I have a theory that I am an even more fabulous writer after I have had a few drinks. As I am writing about dating and relationships, I think that my blog is the best place to test this theory, having such great subject matter. After every few sentences, I will take a hearty swig of either rum or mavrodaphne (a Greek dessert wine), and then continue to write. I will not double check spelling or grammar, as I think the beauty will be lost if it is corrected.
Disclaimer: I am well over drinking age, at home, and will not be driving. The only harm that will come from drinking and writing will probably be done to the poor people subject to reading this. For this I apologize ahead of time. And yes, I have already started.
I did it. I threw my pearls before swine again. I dealt with my ex (see prior entry for proof of my stupidiity), and am left here with my vagina in my hands. So to speak. It really just doesn't sound the same as when a guy says it, does it? Well, not that a guy would talk about his vagina, but you know what I mean.
NOTE: As I write this, I have been chatting with a dear friend, Mr. X - remember him, he'll play a part in future blog entries as the arch nemesis to the horrible men I date. Just after I wrote the above paragraph, he randomly wrote the following, not knowing what my blog entry is about: i wish i had a helpful vagina. not instead of a penis but a helpful vagina attached to a woman. I was in the midst of a swig of rum when I read that, and literally choked on it. I ended up heaving at the kitchen sink, and once I could breathe again, had to change my clothes from all of the rum all that I had coughed all over them, and came back to a living room that looked like a slaughterhouse. Daiquiri mix may taste nummy, but looks wretched sprayed across a couch, carpet, and computer screen.
My ex and I have pretty much come the conclusion that I pretty much came to weeks ago: we can't stand dealing with each other, at least not with his current situation and my expectations. My expectations seem to be the worst part of it. I ask for too much, it seems, by wanting to deal with someone who wants to spend time with me, wants to sleep next to me and aw fuck it blahblahblah wahwahwah. We broke up because we are broken. We can't stand compromising with each other,because I'm smart, and he's too stupid and stubborn to recognize it. I know that that probably sounds pigheaded and cocky, but I'm not the one with five kids from three different women and no degree or future career promotional prospects, am I?!? Noooooooooooo. I'm just the idiot that continues to deal with him.
Note to self: when contacting a celebrity ex that you ticked off and despise, in order to make yourself feel better, trying to start a conversation with "Do you still suck?" may not be the best way to do so.
In my conversation with Mr. X tonightm, he mentioned that it is the eve of his birthday, and that he is dreadingit. He feels that he is not where he should be, and his birthday is yet another marker of that. He yearns for a family of his own, and feels that he should have had one long ago. He takes issue that many others have been blessed with one, and that he is a bit of a Johnny Comelately.
I know this feeling, with all my heart. It tears me to pieces that I am single, alone, and that I have to make a place for myself in my sisters' families, as I have not found my partner in crime yet. But what I will not do is compare. I will not compare myself to others that have formed families of their own. I have blessings that they don't. Many of them are unhappy, and envious. Many are happy and content. Either way, it is no concern of mine. My journey is my own, and I intend to live it fully. Does it kill me that my irresponsible ex has so many kids while I have none? Yes it does, especially that he had another after we talked so thoroughly about having kids. Do I cry? Yes. But you know what? He hides in the bathroom every night, smoking pot for hours so that he can escape his life, where he is stuck in a shitty relationship with a vulture. I wouldn't trabe places with him, or any of his baby mommas in the workd.
So wgat now? Out of the four men I was arguining with, my fighter is out of the question, because he apparently DOES still suck. My Diego is still my Diego. He'll remain a good friend, but is unattainable, and I am more than okay wiht that, because I think we would kill each other if we were more. Man number three (would that make hin diarrhea?), my ex's coworker, has spent a couple of lunches with me, and makes me laugh, but is in no better a situation than my ex, and I obviously don't wnat to deal with that shit any more. Even my cop (have I mentioned him before? That yummy fine example of manhood is an entry to himself) is most likely moving to California. So now, I guess that the world is my shmorgasboard, and it's time for me to take this Greek asss, and introduce it to some new men. We'll see how that goes...
No comments:
Post a Comment