like a special type of fool at the dog, someone slides out of the door in front of me. I look up and see a youngish, stocky man in fashionable black leather-gear with sandy hair tucked under a helmet standing in front of me. “Hi,” he says, and thrown at the English with or without the accent behind it, I actually look back at him, catching his twinkling light eyes.

He reminds me, in the instant I really take him in, of the geeky Australian transfer student turned Eevil Keenival who was the hero of Grease 2. (Not such a great movie. That dreamboat and a young and always fabulous Michelle Phieffer were the only things that saved it.)

I take another pensive drag from the end of my cigarette, and he tries again. “Hello.” He’s careful to keep his body language open and friendly as I breeze by, not threatening or insinuating anything more than a greeting—maybe I’ll say something as I get closer? Maybe his magnetic attraction will just do the job and pull me right in to that black Italian-leathered muscular chest? I appreciate it—I appreciate all off it—though I don’t say anything back.

I walk another ten strides before it hits me. If Vespa man can see me like this, in a plaid men’s flannel shirt and bulky winter coat and my kicked-to-shit Uggs, desperately sucking on the end of a cigarette like it is my lifeline, hair tossed into a hot mess by the wind, and still think enough to want to say hi—what the fuck am I doing, walking away? If he is seeing me at one of my emotional lows, of which you conveniently get to miss out on the tempest that you’ve stirred up, and he wants to actually do something about it, even just greet me and chat with me on the sidewalk—why the fuck am I running away? Is that really the only mode I know how to operate on?

I look back. He’s still there, standing beside his Vespa, a vision in leather and nice hand-made shoes. I watch him swing a leg over the seat and settle in, turning the tiny engine over. He then motions to the dog, who rises from his watch by the shop’s stoop and jumps up into his master’s lap, riding in front of him. A man, his Vespa, and his dog. It’s such a picture of domestic Italian bachelordom bliss that it pulls at my ovaries somewhere in the same vicinity that really cute toddlers do. It doesn’t mean that I necessarily want one, but just for a moment, I think about what it could have been like if I actually said hi back. If we traded names. If I asked to pet his grinning dog and he told me it’s name. If I accepted an invitation for a ride on the back of the Vespa, something I want to check off the list of Thing To Do Before I Die or Before I Leave.

I think about it for a moment, watching his taillights fade. And then for another moment. And I find that somewhere in the space of these two moments, I’m less angry at you, and more angry at myself. I’m letting these moments go. These moments that I may never find again, great adventures, new acquaintances, and smiling European dogs. And for what? You’re having your moments at home, no explanations needed. I should be having mine. What I do here will mean just as little as what I didn’t do here when I get back, if not even less. Tit for tat. Vespa for Virginia.

XOXO

The Tough-Love Guide To Splitsville: What Do YOU Want?

This is pretty frank. If you're someone who gets upset easily, you may not want to read it. If you really don't want to know how women go through the after-shocks of "it's over", don't read this. If you wear perpetually rose-tinted glasses, and think true love prevails, this ain't for you.

But if you are going through a break-up, or feel lost, alone, scared, or like you need something to shake you out of it and at the same time make you feel less alone and unloved, read on, sister, or I guess to not be gender-biased-- friend. Hi. I'm not going to say "Let's hold each other while we sob," because that is so not my scene or how I do this, but I may be inclined to say, "If you need the occasional hug, I'm down for that, and in the meantime, let's curl up with a good book and chat and smoke."

So. You're now an Uno that used to be part of a Duo. Join the club. Take a seat. I'm gonna need your full attention. So stop thinking about it for a moment. I'm not going to sugar-coat any of this. I think it's about time we didn't take a "one size fits all" approach to what happens after it's over. If you really want to know how women get through this without going through boxes of Kleenex and repeatedly watching "The Notebook", this is where you want to be. I mean, that's all well and good if it's what gets you through, but not all of us operate like that. Some of us need to know what to expect if we want to get on with our lives, straight-up, no chaser.

Yes, You are Going to Lose Weight: You know how there's that very media-contrived popular image of that woman who's just had her heart broken drowning her sorrows in pint after pint of Ben & Jerry's Chubby Hubby? Well. I have never, ever met a woman who actually went on an eating binge and gained weight after a split. Instead, the norm I have found is that women actually lose weight. This is accomplished in one of two ways: "Do-Something" women usually throw themselves into their gym membership with renewed vigor and burn those pounds away to a leaner, more competitive self. "What-The-Fuck-Just-Happened?!" women usually get thrown right off their appetites and start to whittle away.

Let's break it down. Much to my chagrin, I recently found that when you feel comfortable with yourself and someone else, you eat. Why not, right? You know the term "comfort food"? Yeah. You're happy. You're not worried. You're probably feeling pretty secure. So you want to keep feeding that feeling, either physically or emotionally.

Well, after a split, shock sets in. It's going to happen, no matter how amicably it happens. At first, you may just forget to eat. Hey, it happens. Your mind is preoccupied elsewhere. If you're a smoker, like I am, you can easily mistake hunger for the need to smoke. Which further suppresses your appetite. Then, when you do get back around to that food thing, odd feelings may get dredged up that set you right off of eating. For me, it was disgust. Every time I sat down to eat, my mind would start wandering through what should have been closed and padlocked doors, and I would find myself so physically disgusted that I felt like I might vomit even before putting food in my mouth. I lost 6 pounds in 3 days. Not good. I don't really have 6 pounds to lose. Now, you can locate my hipbones for the first time since I hit puberty, and I'm honestly concerned that a pickpocket in Italy could just pick me up and carry me away instead of dealing with pockets.

Because I can't do this for myself, I'm going to do it for you: DO NOT THINK ABOUT IT. I don't mean the whole mess of affairs (ha), I just mean the things that happened that you couldn't have helped, one way or another. Really. Some things shouldn't be dwelt on. Don't give in to those thoughts that will never, or should never, be answered. You will never, and SHOULD never, know what it was like. You really, really don't want to know the details. So making them up isn't doing anyone any favors, least of all you, lady. And you are who matters right now.

I will say, however, that there is one up-side to losing post-disaster weight: compared to your emaciated African-child frame, your mammeries are going to look more massive than ever. It's the little wins.

Vices, Or "Why Is That Pack Empty Already?": You feel a little used and abused, so now you want to use and abuse something else, right? Alcohol. Cigarettes. Controlled substances. Give me the Stoli, and nobody gets hurt, right? Yeah. We've all been there. I'm not going to preach anything, because I am probably going to be sainted as the Patron Saint of Avoidance Through Substances. But just like the whole eating thing, one day, you're going to start to realize you're not drinking/smoking/toking/using as much as you were previously. That's when you know it is safe to start putting down the bottle/cigarette/bowl/rolled-up bill and step a little further away. And a little further away the next day. And sometime shortly, you will be able to enter civilized company again.

If you're finding this is not the case, and in fact, it's getting worse, do what any responsible user would do: have one "safe" person who knows about your problem and who you would feel comfortable having them snap you out of it, and GO TO THEM. Killing yourself is no way to get on with a better life. And plus, though you may feel hurt, there are so many other people who care about you. I bet you anything, that even if you are unlucky in love, you are incredibly blessed with amazing friends who would do nearly anything for you. I know I am. And most of the time, that unconditional love is even better than regular sex.
...Ok, so that may be a total lie, but, you know what I mean. It's more important.
......Or...ok, I just can't win this one.

Crazy-Bitch Behavior, And Why You Shouldn't Be Doing It: You may want to make a grand gesture. Usually, a pretty crazy grand gesture. But here's the problem: if you want to maintain any sense of decorum or civility with your ex S.O, you can't. No showing up on doorsteps. No beating other women up. No really pissed-off tirades or messages or letters or blog posts. Be a Big Girl. It's such a Catch-22, I know-- you really want to do something to let you blow off all that steam inside, but you'd be best off getting it out sometime when you're really not into the guy or outcome or friendship, anyway. This is what your friends are for. Swear them to secrecy, bug the fuck out, and be done with it. (Also, make them swear up, down, and sideways over your dead body or the closest bottle of their favorite beer not to send any angry letters of their own. Because having scary friends is no way to Win Friends And Influence People. Or ever have your friend and the person who recieved said Angry Letter in the same 20 foot radius ever again. Even though your friend's heart may be in exactly the right place. Make your judgement call.)

Re-Assess Your Situation-- Who Are You, and What Do You Want: Speaking of, by this point in your life, you shouldn't be with anyone who you feel like you're settling for or are apathetic about. You should be with someone who you can be totally, one-hundred-percent yourself around. You should be able to talk to them about whatever you want, and even crack horrendous jokes during foreplay without a second thought. You should not be compromising one iota for anyone else. You should not be afraid to say "this is what I like" and "this is what I don't like." You should know yourself pretty well by now, and if you don't, you should be figuring that out.

I know this sounds much easier said than done, but when you find it, you'll just know it, I promise you-- no games, no worries.

Personally, I am taking my semester abroad in Florence as a self-discovery field-trip. I can already tell you it's going to make me more independent, more confident, and more adept at expressing myself. Whatever else I learn while over there is going to be the surprise. But mostly, it's about getting away to find out who, exactly, I am. Not just who I am in the mirror, what music I listen to, what I like to eat, what I'm not a fan of doing, but what makes me come alive. What makes me scared, and how I can get over it. What I refuse to let go of. What I need to learn to admit to. And where I want to be, physically and theoretically.

What You SHOULD Be Doing: Full Disclosure: I am writing this to you in a massive Princeton hoodie, leggings, and slippers. I haven't showered yet. I haven't eaten yet. In fact, I woke up at 11 AM. Coping comes in all different guises. But what I can tell you is that right now, I am starting to get hungry for some toast. I'm planning on getting dressed to go into town and mail out some paperwork this afternoon. And I'm looking forward to a midnight Jacuzzi tonight.

It's little steps. Get out of bed. Get dressed. Go places. Keep yourself occupied. Take the time to be selfish and do what you like. Do what you want. Make no excuses. This time is about YOU. It's not about being nice or even charitable to whoever makes you feel less than stellar at the moment. The first step to surviving is to recognize what you need. Do so. Follow through. Don't rest until you get there.

A Note to Fellow Writers: I actually found this nugget in the most unlikely of places-- in one of my freshmen year textbooks from "Introduction to Professional Writing." Ariel Gore, author of "How To Become A Famous Writer Before You're Dead: Your Words in Print and Your Name in Lights," devotes a section of the first chapter to heartbreak. And no, I'm not shitting you, I found this is a required course book. This is what she says:

"When bad things happen to writers, there's always the silver glimmer of a good story. Damn, we think when we're facedown on the rain-wet pavement, nose broken and bleeding, coughing betrayal. This is gonna make a great story...Every time you expose yourself to annihilation, you come that much closer to grasping all that is indestructible in a soulful human being" (Gore, 31-32).

I bolded that last segment because I think that's the part you should focus on. Yeah, you may get a great story out of it, which, I have to admit, is the crutch that most writers and poets fall back on with biting black humor, or, like I do, get some cathartic writing out of it, but more than anything, the fact is that through the writing process after a big spill, you learn more about yourself, and what you really need. Seriously. Sit down with a notebook and some paper and start some stream-of-consciousness writing about what happened. You'll be amazed at what comes out of you: things you never said, things you did say, things you barely consciously remember, things you're writing down because you never want to forget, things you didn't know you had to say. And maybe, somewhere in that lovely chaotic mess (because I am a big fan of chaos), you may find exactly what it was you were looking for all along. Maybe it's an answer. Maybe it's a cold, hard fact. Maybe it's a new revelation about yourself. Maybe, it's where your soul really lies.

...So I took all day to write all that, and then thought...

That's kinda bullshit.

I mean, what is the most important thing right now? What is really resonating with me? It's not the fact I haven't eaten a square meal in a week. I couldn't care less. It's not the fact that I'm feeling a little like a schlub. I'm home; the cats are the only ones who can judge me, and they do that silently. And yeah, I'd really like to help other people out in the same spot I am right now, but that's not why I'm writing. It's the fact that I was rocked pretty hard. And how?

I find, usually, that the best thing that I can do when I'm stumped is to find someone else's creative content, in a similar vein to that I am working through, and watch, read, or experience it, completely open to interpretation. Sometimes, something jumps out. Sometimes, I get hit with a blinding flash of the obvious. And sometimes, I have to go through it a few times before I really get it. (Hello, "Dazed and Confused". Both the movie, and what it rendered me.) I've been watching the movie "The Women" a lot recently. Adapted from the 1936 play by Clare Boothe Luce, it features an all-star women cast (Meg Ryan, Annette Bening, Candice Bergin, Bette Midler,) directed by Diane English, and focuses around the relationships between friends, mothers, daughters, wives, mistresses, and how they all intermingle in life.

The first night I watched it, I was completely raw. It was not a great experience. It hit a little too close to home and basically reduced me to a lump of nerves and totally withdrawn thoughts on the couch. That was the first night I thought, "Am I allowed to be angry about this? Can I really put aside the idea that I am supposed to be A Big Person and Do The Rational And Accommodating Thing for a moment and just...feel this?" So I did. I opened myself right the fuck up and got righteously angry.

But anger doesn't get you very far. This is not to say that you shouldn't let yourself get angry. There are some things absolutely worth getting angry over. Let me be the first to say-- there is nothing quite like those first initial five minutes after you reach a realization or see something totally upsetting in which you fume and rage and stomp around and shriek like a banshee, but you get spent very, very easily. And sometime, when you're lying there, as low as the floorboards can get, you think, "Is this really worth it? Is it really worth this emotional strain? I mean, past is past. Done is done. Don't you think you should be...I don't know...doing something instead of just lying here and being vaguely pathetic?"

This is when you ask yourself the two things that reverberated with me in "The Women":

"I've spent my entire life trying to be everything to everyone, and somehow, someone is always disappointed."

"Don't give a shit about anybody. Be selfish. Because you have to ask yourself a question: What about ME? ...I mean, after all, who are you? What do you want?"

I can't answer that for myself right now. Maybe that's the problem. On one hand, I know I never want to go through a repeat of what happened, but on the other, it's giving me the questions that I'm grappling with every day to reach on consensus on: "How forgiving am I? How much does it really mean to me? Where will I bend? Where will I break? And what do I now feel? And if you can do that, I should be smart enough to let you walk away."

You have to know the answers to those questions before you throw your lot in with someone else.

You do not have to be Wonder Woman. I give you the permission to be as completely human, and therefore, as completely imperfect and flawed and selfish as you need to be in finding those answers for yourself. That's as imperfect and flawed and selfish as you need to be, not want to be.

I once heard a young woman described as "ferocious" by one of her ex-professors in regard to going after what she wanted. That's what I want to be: ferocious. I want to be someone to be reckoned with. I want to be someone that you would not even think about crossing. And I don't ever want to be in this situation of not knowing, ever again. That's what I want most: a firm stance on what I want.

XOXO

[Fabulous photo credit goes to Edahn at http://www.askedahn.com/. Check that site out for some right-on advice.]

And Not-So-Sweet Goobyes.

Please allow me to make up for all the time I didn’t post with the most epic of Epic-Posts.

Back-story:

Tuesday, Perfect strayed back into the territory of “We Might As Well Be Dating” when he sent me a picture message of the 1 pound hamburger he devoured for lunch. He was so excited about this feat of digestive strength, the excitement continued through the rest of our afternoon discussion. Every text was promptly responded to. He was sweet. We were funny. It was great. I felt, again, like I had my boy back.

Wednesday afternoon, while I was on a ropes course with the rest of my Peer Advising staff, being piggybacked and carried around by men for hours, getting my ass groped by my friend, and watching people hang suspended by rope on a high-wire far above my head, I got a text from Perfect. Actually, my cell phone, which was located in my bra cup because the white spandex leggings and old blue soccer shorts I was wearing didn’t have pockets (oh, such a winning outfit!), received a text from Perfect, making my right boob vibrate like it has never vibrated before. There was some spastic movement to get it out, but it was worth the whole shocking endeavor when I read that he was coming to Burlington on Thursday, but didn’t know what time yet. He was driving home, and by the time I could respond to him, was out of service. Boo. So later that night on Facebook around 11, I caught him on Facebook chat right before he signed off and went to bed to tell him that I was in training until 3:30 and please, pleeeease could he come in the later afternoon/evening? “Ok, I will try hard,” he told me.

“Ah, yes—thank you,” I said. “Now g’night with you.”

“Nighty night,” he said. I wished him sweet dreams and in response he gave me the sort of Perfect answer that one must imagine him saying with a suggestive tone, possibly with an undercurrent of, “yes, sweet dreams about you and me having hot, hot, sweaty, animalistic sex.”
“Oh, I will.”

Or maybe it was me that had the dreams about him and I having hot, hot, sweaty, animalistic sex. Guilty as charged.

What Should Have Happened:

Perfect, by all accounts, should have gotten into Burlington around 3:30 on Thursday afternoon. Because Cait and I had already discussed the fact that she wanted to go shopping with him, and I wanted to give them their alone time so he and I could have our alone time later, she was supposed to go home quickly after training, drop her stuff, and meet him on Church Street to take him away-to-college shopping. (This is one of their things they’ve been doing together for years, shopping.) Around 5:30 or 6, when they were done bleeding debit card money to Burlington’s retail establishments, he was supposed to come over to my apartment so that we could have some chill time alone together and catch up. Just really laid-back, fun stuff. We can’t shut up once we get on a roll, and plus, I wanted to take him on a walk to the underpasses to show him the amazing graffiti there, because I know that’s something he’s interested in. At some point, when I felt comfortable, I was just going to say, “Look, last time we talked seriously, you pretty much told me what you thought was logical and what you wanted, and I agreed to give it a try. Well, I tried, but it’s not working for me. I still feel the same way I did about you in May and June, and I honestly think we should just give this a try. It doesn’t have to be serious—in fact, I would be great with it being casual. But if we try and it works, then it works. If it doesn’t—no harm, no foul. But I think we’re missing out on a lot of fun stuff we could be doing, and I’d like to give us a try again.”

If he said yes, let’s give this another solid effort, theoretically, we would then fall madly into the closest possible bed, (hopefully, mine,) and have earth-shattering sex. Then I would whip out my trusty planner, we’d schedule our first visitation weekend, and then celebrate by having some wet and wild shower sex. (This is that “fun stuff” I alluded to earlier: sex. We basically have a relationship without the sex and this point, so wouldn’t that be fun to add?) I would visit him, he would come up to see me, it would be great, the sex would be amazing, and life would be generally beautiful.

If he said “no, I don’t feel that way,” then I would counter with a very polite, “well, then I’m confused, because that’s not what I’ve been hearing from our friends,” and delve a little deeper into the Is-He-Scared-Or-Is-He-Just-Over-Me? debate. In the end, if this were my answer, I would know to shake hands and call us good friends, get back up in the saddle, and start looking again. But he would know. And that’s all that would really matter.

What Really Happened:

Perfect and I kept in touch all day Thursday with check-ins and planning. I wasn’t sure if Cait knew he was coming, and she wasn’t sure if I knew he was coming, so by the time we both spoke up and but our heads together in joint effort with Perfect around 1 PM, I thought we had a pretty good plan worked out. Cait would meet him at 3:30 when we got out of training downtown. They’d shop and get their time together to catch up and say their goodbyes. Then Perfect would come to my apartment so we would get out alone time to catch up and try and work things out and say goodbye. (And, again—possibly fuck our brains out.)

Instead, when I texted him at quarter after 5 to check in and see if he was being close to done with Cait, I got an interesting response. “Cait’s on her way now.”

Ummm, excuse me?

Apparently, Cait had decided that today, yes, TODAY, THIS AFTERNOON, while Perfect more or less patiently waited for her by wandering around Church Street and bought two shirts at American Eagle, it would be a good time to get another piercing.

“I don’t know if I will be able to get over there!” Perfect texted. “I got a late start!”

“What time do you have to leave?” I asked.

“I was hoping to be home at 7, but that won’t work, lol,” he answered. It was, by then, almost 6:30.

“Uhhh, no, I don’t think so—hahaha—but I’d like to see you regardless of where you are, so please don’t leave!” I, um, I guess I almost begged.

“Well, if you want to come to Church Street real quick, I can say hi and bye.”

“Livid” does not begin to describe my emotions. In fact, “livid” now needs a new definition, because I far surpassed its limits.

“Oh my god, this is bullshit,” I texted back before I could control it. “Where are you; I’ll meet up with you.”

“Me and Cait are just walking out of Urban Outfitters. I need to leave soon. This was a real quick trip for me, sorry.”

I looked at Emily, who had happened to come home with me and witnessed this entire debacle, and I swear to god I felt smoke trickle from my nose and ears.

“This. Is. BULLSHIT! BULLSHIT, BULLSHIT, BULLSHIT!!!” I screamed while applying more mascara, grabbing my keys, and forwarding those texts all at once. “That’s IT! This is IT!”

I slammed out of the apartment, into my car, and rocketed downtown while blasting some…I can’t remember what it was—I think Matchbox Twenty. Yes, that’s right—“Push.” Because I was damn tired of being pushed and pulled around like this.

“Where are you?” I texted Perfect after parking at the top of the parking garage.

“The mall on Church Street—Pac Sun.”

By the time I got to the mall, I still hadn’t calmed down. People were visibly avoiding having to be near me. I could feel the anger crackling around me. It’s a wonder I wasn’t shutting lights off, something I normally do when my body’s energy gets out-of-control mad. (Yes, I’m a power gremlin. I can’t wear watch batteries, use motion sensor-activated sinks, toilets, soap or paper towel dispensers, and I occasionally turn off store- and streetlights.) I took a quick trip to the ladies room for one last look. And that look was manic. I called Emily to try and have her calm me down as I walked to Pac Sun, listening to her soothing voice and thinking Zen thoughts. I walked into the store, and did a lap. No tall, hulking manbeasts. No mutual friends.

“That’s it,” I told Emily. “This is going to be his balls on the floor of Pac Sun.” And then I turned around just in time to watch Perfect and Cait walk in the door behind me. Perfect looked wary and possibly, a little scared. Cait looked oblivious. Also, significantly more dressed-up than she had looked a few hours previously. So, she spent her time while she was supposed to be with Perfect going home, showering, changing into a cute dress, doing her hair and make-up, getting stuck with needles, and then commandeered my time. Great. What friends are for, right?

“I’ve got to go,” I told Emily. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“Don’t kill him,” were her last words to me. “I don’t want to have to visit you in prison.”

As I looked at Perfect, looking at me, I was struck more by what hadn’t changed than what had. He still had the same look in his eyes the day he did when we saw each other after sleeping together—that looks of, “hey, I really like you,” along with a look of, “we’re here; what’s going to happen now?” But it was pushed back further and hidden with wariness, and dropped eye contact. We both circled around each other, almost sizing the other up as we did our, “hey, what’s up?”s. He became infinitely interested in a clothing rack. I lifted up a hoodie’s sleeve. We existed in the same place as each other, just standing there, soaking it in, our little psychological feelers testing out the waters, the vibes, the attitude. No one spontaneously exploded. He tried a hoodie on. I tried on a coat.

“That fits you really well,” he said. We looked each other dead in the eyes, the first lingering eye contact since we’d been together. I saw them, then, really, and it was as I suspected— nothing had changed. He may have gotten a little sharper and a little more guarded with me, but then again, so had I with him. But when it boiled down to it all, it was him and me. It has always been him and me. Cait drifted around, either clueless or pretending to be. I calmed down a bit.
And promptly got worked up again when after buying said hoodie, Perfect turned around and announced, “I’ve got to get going. I was supposed to be at John’s house at 7.”

“Ok,” I gamely said as we walked out of the mall. “How is Mullett?”

“He’s good,” Perfect said as we all stood on Church Street. “Man, I’m hungry.”

“So am I,” Cait said, rubbing her stomach. “Well, I’m staying downtown.”

Perfect looked at her. “Hey, I need cash for parking,” he told her, and she goggled at him for a minute before cracking her wallet open. I was impressed at his balls, but then again—only fair. If she made him wait for longer than the 2 hour free parking, then yeah, she should pay for it.

Money now in hand, Perfect and I both vacillated. “I’ve got to go back to the parking garage,” he said as he and Cait traded bags so they had all their individual items separated and in hand to leave.

“Oh, which one? I’m parked at the top of that one,” I said, pointing.

“So am I.”

“Great—walk back together?” I asked, and Perfect and I both looked at each other. A loaded look. Yes. Our five minutes alone.

“Yeah, great,” he said. We started to turn in unison.

Cait saw. “Hey, Perf, would you please drive me to Flatbread? I’m meeting Heather there for dinner.”

We both turned back and gave her the sort of incredulous look that people usually only make in movies. My mouth may or may not have actually been hanging open. This was the most aggressive semi-cock-block I’d experienced of my life. “Are you shitting me?” I wanted to say, shaking her. “Flatbread is one block down the street. You’re going to make him drive you there so that he and I get no time together? Get. The. Fuck. Out.”

Instead, Perfect gave a shrug and a look and said, “Yeah, sure.” Ok, so I can sort of understand this—you never deny your best friends something. If Nora or Alli or Melissa or Caiti were to say, “hey, give me a ride from your mailbox to your house?” I’d shrug and say whatever and get my car keys out, too. But really—am I alone in thinking this is completely unacceptable, childish, selfish behavior THROUGHOUT on her part?

So our (un)merry gang of three trooped up the stairs to the parking garage, chatting about tattoos and college and how I was going to throw Cait off of the parking garage roof the first chance I got. (Not. But I would have loved to somehow work that into conversation topic.) Perfect led us to a Jeep Wrangler, and I stood behind it, looking at it a bit unlovingly. A.) The Douche drove only Wranglers, making his way through 4, and B.) it wasn’t the loved/hated 4runner.

“New car?” I asked as Perfect put his bags away.

“Naw, it’s my dad’s,” he said, turning back around and coming to stand closer to me where I stood on the driver’s side of the car. Cait, who I had thought would at least have the decency to get in the car and give us some quasi-privacy, stood at the other side of the bumper. Perfect started playing with the rubber that lined the frame of the car door. Cait got the hint and put her bags away.

“So,” I started. “I really would have liked to get a chance to hang with you, but oh well. When do you leave, again?”

“Saturday. School starts Monday.”

“Oh, well,” I said, shifting from side to side, uncomfortable as he watched me. “I’ve got Orientation to work at, and then classes, but I’ll call you when things settle down. Pass on my wisdom and stuff like that, ok?”

“Ok,” he said. “I’d like that.”

And then he came up to me, hunkered down, and gave me the best hug of my life. For two people separated by a solid foot of height and a proverbial elephant in the room, we mesh together so perfectly, it was hard for me to let go as he held me and rubbed my back. As always, one of his massive hands spanned my entire back, warm and comfortably heavy, just so there. I clung on to his shoulders, and closed my eyes, breathing him in, the scent of boy—clean laundry, forest air, soap, deodorant, and musk. The same smell that still lingers on my sheets and in my pillows. The same smell I’d know anywhere. We stood like that for a good thirty seconds, and then like little cracks fracturing us apart, let go, little by little. It felt like a sculpture being chiseled apart. Or maybe that was just my heart.

We said goodbye, and I walked across the roof of the parking garage to my car. The Wrangler revved to life, and I stood by my car, pretending to look for my keys and waved back as Perfect and Cait drove by, waving—Cait, enthusiastically; Perfect, a single deliberate rotation of one hand from right to left. Goodbye. And then, they were gone.

I sat in my car, gulping down dry sobs because the tears wouldn’t come, blasting “Kiss The Rain,” and wondering if this was it. I turned my engine over, drove up to the Admissions building of my college that sits conveniently overlooking Main Street, and ran across the parking lot to sit on the porch and watch cars drive by. I knew Cait—she would dawdle saying goodbye to Perfect when he went to drop her off at Flatbread, and traffic was bad. Sure enough, 10 minutes later, I watched the Wrangler chug to the top of the hill and looked across at Perfect, sitting so solid in the driver’s seat, a bit like a salmon in a sardine can. And although that bitch may have gotten his last minutes, I was the last person to watch him leave Burlington.

I went home and ran two miles in the trails by the river about, mad at him, mad at Cait, mad at the situation, and mad at myself. Alli and Dan found me an hour later and took me out for ice cream, or rather, a stirring rendition of “This Is Exactly Where I Was Three Hours Ago,” complete with “we’re parking one spot over from where Perfect parked,” “we’re walking down the stairway we walked up,” “we’re standing on the street where we stood,” and “oh god, I feel like shit.” When a lady accidentally stepped on the back of my foot in Ben & Jerry’s, the only thing that kept me from turning around and taking her out with a flawless right hook was the fact she looked like my mother. When two college guys hooted after me and my short shorts, I almost turned around to harass them back.

“Do we need to take you to Mr. Mike’s tonight so you can get in a fight?” Alli asked me.

“YES,” I answered vehemently. Something in the way I said it or looked when I said it must have made her reconsider.

“Maybe not,” she amended nervously.

With help, I drafted a text and sent it to Perfect at 9, not expecting a response back until the next morning. “So I’m not gonna lie,” it said. “I was a little disappointed about today. I really would have liked a chance to spend a little more time with you. Would you be free to meet tomorrow in MontP middayish?”

As I was driving Emily home around midnight, I got one of the great shocks of my young life. At 12:11 AM, Perfect texted me back. “I got to get college stuff going! What do you need to talk to me about?”

“It wouldn’t take long, I promise,” I texted back, while driving. (Very dangerous—don’t follow in my example.) “I’d just like a chance to actually see you before you leave.”

“I don’t know! Can we talk on the phone?”

“I’m driving my friend home right now and I’m hella tired after last night…I’ve got the morning free so it would just be easier if we could make that work. And I hate phones, if you can’t tell by the texting, hahaha,” I replied, trying to keep the tone light.

“I am busy, though.” Stubborn. Obstinate. A little bit mad and peevish. This is both Perfect and I I’m talking about by this point. It was like 12 rounds of passive-aggressive text-boxing—I’d punch him with a “visit tomorrow,” and he’d counter back with a “call me now” punch of his own. Neither one of us were giving in, so I dug in.

“When are you not super-busy tomorrow, or if you have to go into town for anything anyway?”

“Atta-girl,” Emily coaxed from the passenger seat beside me. “Don’t let him win! Don’t give in! Don’t give up!”

“I am at home packing and have plans with friends and need to take care of the dogs! So we can’t talk on the phone? What’s so important? You’re creeping me out! Lol.”

Now, for any men reading this, telling a woman she’s “creeping you out” is pretty much the recipe for an instant fight. Emily watched me puff up and tried to deflect. “I’m sure that’s not what he meant,” she said. “You know, like ‘freaking me out’ or ‘making me nervous,’ not creeping like "creepy"!”

I’d give her that, and looked over at her, flushed and hot with nerves and anger, but voice still droll and sarcastic humor still intact. “Well, he just saw me. It’s not like I’m trying to tell him I’m three months pregnant with his child. Or going to profess my undying love to him. So I guess no, I’m not creepy.”

Instead, I texted this back: “”Well, you’ve been freaking me out, so join the club! I just want to clean slate before you leave and I’d rather be able to do it in person because it’s easier for me than calling.”

And then Perfect made the mistake that broke the argument’s back: “Clean what slate, I am really confused and drunk right now with friends.”

Ok, so, not only are you admittedly DRUNK, but you’ve been furiously texting me for the past hour now in front of your friends, so, excuse me, but wouldn’t that appear a little awkward? “No, we’re not together, but I’m going to text her and ignore you and get into a very couple-esque argument about seeing each other over here in the corner while we’re supposed to be out chilling together.”

I hope his friends are as confused about us and I am, because that way, I’m not alone in this.

“Then this definitely isn’t the time to debate this. I’m tired and driving,” I told him with finality.

And then, Perfect did something I would have never expected from him. “Ok, drive safe, bye,” he said, and then he turned his phone off. End of conversation. Firstly, he NEVER tells me to drive safe—that’s my line to him. Last-ditch effort to say, “I’m mad at you but I still care.” Secondly, Perfect NEVER gets mad. And thank god, because I bet he can Hulk up really quick. But no—Perfect does not get angry. Perfect gets mildly annoyed. It is mind-numbingly hard to get a rise out of Perfect, and him turning his phone off is the equivalent of another man yelling and throwing things. Or storming away for “a drive” as some prefer to do. I have to admit, I was a bit perversely pleased that I was able to get a rise and response out of him like that. If I could crawl under his thick skin enough to instigate that response, it’s got to mean something, right?
And in other news, that was out first real fight. Spats, we’ve had before. They blow over, but the next morning when I texted him to say “Hey, good morning, I’m up—let me know when you have coverage so we can continue our 12 rounds,” and watched the little green Verizon check-mark appear ten minutes later when he got coverage and the message was received but not responded to, it was obvious that this wasn’t just going to “blow over.” Whatever. I was still pissed. The “creeping me out” comment still stung, hard. And I didn’t have much riding on the chance I’d get to see him again before he left, either.

So I was surprised that evening when in the middle of a dorm’s first hall meeting I was attending during freshmen Orientation when my cell rang and it was a text from Perfect. “Hey,” was all it said. But “hey” is how Perfect makes up for all our little disagreements. He always texts me back first to try and make up before I text him, and his “hey” is a joint “I’m calmed down” and “I’m sorry.”

I love his “hey”s.

“Hey, I’m in a dorm meeting for my job—can I text you back when it’s over?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

After the meeting, I sent him a text back. “Hey—so I think we had a massive communication breakdown last night. I was just really tired and cranky and wasn’t communicating well to get my thoughts across.” (And that’s as far as I’ll get to saying “I’m sorry.”)

“Ok, what did you want to tell me?” Perfect asked. “Just go for it.”

This is where my little brain started to churn to life. Why the need in Perfect to talk and for me to say something? All I ever asked for was to hang out/chill out/see each other in person. Not once, and you can check back in the texts, did I ever say something like “we need to talk” or “I need to talk to you.” The closest I came was saying I wanted to see him to clean slate. He was the one who came up with all the talking. Huh.

“No, that’s the thing—it was more of a chill thing since we didn’t get to really see each other yesterday. But, you know, I’m sure there would have been talking, otherwise it would just be weird.” Again, trying to keep tone light.

“Yeah, sorry,” he apologized for it again.

“Yeah, it kinda sucks. Will you be in coverage later? I’m eating but I’ll call you after.”

“I might be.”

“Ok. It’ll be like, 10/20 minutes.”

So, after eating and generally gnawing on my fingernails and cold sweating, backed up by the lovely Marissa who so nicely agreed to patiently sit on the stone wall behind East and watch me pace on the phone so if anything went wrong I wouldn’t be alone afterward to do something drastic like lie down in the middle of the pavement and wait for a car to run me over, I called Perfect. That’s right, my little fingers went down the contact list in my cell phone, found his real name, which, for the slow of you out there, is not, in fact, really “Perfect,” and pressed send. He picked up on the third ring, and I was yet again reminded that his voice starts somewhere around his kneecaps—possibly, even his ankles.

We chatted for six minutes, about this, that, and everything, except for US. Now, this may not seem like such a stellar performance, but let me remind you it only took us three and a half to break up. We talked packing, or lack thereof, as he got called into work; roommates and worries (how he and two other guys are supposedly going to fit into a men’s double with one shared refrigerator;) my day; about my “fun and weird” little quirks (his words, not mine,) when fire trucks with sirens blasting passed him on his end of the line and I had to tell him that due to my sensitive hearing I’d have to hold the phone away from my ear until they were gone; how we were both bummed we didn’t get to spend more time together and was he sure that he had no time this evening? (“No…I’m on my way to dinner with my parents now and then I have to pack, and tomorrow morning I’m going over to John’s house before I leave to say goodbye to him and his family,”) and just general other little things. He told me his game-plan for heading to school, when he started classes, etc. I told him about working freshmen Orientation and how he better participate in his icebreakers because they’re a bitch to organize.

It was funny, though—he was audibly nervous, stuttering a few words, “umm”ing all over the place, and repeating statements. It was sweet; it was cute; it made me light up and go flirty. We both worked hard at bringing “us” back to normal and making up, and by the time he told me he was at the restaurant and had to go, I felt good. “Ok, good luck with everything. Safe trip. And I’ll talk to you soon,” I told him. Though I didn’t get to give him the speech, it had occurred to me halfway through our conversation that it was ok—it was more important to make sure we were ok than to further rock the boat. I’d wait a few days—let him settle in to college, let me get through my first week of classes, and then we’d go from there.

After I hung up, Marissa looked at me from across the parking lot. “I could hear him,” she told me. “He’s got a sexy voice!”

“Yeah, I know,” I told her. “Whales can hear him it’s so low.”

Truth.

The thing that drives me crazy, however, is that one night, I’ll go to bed sure that it is over and done, and that was Perfect’s final chance and he’s made it clear that he’s over it all, over me—and then the next day, it’s all sunshine and smiles and hard work and apologies from him, and I rest my head on that same pillow that 24 hours ago I was sure was my Bed of Pain and this time, am convinced that he is one of the best people in the world and I adore him. (All considered, though, and I’m not saying this just because I’m dick-whipped, but he is a pretty stellar human being. And I’m sure he’s even better-seeming if you’re not romantically involved with him and don’t have to deal with the hot-and-cold bullshit.) It’s all so very emotionally taxing. My feelings aren’t used to this much whip-lash. Normally with my men, it’s cut and dried: they’re dicks who don’t really want to work for anything, so don’t expect much. With Perfect, it’s almost the complete opposite: if something goes down in a way not planned or doesn’t end well, he’s perfectly contrite and willing to meet me somewhere half-way to make up for it.

…Most of the time.

What’s Happened Since Then:

So, it’s now the third of September. Perfect has been away for six days, and, strangely, that’s how long it’s been since I’ve heard from him. I’ve sent him three texts that were received, but not responded to, and I know he’s alive because he’s been on Facebook posting. I get that life is different. I get that he’s adjusting. I get he’s busy with classes, and I get that his family was apparently still there on one of the days I texted him. But honestly, this is scaring me. because I also understand that he’s off meeting new people, and some of those people will be cute girls who will just be dying to get with him, and I can get a little insecure. The longest we’ve ever gone without talking was for six days when I ran away home and then to Saugerties because I was so mad at him I COULDN’T talk to him. This is weird.

I thought we were ok. I thought we had made up and were back on track. I thought he wasn’t mad anymore. But honestly, I have no idea what’s going on with him. Alli brought up a valid point that maybe, he kept bringing up talking because he knows EXACTLY what’s going on and wanted to hear me say it. Emily seconded her with another good point:

“If he’s the one who broke up with you, and he wants you back, he’s not going to want to be the one to say if first and look like an idiot who made a huge mistake. He’s going to want you to say it so he can then agree and he can save face. He may be scared to look like he was wrong. And you’ve been so chill with him and staying friends that he may honestly think it’s ok with you, and that you don’t want more. And by you saying you just wanted to “hang out” and deflecting all of his attempts to “talk,” it might really seem that way to him.”

Huh. Apparently, I may have been too cool of a cucumber. If that’s the case, and he does think I feel only platonic for him, the silence can be explained by him being away and trying to get back over me. What do you think, dear readers? Is he wanting to talk so we can banish the elephant in the room and he can straighten things out by saying, “no, I think we should just be friends,” or could he also be waiting for me to say the words “I want you back,” first? I’m honestly at a loss for this one.

Or, he could just me mad at me. But WHYYYYYY?! What does this uncharacteristic silence mean? I may have to actually ask Cait, who I’ve been generally avoiding due to latent anger and grudge issues since her stunning little immature performance last Thursday. (Oh, it’s been a week since I saw him. Ohhhh.)

Anyway, I’m calling him tonight if I don’t hear back from him before then. Even if he doesn’t pick up, I’ll still get to leave a message on his answering machine and ask what his damage is. Marissa and I will be downtown to meet her beau, so it would be a good time to be somewhere where I can’t flip the fuck out.

I’ll let you know how it goes, and until then, darlings,

XOXO

P.S-- And of course right as I publish this, he texts me back, but then doesn't answer the next text I send asking if I can call him later because I'm running off to class...of course. So confuzzled. As I said to Alli, "At least I know he's alive, unless he's figured out a way to text from the grave."

Runaway Girl Does Shop Talk.

I legitimately ran away from Burlington today. Granted, I have a reason to be gone, and it’s a good one, but don’t let it fool you—even if I hadn’t had one, I would have fled that town today like the fugitive from the Cold, Hard Truth that I am.

Or, at least, I tried to flee quickly and quietly. That’s hard when your car’s front right brake is making a sound as if someone is sanding it every time your tire rotates and it feels like a part of your front end is crumpling every time you actually dare to apply the brakes. Luckily, my mechanic guys are less than a quarter-mile from my apartment. I was able to baby the Civvy there and pass it off to them with sound affects and a worried look. As they diagnosed, I tested the multiple lines of my cell phone between my money dealing for repairs with my father, my freaking out about money dealings with my friends, and my texted second-opinion mechanic’s advice from John, who got to reassure me multiple times that while not replacing the “nearly shot” rotors wasn’t great, and the fierce vibration the new brake pads gave under foot when braking as my nasty rotors wore them down (damned if I didn’t get new pads, financially doomed if I got matching rotors—after all, the Civvy’s alternator was just fucking rebuilt last week and the car serviced to the tune of over $300,) I would be ok and not die.

Let it be stated that John has the patience of a saint, the good sense when it comes to women of a seasoned sterling boyfriend, and the capacity to make me a raging fan-girl because of both.

It’s never good news when the mechanic comes and sits next to you. He looked at me with a mixture of wariness and pity—this college girl obviously in over her head, clutching her cell phone like it was a life-line and she could possibly squeeze both another dime and some good luck out of it—and leaned in. “Do you have a dad or a friend or a boyfriend who works with cars?” he asked me.

Nothing like a complete stranger pressing a sore point. Do Not Go There. Abort Mission. No Talking About The Elephant In The Mechanic Shop. “No…” I started flatly, remembering how Perfect followed Cait all over Burlington playing Boy Mechanic, and then paused, remembering John, presumably on the other end of his phone line, pressing key pad buttons to tell me what to do, always the Knight in Shining Honda Armor. “Actually, I have a friend who works at a Honda dealership?” I finished, the end of my statement rising up like a question. Is John really a friend of mine? Would he really follow through on his word and be willing to help me out?

“Oh, he could probably get the parts much cheaper through his dealership discount,” the mechanic told me, getting more animated now that I had given him something he could work with me with. “He may even be able to replace them himself. It would be much less expensive.”

I loved Mechanic Man at this moment. Most would be telling you that they are the only person capable of caring for your car properly, and at an exorbitant price. This is what returning a mechanic’s wrench will do for you, it seems—you watch out for them, and they watch out for you.

My favorite caveat from my Mechanic Man friend was the words of wisdom he gave me as I climbed into my driver’s seat. “Pump the brakes a few times and test them out. Don’t tail-gate. If your rotors get really hot and you slam on the brakes hard, they could explode. And then the only way you’ll stop is when you hit something.”

I looked at him, wide-eyed. “Or when I pull the emergency brake?”

“Yeah, that, too.”

Excellent. I am driving the Amazing, Exploding, Vibrating Car. We are one sex-toy step up from the Ford Pinto.

On the way home, I got to ponder life a lot. Specifically, though while it may suck sometimes, today really is not when I would want it to end. I cannot die pissed off with Perfect. And the more I thought about Perfect and how mad I still am at him, and how lovely John is, even through my frantic texts to him, the more I wanted to just stop running, stop driving, stop the car, pull over, and collapse.

I’m not a crier. I just find it emotionally and physically exhausting. I can’t muster up the emotion enough to care to cry. Nine times out of ten, if I do cry, it’s out of frustration. Get me angry, get me frustrated, and there come the waterworks. Hurt me, cause me pain—no thanks. I’ll sleep it off. If I feel like I really need to cry, I get into the shower and let the water hit me in the face so I can pretend the droplets streaming down my face and off the tips of my eyelashes are my tears. Just feeling them makes me feel better. Crying, I find, is over-rated.

Because I’m home, I substitute the Jacuzzi bathtub for the shower, though I also love the shower, particularly for singing in, as when you get pitch-perfect, the glass walls emit a lovely reverberation. I was, admittedly, a mistake of my parents. They weren’t expecting a child in their house on the reclusive mountain, and so were in the process of fully-loading it when my mother discovered she was in the family way. Large entertaining deck? Check. Jacuzzi? Check. Library? Nope—make that a child’s bedroom. My father, the sort of guy who doesn’t deal well with his plans being changed, didn’t speak to her for a week. (That, I just find unfair. It takes two to tango, after all, let alone to do the horizontal no-pants dance.) The Jacuzzi is my thing—it’s where I learned how to doggie-paddle, where I used to wash my below-waist long hair through elementary school, and when stress found my life around the same time as high school and the start of manual labor jobs and then demanding retail jobs, it became my oasis from the world.

It’s still one of the first places I go to when I get home. I light all the candles I’ve hoarded into the bathroom from all over the rest of the house with my cigarette lighter, my worst of the Bad Habits. I’m partial to my light because it’s so multi-use friendly—I’ve used it to light up; most of my closest friends have used it; boyfriends have used it; it’s been all over with me through the good, the bad, and the indifferent; it’s lit the road at night, warmed fingers in the winter, and lit candles in again, the good, the bad, and the indifferent. (I’m actually quite a sentimental person about little objects like this. If you look around my room, you’d notice all sorts of little trinkets—stones, shells, bottle caps, ticket stubs, hair ties, pieces of paper, and the big one, fortune cookie fortunes—all with memories behind them. Little touchstones, some with lessons, some sweet, some bitter, some bittersweet.) I let the water run until it’s steamy like a sauna in the bathroom, and then me, book, bathtub and moonlight-filled skylights get re-acquainted.

This may be one of the few times in life I really just breathe. There is something about candle light, water, and music that just strips me down and makes me let go of the things that I normally keep balled up into a tight little bundle of nerves that keeps me vibrating with thoughts and worries day and night. I don’t—ha, as if this should come of any surprise—let go of things easily. Usually, the Jacuzzi, like the barn, is one of those places I let go, if nothing more than out of habit, knowing that I should.

Tonight was different. Tonight was hard. Tonight, I couldn’t keep my attention on the book’s pages, or in what I was doing, or even in the zip code I was in. It seems running from Burlington to home wasn’t far enough to go to lose the things howling and nipping at my heels. It seems as though I’ll have to go even farther. Yes. I am the kind of girl who runs away from things. Last time, it was to get away from Perfect the night we slept together and he spent the night. In the morning, I had to leave by 9 AM to meet my trainer to go to Jersey. This time, although technically it’s to go help my trainer again, it’s really to get away from Perfect again, and all the things left unsaid. (Both times I’ve run away from Perfect, I’ve been wearing the same underwear. This makes me wonder about how much of it is what’s in the panties. Am I really a big pussy when it comes to him and relationships?) So far, I’ve put over 2 hours and 60 miles between us, and it’s still not enough. I’ll let you know when I can figure out when to stop running.

So I finally fell backward and lay at the bottom of the tub, wondering if I could just live there, head underwater, buffering the sound of the world. Me, the Jacuzzi and I…that’s all. Maybe I could hide at the bottom of the porcelain pool forever. Maybe no one would come looking for me. Maybe I could get my mom to deliver meals in twice a day for me. She always says how she misses me; why not move home to avoid life? I had everything else I needed—hell, I’m already in a bathroom, lying in a tub. I have all the water I could ever want or need. There are windows directly above me, a radio, and reading material. With my head underwater, ears flooded, the sound of the radios bass and my heartbeat are the only thing I can hear. No thoughts. No worries. Nothing to run away from anymore. Silence, I don’t get so much of anymore.

XOXO

Perfectly Pissed Off: The Montpelier and Worcester Diaries

I hate going to bed angry, and I am most definitely going to bed angry, worn down-and-out, and emotionally tired and drained tonight. I feel like the human equivalent of laundry—doused, cold, beaten around, and hung out to dry by my arms and legs. And, maybe in this case, heart.

Today, around 11 AM, I made the executive decision that I was going to Montpelier today. I was going on a day Perfect was working so we could drop in and I could finally, FINALLY see him, and I was going to take Alli so she could finally go into the rock shop she wanted to see, and I was going to go today when I didn’t have to worry about things like Mother Nature or timing or dragging other people along and making schedules copasetic, and I was going to the Pots because the weather was absolutely gross and hot and humid, and I was going now while I knew I still had gas and money and time to do so.

I was so done with waiting. I woke up impatient and restless, and goddammit, I was doing something about it. I was finally fed-up enough that I wasn’t scared of “invading Perfect’s territory” or feeling weird about dropping by. For almost as long as I’ve known him, we’ve had an inside joke that I always kid about while we text and he’s at work. If he complains that it’s been a slow day at the copy shop, I’ll ask him, “what? No one needs 500 copies of the complete works of Shakespeare?” Alli happens to own the complete works of Shakespeare. The plan was to lug the book into the copy shop, plop it down on the counter, say, “Hey, we need 50 copies of this…by tonight,” and then grin, lean across the counter, put my hands on his shoulders and say in a tone of wonderment, “So you do exist! How’s life?” All in all, I was only asking to take up maybe five minutes of his day. If he wanted to go swimming with us when he got out of work, it would be his call. I just wanted to see his face.

It seemed perfect. But almost nothing ever lives up to that expectation.

Alli and I tooled around (Ok, so maybe more appropriately, we skulked around, walking fast down the sidewalk opposite of the copy shop when we had to pass it. “What are you doing?” Alli asked me as I peered into a hobby shop’s window as if I had infinite interest in baseball cards and Beanie Babies. “Avoiding eye-contact with the copy shop?” I was.) stopping into shops and getting coffee before she finally smacked me over the head and told me to get on with it. “What’s he going to do?” she asked me.

“Charge out of the store and yell at us to leave Montpelier?” I offered.

She snorted in derision. “What, charge out of the store and shout, “YOU! I BANISH YOU FROM MY TOWN!”?”

We cracked up, and walked up the front steps to the copy shop. “You go first,” I told her. “I don’t want to be the first through the door.”

Stepping through the threshold, her face got a similar panicked look to what I’m sure mine looked like, and she pushed me in front of her. I scanned the store. A guy with sandy blonde hair was walking into the back. A pretty brunette manned (womanned?) the register.

‘Fuck my life,’ was my first thought. ‘He works with his type.’

“Can I help you?” Shop Girl asked us nicely.

“Yeah,” I said, feeling slightly foolish but using my own retail-friendly voice, an octave higher than my regular speaking voice, more girly and friendly and winsome. “Is Perfect working today?”

Looking like she was asked this question fairly regularly, she glanced into the back. “Sorry, but I think he just left,” she told me.

“Oh, ok. Thanks,” I told her before my silent partner and I beat a hasty retreat. On the sidewalk in front of the store, I dialed his number, waiting for the rings to count down to his answering machine with his startlingly low voice, making a face at Alli when he didn’t pick up.

“Hey, Perfect—you must have known we were coming, because Alli and I just stopped in to the copy shop with the complete works of Shakespeare for you. We’re in town because it’s gross out and North Beach was apparently a zoo, so we’re gonna go swimming at the Pots in about an hour. If you get this, call or text and maybe we can meet up, stranger.”

Two minutes later, sitting on the State House steps, my phone rang with a text from him. “Haha, I actually went to the store down the way and am back! Lol, but I gtg home to help my dad do money stuff online cuz he can’t do it himself! Lol.”

Manslation: “I’m back at work, but leaving soon to go help my dad figure out my financial aid, so don’t bother stopping back in.”

After decoding the Perfect-ese, I texted him back. “Ok, well, Alli and I are eating and drinking and kicking around town for at least another hour before we head to the Pots, but if you get your stuff done with your dad, head down and try to meet up with us, killer!”

Girlversion: “Are you fucking kidding me? You don’t have five minutes? But, ok, that’s a valid reason to go home. And at least you explained you weren’t hiding in the back of the store, cowering in a broom closet. And I appreciate the “haha’s” and “Lol’s.” But really. I want to see you.”

Perfect’s answer? “Ok.”

Manslation: “Don’t count on it.”

By now, I was defeatist and Alli was simmering mad. “Seriously. We’re 30 seconds away from his work. He really can’t stop by and say “hi” on his way out of town? I’m sure his dad wouldn’t care if he was 5 minutes later. You haven’t seen him in a month, and he is 30 SECONDS AWAY. Are you going to call him on this? You better be calling him on this. I'm done making excuses for him. I'm done being on his side. I'm done being nice to him.”

She was right. I knew she was right. So I followed-up with another text, gently insistent. “Or, you could stop on the State House lawn on your way out seeing as we’re 30 seconds away. Also, is John around?”

This is where I went wrong. This is where I should have learned from the same mistake I went through with Legs in the phone conversation after our cease-fire coffee date this past May. You never, EVER tack on another non-related note to the end of what you really want answered from a man, because, scientifically proven, they will answer the last and less important and pointed question and ignore the first. Ladies, learn from my mistakes—ONE QUESTION OR STATEMENT AT A TIME IF YOU WANT AN ANSWER OR IT TO BE ADDRESSED.

Sure enough, Perfect texted me back with a “Nope, road trip with his dad!”

Manslation: “I am ignoring your insisting and pretending that you never asked me that other thing which We Will Not Speak Of.”

Girlversion: “You’re being avoided. This is complete bullshit.”

I wear my anger well. Like designer clothing that took me a lot of time and money to get. And when I’m wearing it, I want to show it off. I have a red head’s temper in a blonde’s body, and I can carry a grudge like no body’s business. As this was the first time I’ve ever been mad at Perfect, really angry with him, I was beside myself. Yes, I have been pissed-off at him before, but now—now, I was ANGRY. Smoke-coming-out-of-nostrils, bodily-harm-inflicting MAD.

At this point, I knew better than to even text him anything back, because the Turrets-worthy deluge of derogatory swears coming out of my mouth were more than likely to come out of my finger-tips, too. Perfect was a “douchebag.” Perfect was a “fucktard.” Perfect was an “asshole.” Perfect was a “dickwad.” Perfect was, the most mild of them, a “jerk.” Alli kicked in her two cents with an “asshat.” We debated the merits of throwing drinks versus swinging heavy purses at his crotch versus throwing the complete works of Shakespeare at him versus hitting him with the Civvy. This continued all the way to the Pots. If he was driving home and we caught up to him as we were both going to basically the same place, was I allowed to tap his bumper? How quickly could we get out friend Kristen of the tire-slashing fame to get to Montpelier? If he was biking home, could we drive in front of him and then open the car door on him? As I stood on a boulder in the middle of the river at the Pots, I looked at Alli with a scarily contemplative face. “Where can I get a rifle really quickly?”

“You’re not planning on killing him, are you?” she asked, alarmed, and then finished her question with the statement that was the real cause for her alarm. “You can’t leave me stranded here to run from the law. I can’t drive standard!”

“I just want to threaten him with it. But I just remembered that he hunts and probably has more than one rifle in his house. Which could turn this into a Texas stand-off. Which isn’t quite what I’m looking for.”

All I wanted was vindication; not someone to get law-inducingly hurt.

Once the girl-crazies were over, we settled down into more lucid and logical thinking that didn’t involves de-balling or dismemberment. “Ok, so I’ve been nice up until now,” I said to Alli. “Now, I need to ask him why there would be any reason he’s avoiding me.”

“Right,” Alli said, nodding affirmatively. This month’s Cosmopolitan touted “Is there any reason why” to be the new Rosetta Stone for communicating with men. It’s a passively-aggressive phrase and addresses that there’s an issue while asking men to explain it in a way that they can’t help but give in to. If a guy just says “no,” then he looks like he is, in fact, avoiding you and avoiding talking about it with you. Which then leaves it open for you to say something like, “well, I feel like you have been, and…” If he says “yes,” then he’s also generally going to follow that up with the reason why. It’s seemingly the question that men can’t resist answering. I love it.

Alli and I decide that “Fuck You” is the theme of today’s adventure. We blast Buckcherry’s “Crazy Bitch,” because we might as well wear the song if it fits. (Fun fact: Perfect had never heard that song until I played it for him when he came over to chill for hours the day after my birthday. He got a shit-eating little-boy grin on his face at the lyrics “get the video; fuck you so good” that I could for-see a future request if we had stayed together. And then he played me Ashanti’s “Only You.” Go listen to it right now, if you never have. Seriously. This is why he frustrates me. I play him “Crazy Bitch” and he plays me a romantic song about wanting to be close to someone who you’ve never felt like this before about someone.) The pictures of the day all include middle fingers blazing. We instate Naked Tuesday on the middle of Handcock Brook Road (yes, Handcock Brook Road,) in an act of defiance. We decide to go fire-engine-red bras blazing and drive shirtless into Montpelier. We sit in the car at Dairy Crème, out of the now-steady drizzle, and stew. I go home and spend over an hour talking with Emily about what happened, what could possibly be going on, and how to fix it. Or, end it.

Still, though, I’m seething. Ok, so in my thinking, there are two possibilities to explain his behavior. One, and the one I feel as though most people, including my mother, are in agreement with, is that it’s O-V-E-R and his not seeing me is the way he’s trying to get this through and that He’s Just Not That Into Me. I do realize from a perfectly logical point of view, this could be very true. I always prepare myself for the worst. In my mind, he’s already off grinding on and fucking every pretty young brunette he can get his massive hands on and laughing with John about what a crazy bitch I am.

Option Number Two is the one that the closet, desperately hidden-away romantic in me is wondering about: that he’s still not over me and doesn’t want to exacerbate his feelings by seeing me. A month ago, this was the case. I understand the thinking, because when I see him, the undeniable attraction makes me want to dry-hump his leg at best, strip down and lie prone on the ground at worst. This would also explain the problem I have with Scenario One—when a guy wants you out of their life (and believe me as I know from Legs’s experience), they’re very good at totally alienating you. If Perfect was done, gone, moved on, over with it and didn’t want anything to do with me, he wouldn’t be texting me still. He wouldn’t be talking to me. He wouldn’t be talking with me for HOURS. He wouldn’t be flirty. He would be genuine with his “I’m sorry”s and “haha”s. He would be MIA—unreachable by phone, computer, friends, and satellite. Witness Protection might as well have swallowed him up. That’s how guys do things. None of this half-in, half-out bullshit.

So why no face-to-face? If there were to be one of us avoiding the other, by all rules of logic, it should be me. He was the one who ended it. I was the dumpee. I should be the one avoiding all contact and stiff-arming him like I do with the rest of my exes. From his side, either he’s much more deviously smart than I gave him credit for, or he honestly just has great excuses at perfectly inopportune times, but he has a perfectly good excuse for not seeing me every time t comes up—I’m not exactly going to say, “No! You can’t go to your camp with your family!” or “No! You cannot help your father with your financial aid!” So we’re at this odd sort of stand-off: he either can’t or won’t or refuses to see my for whatever reason—timing, busy-ness, latent feelings—and I’m hemming and hawing about getting down to business, buckling down, and actually talking to him like I have to. But still, in the over-all scheme of things—5 minutes today—was that really too much to ask for?

I am so mad I didn’t listen to his song, my lullaby. I am so mad I didn’t want to see his face on my computer. I am so mad I didn’t want to sleep in the bed we slept in together. I pop my iPod earbuds in, drink a Smirnoff, then another one, and chase them down with a flat beer, but at this point, I don’t care. I feel nothing. I feel nothing other than exhaustion and slight nausea and the headache starting from the noise outside, but I don’t think drunkenly screaming “Fuckkk youuuu!” out the window at the jackhammers on the rotary at 2 AM would solve anything. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and quickly turn. I look like someone who knows better wearing pain and regret and accusation plain as day in my eyes, on my face, in the way my shoulders slump and the corners of my lips curl gently down, let down but not expecting anything better. They were the smart ones. As I wash my hands at the bathroom sink, I know that my reflection in the mirror looks like someone I don’t want to be, so I look away. I fall into bed, throw my hands over my eyes, and just be in my hollow nothing-ness. Sometimes, it’s just easier to look away.

XOXO