I haven’t been writing.

I haven’t been around.

No one reads this blog anymore.  The blog that I used to dedicate a lot of time to.

Now  I just work. A lot.

But tomorrow I have an interview for a fabulous REAL job. One with normal hours.  One in the field of work I’m interested in. So with that, I promise to start writing again. I just hope some of you are still out there…because Mr. Tall Dark and Handsome is still around and I couldn’t be happier.

There’s stories to be told. Not so bitchy anymore, but funny.

And there’s Baseball Player news. So please, forgive my absence. I’m returning full time soon. Just wait.

I’m running off to the beach for a few days for a much needed, free vacation.  If there is internet, there will be several updates on my Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome story. If not, then these shall continue sometime next week.  Stay tuned my friends, there’s lot to be told.

The next day I woke up late with only a few hours to lay around before work.   He texted me though and wanted to see if I wanted to hang out afterwards. Afterwards for both of us meant somewhere near 4 am.  Gotta love being a closing cocktail waitress and bartender.  Getting out before 4 on a Thursday or Friday and 5 on Saturday is considered rare and lucky.

Around ten that night, I managed to spill my first martini on the job. Where did it go? Oh, just down the front and back of my strapless, black dress, down through my tights we have to wear and into my shoes.  I still had six hours of work ahead of me. I was thrilled and sticky.  As soon as 2 rolled around and we got to kick all the drunks out, I immediately ran to change in the bathroom. However, as predicted it was 4 when the place was finally clean and we could leave.  I ran to the back of the kitchen where the elevator is and took it to the bottom floor, where his restaurant is.  I leaned heavy and tired against the wall of the elevator as it slowly descended one floor down.  The metal doors slid open and he was standing there.

“I was just coming to look for you,” he said while smiling and looking down on me.  He offered to carry my four inch, black heels and we walked out together to our cars.  When I had told a friend or two of mine before work that I was hanging out with him later that night, they both questioned why I was seeing anyone at 4 am in the morning, surely that was simply a booty call.  But when your daily schedule begins to look a little more like wake up at 1, go to bed at 6, rather than wake up at 9 go to bed at 2, times mean different things. Especially when you both simply were working until that time.

We headed back to his house, which is so convenient to work, compared to my thirty minute drive home.  There were a few lingering Magic Hats in the fridge from the cookout, so we went straight for them and then found a spot on his couch.  My legs ached from running around in heels all night, my arms still sticky from residual martini and my messy sweaty hair shoved up into a fedora.  I can’t imagine I looked too pretty, but he told me otherwise.  We sat around drinking and talking with his roommate, who also works with us until 5 or 6.

I was planning on going home, planning on keeping to my plan, but when 6 came around, my thirty minute drive seemed far too long and arduous of a task and instead I followed him to his room.

“So, you’re staying over?” he asked with hope.  “Yeah, I can’t drive home now, I’d fall asleep on the way.”  I kept my jeans and shirt on and climbed into his bed.  Usually one for sleeping in nothing but boyshorts, I was determined to uphold the plan.  The plan that had not determined an end date yet.  An end date that would end up being a lot sooner than I had imagined.

He pulled me in close to him, my jeans on his boxers, my black fitted shirt on his bare skin.  My head found the space between his neck and shoulder and we fell asleep immediately.  He is the first guy that I can successfully sleep spooning with.  Usually, I give them ten to fifteen minutes of requisite big spoon time, then hastily push them away.  I don’t usually like the feeling of being smothered.

I first woke up at nine, half-asleep, both of our hands wandering. Something I hadn’t realized we had been doing in our sleep.  And while I could feel pants breaking again, we fell asleep again before anything happened.  My circadian rhythm kicked in at 11 and woke me up again, which in turn woke him up.

Since moving away from Greenville, I’ve forgotten what it’s like sleeping in a room creeping towards 90 degrees and immediately complained of the heat.  With eyes closed, he mumbled, “well you are wearing all of those clothes…” I nodded and thought about it.  Surely, only keeping some clothes on would not hinder this self imposed plan too much, so off came the shirt and pants, leaving behind a black tank top and strategically chosen underwear. I may have had a plan, but I prepare accordingly anyway, because I guess even I know my plans are usually rendered useless before they have even begun.

This time with eyes open he smiled and pulled me closer, our legs tangled in each others.  His hands found my boobs, which were spilling out of my tank top as usual and were never part of the plan.  Please those are like consolation prizes; everyone gets one. He proceeded to tell me how sexy I am, a line he now tells me daily and has subsequently added to my already soaring self-esteem.  He began biting my ear and his hands found themselves moving south.  “STICK TO THE PLAN! STICK TO THE PLAN!” my head yelled.  The Almighty Vag laughed in retaliation and said, “fuck off.”  Everything else in between didn’t know what to do, so after sheepishly brushing him off twice, I stopped and gave in. Plan? What plan? Who plans anything these days, anyway?

Now despite that I had somewhat given in, I still wasn’t planning on sleeping with him just yet.  I mean, hi, this could just be some good ole high school kind of fun, right?  We can just forget the fact that we’re laying in his bed and I’m kind of a nympho. Eventually, with little to no coercion at all, he convinced me to lose the rest of my clothes. I turned to him, raised my eyebrows and looked to his boxers.  He wasted no time…but this still didn’t mean… fuck.

He climbed on top of me, all 2oo pounds, brushed the hair out of my eyes and started kissing me again.  Ok, just because he’s lingering all of two inches away from me doesn’t mean the plan is foiled yet. We laid like that for a long time, just talking and making out, all the while, if he had pants on, they would have been massively broken.  I wasn’t stalling and he wasn’t pushing the subject–verbally or really physically–but I guess when I finally realized my plan had not only burned out, it had been smothered, I gave in and pull him in.

The Almighty Vag cheered, my head said, “Goddammit.”  Everything else in betwen was happy.  Now one would think that with a standard such as mine…nothing smaller than at least 7 inches…that sex would never be painful, especially after conquering the Photographer, but for some reason that day, it felt like my virginity had reinstated itself.  It had only been three weeks since Baseball Player, what the hell!?  I grinned through the pain for as long as I could, I participated as much as possible and I didn’t lead on to the fact that my Almighty Vag went from cheering to crying, much like that day back in November with Baseball Player.  Seriously, IT hates me.  Eventually, he noticed that this wasn’t the kind of pain I was talking about on the porch a few nights before and asked what was wrong.  I explained to him that sometimes I just have to work up to guys and this has happened before.  He felt bad and stopped.  I felt like an idiot and worse for being a giant tease with a plan that had been completely shot to shit.

I would find out days later that the pain that reviveled that of the time with Baseball Player would be for the same, my vag hates me, reason.

We both laid there, covered in bad sex and glimmer of regret.  When the clock inched towards 2, I got up, found my clothes and said I had to get to work soon and went home.  He kissed me goodbye and said he’d see me after work.  I nodded and left.  Pissed that I gave in so easily and fearful that I may have just fucked everything up…

to be continued…

Since I haven’t been blogging recently and not writing for school anymore, my writing has become quite atrocious. I mean, just look at the three posts below.  The writing quality in those is sub par. I haven’t been reading either–just working, sexing and sleeping.  So I bought the new-ish David Sedaris book today, as I am a big fan and find similarities in our writing style, however I am not even 1% of the writer he is.  But so now I’m determined to write more and read more, so I can get back to something that is at least somewhat respectable.  I’m determined to find my readers again and write stories worth reading again.  But the sex stories are coming soon and we both know that’s how you really get readers, so patience my dear friends.  The sex is good and the stories are better, but I can’t just jump to it, we all know foreplay is important. So now back to regularly scheduled programming…

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What started as innocent cuddling and movie watching, led to us intricately intertwined on the couch. Choke ended up being a movie about a sex addict and his dying mother (appropriate much?) and was kind of strange–I don’t recommend it. Not only is this boy tall, he’s in good shape and quite lean and I barely took up a fraction of his body.  The overwhelming feeling of being safe took over, which really is such a cheesy thing to say, but that’s exactly what it was and then an even more startling realization set in: I hadn’t been really spooned by anyone since October.

Amaya said to me one night while working that she “missed a man’s touch.”  I understood what she meant, but I completely understood it at that moment.  All those nights I went running after Baseball Player, I think that’s really all I was looking for and was entirely the last thing I got.  I missed it and I needed it.

Somewhere halfway through the movie, my head on his shoulder, our fingers laced together, I turned to him and his lips found mine.  His hand moved to my face and easily covered the entire thing. I couldn’t help to think what those massive fingers could accomplish, but I was determined to not find out that night.  He rolled on top of me and had the perfect rhythm and mix of deep, lustful kisses and quick, tactful kisses. I smiled through kissing him, I hadn’t been kissed that way since October and the difference between all the kisses since then was exhiliarting.  The almighty vag was coming alive and protesting my strategic plan as he pushed into me.  But for the first time in a long time, I told her no.

He looked down at me and said, “You broke my pants.” Bewildered, I looked at him and his pants and then realized what he meant. I’ve “broken” many a pants since then, in fact perhaps all of them.  Frankly, we’re gonna have to go pants shopping soon at the rate we’re going .  After awhile after things slowed down, I peeled myself off of him and asked if he was hungry. He replied with an enthusiastic yes and asked if I wanted pizza.  Always.

As he dialed the pizza place down the street, I climbed on top of his lap, my dress falling over the sides of his knees.  I’ve always enjoyed teasing guys when they are on the phone, especially if the person on the other end is their mother. It’s a cruel move of mine, that I enjoy entirely too much.  He promptly hung up and grabbed me and said, “I wish I could kiss you with as much energy as you have, but I’m afraid I’m going to break you, you’re so small.”  And really, I’ve never felt so small in my life. My crazy work schedule already leaves little time to eat, so I’m the skinniest I’ve ever been and now feel shorter than ever.  I smiled at him and reminded him that I like to be thrown against walls, he won’t break me and if he did, I might like it and then his pants broke again.  I so badly wanted to see, to know what I was in for, but I refrained.  Instead I tried to inconspicuously work my leg around it to see, but my kneecap was never good at determining size.  However, I could tell that I was dealing with another machete status boy. Mmm.

His hands found my legs and he remarked on how smooth and strong they were. “I could break your neck with them,” I told him. “I wish you would.”  “Not tonight,” I replied.  No more than twenty minutes later the pizza showed up, along with his drunk roommate, who quickly ran off to his room.  While eating our pizza, he looked at me and said, “You definitely intrigue me. When the cocktail girls told me about you, I figured they were wrong, but they did a good job.”

When our hunger was sated, I asked if we could watch The Virgin Suicides–one of my favorite movies that I haven’t seen in a long time.  A perfect excuse to stay another two hours and to hopefully deter the almighty vag for awhile.  But naturally, as we found ourselves making out again on the couch, she yelled out. He got grabby and asked if I wanted to go to his room. I simply shook my head no over and over again when he insinuated that he wanted to do more than just make out.  My self control was astounding, but I knew I was making the best decision I could, despite the protests coming from down below.

Finally around 4:30, over 12 hours since I first arrived, I said I had to go. I pulled my dress back down to my knees and stood up.  Weary eyed, I found my shoes and purse and walked with him to my car.  The sun was going to be coming up in an hour and I needed to get to bed.  He kissed my goodbye and I drove away from the house with the cute porch in the historic district, down the street and over the bridge that overlooks the city skyline that twinkled in the background.  I smiled and hoped this time it would in fact be different.

The next day he said I made the right decision not sleeping with him, as much as he wanted me to, because he would have written me off if I had.

to be continued…

Like promised, he called after work, somewhere around 3:30 and by this point as I so eloquently told him, “I’m too drunk and useless right now to hang out.”  He found this amusing and said he was having a cookout the next day and I should come.  Yes, please.

I woke up to a mass text from him, announcing the cookout he was having that day at his house.  After figuring out where he lived and what he needed, I proceeded to make myself cookout cute.  I threw on a simple, titty tastic, plaid, strapless, sundress that screams, “I look this fantastic without even trying.”  Really, it’s just because it makes my tits look like they are wrapped like a present with them peeking, err..falling, out of the top. Add a pony tail, flip flops, a giant matching red flower and some sunglasses and I was good to go and already a half an hour late. I picked up some quintessential Magic Hat No. 9 and with GPS in hand, I was on my way.

He lives in a quaint, little house downtown in the historic district.  The hardwood floors, giant front porch and zen room his roommate had set up were enough alone to get me to stay awhile. And for the first time ever, I was the first to arrive despite that I was an hour late.  I was given a tour, handed a beer and a Wii controller for a round of bowling.

Seeing him from across a bar ledge, I could tell he was tall, actually standing next to him, he towered a grand 15 inches above me–perfect to look right down my dress.  I couldn’t but notice him trying not to and it was quite humorous.  After awhile several people from my restaurant and his showed up and it was fun—full of good food, Wii bowling, drinking games and stories. But slowly, one by one left until it was just me, him, the petite blond cocktail and the petite, redheaded cocktail–both of which have become great friends.

The four of us sat on the porch. He and I on the porch swing, the two petites on the floor, all of us playing with citronella candles.  It was in these moments and the encroaching beer buzz running through us that led me and the redhead to tell Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome of our masochist tendencies.  The talk of pain drew our attention to the candles, which ended in us pouring them on ourselves.

The wicks flickered as she and I tilted them sideways, letting the liquid wax fall to our arms and sizzle into warm, hardened bracelets.  I could feel Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome watching me as I did this.  The burning sensation was delicious.  As I relished in the feeling I looked up at him and caught his eye and with the swiftest of hands poured the wax down his leg.   The redhead laughed, I smirked, and he screamed.  He’s not a masochist, I guess, so instead I helped him scrape all the dried wax off.

Slowly, the two cocktails took their turns leaving to meet up with other people and then it was just the two of us, the porch swing and a warm June night.  The citronella candles had melted into waxy puddles on the wooden porch floor and the lightning bugs were making their nightly appearance.  And it was no longer the cute porch, wooden floors and zen room that kept me staying behind.

We sat and swayed for awhile, talking of our equal clumsiness, and the strange hand like feet we have. All through the night, he had made innuendos, well played ones, that I even more tactifully ignored. I didn’t know what I wanted, but I knew I didn’t want another fuck buddy or to be “that girl” from the restaurant, so I pretended to be a good girl.  Albeit, he already knew I liked to be slapped, have my hair pulled and to be burned…so much for a complete good girl image.

I hesitated when he asked if I wanted to watch a movie, but acquiesced after I saw the collection he and his roommate have.  I scoured through hundreds of movie titles, some greats, some bad ones, some I had never heard of, when I noticed some cd cases. Graceland by Paul Simon was on the top.

“Who’s Paul Simon cd is this?”

“Mine,” he said.

“Really? I love Paul Simon, but I like Simon and Garfunkel more.”  I had grown up occasionally listening to S&G and then the ex got me into them even more.

He said he did too and I had him put on The Boxer for me. While S&G played, I ran off to the bathroom, which was in his room.  When I came back out, he was sitting on his bed waiting for me.  I knew better and sat on the farest edge of his mattress, cross legged and looking oblivious.  Instead I asked him about all the art on his walls. He proceeded to lay down and tell me all about where he got them and what they meant to him.  This guy likes good music, art, movies, to drink and is cute…what the hell is going on here?

When the conversation drifted from art to other things, he asked me for a kiss.  Not to find myself laying in a bed, making out with a guy I hardly know, I told him he had to come to me.  Look at me! Being prude! Who knew I could do it!?! Not me, that’s for sure.

After a simple kiss, I quickly rerouted us back to his living room and chose the movie Choke and set myself up to prove that being prude is in fact very hard… literally.

to be continued…

His responses that day by the pool already caught my eye.  Proper text etiquette is a must, grammar included…those things say a lot about a person, so when he proved himself text able, it was hard to turn down his request to come see him at the bar that night.  Well, that and the combination of all the traits the cocktail told me he had. However, not to sound too eager, I told him I would see what my plans were.

On my way out with my sister later that night, he texted me again saying I should stop by. This time I said ok, but he had to guess who I was. And when the bar was empty, this proved to be a very easy task–especially because he already knew I was a short, brunette who wears large flowers in her hair.

And him? Well, the petite, blonde cocktail was spot on. And he was very. tall. 6′6” to be exact and had a sexy, sexy beard that he told me he was shaving soon.

My sister, brother and I all sat at the bar and he offered me different types of dark beers to try. He was very cute and I could tell he wasn’t too sure of how to talk to me. The siblings smoked their cigarettes and he and I debated over a Bill Withers song and like a good bartender trying to impress, he made us all shots that none of us paid for and in turn got me drunk with great ease.

I was already intrigued, but couldn’t appear to be too available, so after an hour and several drinks later, the three of us got up and left.  He said he’d call when he got off work.

and I texted him saying not to shave the beard; it’s sexy.

to be continued…

I did it.  I became the typical employee of a restaurant. Anyone who has ever worked in the industry could easily attest to the fact that this is a very strange phenomenon that always occurs within restaurants.

Everybody dates each other.

Just like this past senior year, I told myself I wasn’t dating anyone when I moved home. Primarily because I’m moving eventually, whether it be very soon or several months from now and getting involved with anyone almost seemed futile. But then I was introduced to Mr. Talk, Dark and Handsome.

Upon working there a few days, halfway through training, I had already become good friends with all of the cocktail girls and several of the servers.  There is one thing to say about restaurant employees, they are notoriously insane–in all the right ways–so needless to say, Amaya and I (who both got hired at the same time) fit right in. Anyway, I asked the petite blond cocktail, if there was anyone single at our restaurant.  After reviewing the schedule list, she shook her head, everyone was taken by everyone else.  However,  the place I work, owns two other restaurants right next door and below and so by convention and necessity, we get to know all the employees of the restaurants.

So I asked her again, is there anyone at the other two places that has a beard, is kind of nerdy and is attractive?  While punching in a lengthy martini order, she pondered. “Yes! There’s Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome.  He’s a bartender downstairs.”

I had her describe him to me. I was intrigued.  Tall, bearded, brown hair, cool nerdy, funny and 24…Hmm.

A few days passed and she said she talked to him about me. He wanted to hang out. I told her the same and we invited him to a party we were all going to, but he couldn’t come. But like the good friend she has become, she talked to him again and she told me I should go ahead and text him.  So that’s exactly what I did late one night and when I got too drunk to realize he didn’t respond, I thought nothing of it.  But then there by the pool the next day when he finally responded was the beginning of something I would be the last to believe…

To be continued…

So blog friend, Coquitten, has been asking me to post the dress I made for graduation. Back in December the Lawyer gave me an old jacket of his that he wore at boarding school because he knew how much I loved plaid.  The jacket itself was quite heinous, but I knew it would serve a purpose somewhere.  So after months of consideration…I decided to make it part of my graduation dress, with some added Alexander McQueen inspired flare.  Hope you like it.

And as for Coquitten, if you like my blog, you should check out hers.  She has the balls to write more graphically than I do and does Half Nekkid Thursdays.  So if you don’t come here for the sex and aren’t down with nudity, I don’t recommend it, otherwise dive right in! She’s a great writer

Side note: the top looks lopsided, but I was simply just too lazy to do all the hook and eye closures for the picture.

And you can even see that I cut my hair, if you noticed from older pictures that I have posted. I was sick of being asked what grade I was in.  A lot of older people thought I was about 17 years old, so I chopped off 6 inches.  I thought I looked older, but as I exited the hair salon and asked a random lady walking past how old she thought I was, her answer went a little bit like this:  Oh, well you’re definitely in high school.

Fuck.

I just graduated college, thanks.

When I’m 35 and look 25 though, I’m sure I’ll be appreciative of my younger looks. And I just took a job as a server and cocktail waitress at a swanky restaurant in efforts to save money to move and I’m hoping some old dudes will eat it up.  “Why yes sir, I JUST turned 18.  ::WINK::  Would you like another $10 martini?”

I was wrong. Again.

At 8:15 Friday night it was all over, but it started six hours earlier.

I sat curled up in my sheets, drinking a smoothie and texting my friend, the Mexican, about the going away party him and others were throwing for me that day.  My phone beeped and I thought it was the Mexican getting back to me about the slip and slide idea, but I noticed it was a number that had no name attached to it.  However, the arrangement of numbers formed a number I recognized, name or no name.

“Are you still going on your farewell tour?” questioned the blinking phone.

“What?”

“I thought you were saying goodbye to people,” the phone remarked.

“I am. Would you like to be added to the list?”

“Maybe. Don’t know,” said the phone matter of factly. A response that made me question the point of texting me in the first place.

“Well, you have 12 hours to figure out whether or not I’m worth saying goodbye to.”

With that, I threw the sheets off of me, grabbed my stuff and headed over to the Mexican and Seamstress’ house for a day of slip and sliding, drinking and a taco eating contest.

Sufficiently covered in mud and soapy water thirty minutes later,  I was sent inside the Mexican’s house to get more beer.  I looked to the coffee table and saw my phone blinking again. I wiped the soap off of my hand and picked it up.

“Are we going to say goodbye the only way we know how?” the phone inquired.

“I’ll think about it. Are you going to be nice?”

“Yes,” said the horny phone.

Before I could entertain the idea, the phone interrupted me.

“Now?”

“Can’t. I’m at a slip and slide party.”

“Ok. Later then?” the phone replied.

“Alright, but I have a taco eating contest to go to first. It will have to be around seven.”

With that the phone and I agreed. That gave me three hours to finish slip and sliding, go home to shower, return and eat as many tacos as I possibly could and head over to the chirping phone’s house.

After being freshly showered, having a losing score of nine tacos, and playing three rounds of beer pong, I was on my way down the streets that I would never drive down again. Kings of Leon blared out my windows and the rain started to fall. It was a short, intermittent summer kind of rain–there was no need to roll up the windows on this  five minute drive. I pulled into the long, gravel driveway and parked my car next to his.  And this was it.

All that anger that had accumulated over the years, and far more recently, what was I going to do with it? I climbed the stairs. The stairs I picked up shattered key fob pieces off of late one night.  I opened the door.  The door that was half opened that one time I barged in one particularly cold January night when I was on an angry hunt for the boy who left me standing by myself. I saw him sitting there on the couch.  The couch that we had hooked up on many times before in his old house.

“Hi.”

“Hey.”

The phone was silent, not blinking in protest anymore. BP sat before me and this was the end.

He had mentioned earlier that he did not have any condoms and I had told him to go to the store before I had gotten there, but he hadn’t gone.  He offered the idea of not having sex, just everything else, but I shook my head. He ran quickly to the convenience store down the street, while I watched The Perfect Storm and thought to myself how terrible the special effects were. He returned shortly with condoms in one hand and a case of Busch Light in the other. I couldn’t help but comment on his shitty taste in beer.

He changed the TV to the alternative music channel and Kings of Leon’s Sex on Fire was playing.

“I always wanted to have sex to this song.”

“Well then com’on,” he said.

We went to his bedroom and for the first time in a long time, it was awkward–to me at least. He seemed indifferent. He asked if I had worn boyshorts, which I usually do if I know I’m hanging out with him.

“No, I already packed all my underwear, so instead I have none.”

“Fair enough.”

And from there it was short and in my opinion did no justice to a two year fuck buddy relationship, but I guess I can’t be picky. I climbed off and positioned myself perfectly under his spinning ceiling fan. We laid amongst the sweaty sheets, quite reminiscent of the previous summer when we sweated the day away in his electricity-less house.  He told me of his future plans and me of mine. Then we got to talking about funny movies and he and I have two very different views of what is considered funny. He spout off an argument for his type of movies and I countered it.

“Let us not forget the fact that I hate an actor that you absolutely love and think is funny.”

“Who?”

“If I told you, which I already have in the past, you would kick me out,” and with that I got up to go to the bathroom.  When I returned all my clothes were laid out before me on the bed.

“Oh. How nice of you.  You remembered, didn’t you?”

“I think so.”

I started putting on my clothes, while he probed me for the answer.  I hestitated and lied.  “Bill Paxton.”

“Why did I care that you hate Bill Paxton?”

“I don’t know, but I also hate Jim Carrey and Nicholas Cage.”

I grabbed my sunglasses, “and by the way, we’re not doing it this way. You’re not going to be an asshole and kick me out, like last time when you asked me, ‘why are you here?’”

He fed me some bullshit on how he learned from Dane Cook and I couldn’t help but comment on his shitty taste in comedians.

I stood up and walked out of his bedroom.  Incubus played from the TV, a band we both always agreed on.  I told him I lied about who the actor was, he questioned me again.  I put on my flip flops, the same ones I wore when running down the street from his old house with friends while we tried to catch the last bus home. I picked up my purse and made my way to the door. We stood motionless, saying our final goodbyes.  We had infact hadn’t actually been that outright mean to each other this time, but we had thrown in our own snide remarks–ones that bled the evidence that we had simply used each other for two years and that it was nothing more. And now there was nothing more to say. We wished each other luck in life and kissed each other goodbye. I twisted the door knob.

“Will Ferrell”

“I knew it!” he yelled as he jokingly pushed me out the door and slammed it.

He opened the door and yelled to me as I walked down the sidewalk about my feelings on a particular show. I told him it was a great show, the Photographer worked on the set of it, then smiled and waved.

I stepped back into my car, Kings of Leon’s Be Somebody was in it’s final verse..Now is your time and you know where you stand, With a gun in your hand, with a gun in your hand. Now I’m no longer an ordinary man. Was this your big plan, your gun in your hand? And I say you can’t get enough. No, you can’t get enough. The rain had stopped while we were inside, but as I put the car in reverse it started again–but it was a short, intermittent summer kind of rain.  No need to roll the windows up.

———————–

I liked that ending, but it doesnt close up everything as well as the actual night did.  That night made it evident that even in between all the bullshit and strange anger we have for each other, there was some semblance of very base level friendship.  Albeit very little, as most of it has disintergrated over time, you could tell at one point we were “friends.”  And while it may sound strange, after leaving his house, I felt like I could leave Greenville.  Before that point, I had a very unfinished feeling looming over my head. I came home much, much later that night and talked to Amaya for a bit, telling her of the final goodbye. She had nothing but bad things to say about him, but suddenly it no longer mattered. It was over and it was done and I was completely ambivalent towards the entire subject. Three days have now passed (which actually feels like MUCH longer) and while I’m not as ambivalent as I was, I still totally recognize that he was an A Class Douchebag with a drinking problem, but that he no longer deserves the energy or thought. And so finally, FINALLY, I can say that THAT is THAT and is done. And I’m so unbelievably happy.  It was horribly saddening three days ago. Not the fact that “it” was over, but the ending of  “it” solidified the ending of college.  But God, it was unhealthy and we’d be both better people if we never saw each other again. So goodbye BP once and for all. Old stories on him might resurface when I’m out of new things to write, but I know nothing new about him will ever appear again.

I tried to be the bigger person, I really did. I look back how I ended things with Doorman, which has long since been deleted, so I can’t even remind you all how that went down, and completely regret it. So when the idea of telling Baseball Player (shh, I know I said I wouldn’t post on him again, fuck.) off in an actual articulated fashion or at least being able to give him a look that was riddled with bitchy thoughts first struck me, I liked it.  Then I ran into him and I caved, as always. I hate that.

It was graduation night and about 15 of us made our way downtown to my favorite bar. I ran into lots of fellow graduates. We all danced, drank and congratulated each other. I had seen him the second I walked inside and immediately walked away, out of sight and out of mind. It took about an hour for him to approach me to say congratulations, but the only thing I could say was, “Oh are we being civil now?”  He then spent the next five minutes apologizing for the recent incident. I’ve heard this track before–quite a few times, but I suddenly realized that going out on a good note would be far less regrettable than standing there and insulting him.  So I thanked him and we discussed summer and future plans.  We drunkenly stood there, wavering through the continuous pokes and annoyed stares of my friends and quietly discussed the possibility of there being one last time and then we said goodbye.

About two days later, I decided to send him a facebook message saying that I would like us to end as friends and be adults about this and that I would appreciate it if we could say goodbye to each other.  If not, well then good luck in life and all that you do.  I leave Saturday.  No response. Hmm.

So today, as Saturday is quickly approaching, I decided to try one more time. He was the one in the end who approached me and was being nice, so how am I wrong?  I texted saying this would be the last time I tried and that if saying goodbye was asking too much, to simply say so.  No response. Nothing.

So maybe this is how it ends once and for all.  I was pissed at him for being the way he was and then changed my mind, thinking yelling and insulting someone never got anyone anywhere so I was nice.  And ultimately, he has successfully made me look like an idiot…again.  With that being said, I can at least look back and know that I went out with dignity, unlike the Doorman story, which so gracefully ended with me screaming, “Don’t ever talk to me again! Get out of my life!”

Despite that his failure to respond is quite rude, even if I see him downtown in these last few days I am here, I will be very unShro and I will just smile, wave and walk away.

Oh and I’m sure you’re wondering how I texted him since I deleted his number, well the awesome/unfortunate thing about my phone is it saves EVERY text you ever send someone, so even though I deleted his number, there was still a text sitting in my outbox to someone named “Ass Fucking Hole.”

Fortunately, you can delete texts too and that is precisely what I am about to do and should have done in the first place.