I’m going to keep posting as much as I can, the only problem is that Mr. TDH is always around and 1. he can’t know about this blog, 2. I can’t write when someone is in the room.

Last Monday, I was working on getting my usual ten hours of sleep. Mr. TDH woke up early (ie 11 am) and didn’t want to wait for me to wake up to start his day, so he hopped out of bed and got on my desktop to read sports articles (yawn).  It was the typing and knowledge of constant movement in my room that kept waking me up through the course of the morning and causing even stranger dreams. 

When I woke up around noon, I realized if he was savvy enough (knew how to drop down the history menu) he would find my blog. I was just about to start worrying when I fell back asleep and dreamed he was breaking my computers (I’m a nerd and have three) and my printer.  This dream came in handy for what happened next.

I woke up thirty minutes later and looked over to him and the computer and noticed a blue-ish background and a familiar font in long paragraph form…oh my god, oh my god, oh my god….  Panic set it and I just yelled.  “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING!?”  “Just looking at stuff on the Internet,” he calmly replied. 

He closed out the browser and came and sat with me.  I immediately apologized for freaking out and said I didn’t know what happened. All the while, I’m thinking, “Holy shit, was that my blog? Surely, he’d say something if it was, right? Fuck.”

He calmed me down and woke me up the way I used to really like to be woken up–not anymore, but that’s a post for another day– and I thought about Baseball Player to pass the time.  After he finished and almost jizzed in my eye, I reached for a towel and my phone (I got a new one bitches, my HTC Touch Diamond died, so I got myself a new piece of ass: The HTC HERO). 

There waiting for me in my inbox was a message from a number, that despite the fact that I had lost all my contacts I could recognize without him telling me it was him. 

BP: So I had a very vivid dream last night and you happened to be in it.  Don’t know why I’m mentioning it…just am.

Mr. TDH walked into the bathroom and without even a second thought I immediately responded…

Me: Well, I just thought about you while having sex with my boyfriend.  Don’t know why I’m mentioning it…just am.

I almost wanted the sarcasm that I had emphasized in my brain on the “don’t know why I’m mentioning it…just am” to be heard.  The sarcasm being…you know exactly why you’re mentioning it and that’s exactly why I’m still thinking about you.

BP:  Well the dream was us ripping each other’s clothes off and me going down on you until you came.  You changed my perspective on that matter.  I’ll end with that…

(I miss those days…and so happy that your girlfriend is now reaping my strategic work.)

Me: Well you also kind of ruined me with how good it was, but it was always a good time

BP: Agreed.

Fuckin’ A. Mr. TDH had gone into the kitchen to cook us lunch and talk to my roommate, so I immediately hopped on Facebook to see if my friend Skinny Bitch was on-line.  She’s a fantastic friend, who knows all too much about this situation with BP and Mr. TDH. 

A few days before I had written a tell-all note to BP that I wanted to send to him so we could just stop playing these games, but I hadn’t had the courage to do so and it needed some editing work.  I quickly told Skinny Bitch what just happened and she told me I needed to send the note.  I asked her to help me edit it before we went to to work that night and she agreed.

I spent the rest of my afternoon with Mr. TDH lounging on the couch, being lazy and getting ready for work.  He asked me why I freaked out on him earlier and I explained to him the dream I had just had and that when I woke up and saw him on my computer, I thought he might be breaking it.  He accepted this.  Around 5, I dropped him off at his car, went to Subway and Starbucks to kill some time before I headed to Skinny Bitch’s house for revisioning.  I got there at 6, like she had told me to, a little jacked on caffeine and ready to get this over with.  We worked on it until we both had to go to work at seven and without a second thought, I sent it.

It finally said all the things that I had wanted to say all along, all the things my friends and blog readers had told me not to say.  I asked the questions I didn’t think I would ever have the balls to ask (I still don’t, Skinny Bitch made me do it).  I finally got to make it his responsibility. 

It’s been a week. 

I’ve heard nothing.

I am not surprised.  A quick response is not his style, so I’m giving him one more week. 

The thing is, I don’t know how I’m going to react to good or bad news, because good news is actually bad news and bad news is actually good news.  If his response says I’m bat shit crazy and he has no interest in me, well then I know and I don’t have to do anything besides move on and forget about him and his machete. If he responds favorably (98% chance he won’t) well, then I have to figure things out.  But if he responds negatively, then I’ve just wasted over two years thinking about this bloke. If he responds favorably, will it push the issues I already have with Mr. TDH into overdrive and kill us? 

I only wish I had done this a year ago, in person, when a response would have been forced out.  I wouldn’t have to wait, wondering, hoping for any response, at all. Because this time…I really am hoping to end it all or finally begin it…

 Post Title: Alanis Morissette You Outta Know

Alright.

Girls’ Weekend.

How do I put this?

He most certainly did

n’t call.

I mean, really, did any of us really think he was going to call?  Would that have been the BP way?  Why after a year would I expect anything different and while I hoped it would be, I knew it wouldn’t. It’s not to say that I didn’t want him to call and that I didn’t want to see him and that I didn’t think about being a horrible girlfriend and taking on the machete in the bathroom, on the sink like a cheating whore…because I did. A lot. And  for that, I’m happy he didn’t call.

The weekend was fun, but nothing crazy to write home about.  We all wore form fitting dresses. We went to an expensive restaurant where the service was horrible.  We downed a lot of shots other boys bought us. We stood in the rain and froze our skinny asses off.  I drunkenly fell down and ripped my purple tights and somehow smashed my toe.  It was fun and I really liked the city we were in.  And BP aside, it’s definitely a place I would not mind living.  If I can’t be up in NYC that seems like a close second to me, surprisingly.

I did however text him. A quick question on which of the two bars were better and he answered immediately, but I didn’t ask him if he was coming and he didn’t say that he was or wasn’t.  I woke up the next morning–NOT THAT HUNGOVER–and realized I had sent him a message when I was passing out, simply saying, “You bailed sweetheart, lame sauce.”  I don’t know where the lame sauce came from, but I also don’t know what happened to my toe either.

The next night, once I had returned home, Dev called and said she was out with my boyfriend and friends and that I should come out for karaoke.  I was reluctant at first. I was tired, I had to work the next morning  and I was broke, but she insisted and I eventually caved.

I was standing in the bar, watching everyone drink delicious dark beer that I wanted no part of and getting molested by my drunk boyfriend when he texted me, asking if I had a good time in his city. Dev told me not to respond, but I did, of course.

I told him I did. He apologized for not coming out and I said I understood.

Dev asked how I felt about it all and before I could answer she said, “It’s kind of unfinished, isn’t it?”

And that’s exactly what it is.  While you may be thinking, “He bailed, what more is there to do or say?”  But there is, at least for me and I’m not too worried about it because I’ll hear from him in two months and then again in two more months and by then it will be May and it will have been a year and maybe by then, just maybe, I can start getting over it.

Post title: Radiohead Jigsaws falling into place

You’re wondering, aren’t you?

What happened on girls weekend?

Did he call?  Did he not? Did we have crazy drunken sex in the bathroom of the hotel?  Did we figure everything out?

Well, I must leave you with bated breath because there’s a karaoke stage calling my name.

But tomorrow, it’s a date. Let’s get coffee, I’ll tell you all about it.

Post title: Britney Spears Blur

I scrambled out of Mr. TDH’s grasp and snatched my phone out of my purse. It was only 8:30, 9:30 his time. I had sent it at 3 am, there has to be a possibility that I can intercept this. I mean surely, he had been asleep when I sent it and was probably still sleeping.

I told my dehydrated brain to shut up and get to work. “THINK! How do we just blow this whole thing off and pretend like it was nothing?” On top of figuring this out, my phone was dying. Shit..Shit…SHIT!

Ok. GO.

I texted him that I was sorry for whatever shit show message I had sent him the night before and I was drunk and sleep deprived. I finished it with that he didn’t know what I was talking about to just ignore a Facebook message from me– which I know of course is only going to make him read it, but whatever. SEND.

Two hours later, Mr. TDH and I had relocated back to his mother’s house, showered and I was now lying on the bed, stalling on getting ready and holding my pounding head. My phone went off and it was him. Fuck.

He wished me a merry Christmas and hoped that I was having fun in New Orleans. But that according to Love Actually, he should, in return, say he thinks about me when he shouldn’t.

Fuck. FuCK. FUCK. Really, you have to do this? Can’t you just tell me to leave you alone? Can’t you just make this easy?

I hesitated–what now? Screw it.

I thanked him and said I was sorry for drunkenly vomiting that on him, but while it surely lacked eloquence and proper spelling I’m sure most of it held some validity to it. But it is what it is and wished him a merry Christmas.

And then that was that…

I enjoyed the rest of my trip and things got a little better with Mr. TDH. We came home and celebrated Christmas with my family, both bartended on New Year’s Eve and started the New Year with hopes of it being better than the last.

The restaurant industry was entering into its slowest week of the year, so we sat around that first weekend of the year with nothing to do but stare at each other. The petite red head that had helped introduce me to Mr. TDH, who has long since quit the company, came in one of those nights and told me of her birthday celebration she was having. It was going to be in two weeks and out of town. I was immediately interested. She told me what city it was in. I was stoked I had never really been out there before. It was going to be boyfriend free and as always, a shit show.

Then it hit me. BP lives in that city. I was torn, do I tell him? Do I leave it be? Is it what it is? Was he telling the truth? Does it matter? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?

What’s the best way around this? Hmm. Well, we still act like we’re teenagers, why not do this the teenage way. I posted on Facebook last Thursday that I was very excited to be getting out of town next week for the Petite Red Head’s birthday celebration in this city. Done and done. I wouldn’t tell him, Facebook would. If he wanted to do something about it, he would.

I was driving to my parent’s house for dinner on Sunday when I got a strange feeling. He’s going to text me today. I looked at my phone, nothing. I threw it back in my purse, got out at my parent’s house and enjoyed the evening with them. Around nine, I decided I should probably charge my phone before I went out and went to the kitchen to grab it and my charger. I pull it out and there waiting for me on my screen was a text from him.

So you’re going to be in my city next weekend?

I stood there, not moving, just staring at it. I only read it once, but I didn’t move nor do anything for a full three minutes. I snapped out of it, grabbed my charger and ran back into the family room where my mother was sitting.

I sure am, was all I texted back.

He inquired about what bars I was going to. I told him our plans were unfinished at the moment, but we planned on spending most of our time in a certain part of downtown. He filled me in on bars that we would probably like that were in the area. I asked him if he was going to be in town, he said he would be but had to work Sunday morning. We discussed that we both might go to grad school and then he said he had to go before the Ambien he took made him say “stupid or regretful” things.

I swear to God, it’s that line. If you have to keep repeating it or refrain from talking to me when your judgment is blurred (I’m not one to talk) then you clearly have something to say and should just say it.

He said he would call me Saturday if he was going to come out.

I went about my business the next few days, began preparing outfits that I felt were suitable for such an outing, finalizing plans with the girls and getting excited overall. I need to get out of town, have a girls night, spend money I shouldn’t and act like a fool for awhile. While this blog makes it sound like I’m still up to my typical drunken antics, I don’t drink very much anymore.

I was at work on Wednesday setting up the bar for the evening when my phone went off. It was a text from him saying that one of the bars he had told me to check out had closed down. I thanked him for telling me and asked if he was going to come. He said he didn’t know because he had to work in the morning. He works in a restaurant as well and as someone who has put their time in on Sunday morning shifts after working until 5 am the night before, I know they are meant to be awful. You just get through them and drink heavily afterwards with all of your other server friends. I told him, “Fair enough, but Sunday shifts are supposed to suck.” He made some excuse and I said OK and that was that.

Now, at this point, I’m thinking, “What the fuck? Why did you bother texting me in the FIRST place? You contacted me. You asked what my plans were. You knew all along that you were working Sunday.” It’s very similar to the way he handled our goodbye session. This time it began nice, unlike the last time, but it still ended with this feeling of indifference—which is fine, if you’re not the one asking me what I’m doing. I’ve deduced it to him liking the idea that I’m somewhere off thinking about him or wanting to see him (which clearly he has succeeded, as I have a fucking blog about him) but then really only wants to deal with me when he wants to. But because I don’t text him or contact him anymore without him talking to me, I feel like he feels like he has to start it, but then wants nothing but reassurance from it. It’s annoying.

So, tomorrow is the day. In twenty-four hours, I’ll be in a hotel room getting pretty with the other girls and I’m not going to text him, no matter how drunk I get. He knows I’m there, he knows the area I’ll be in. If he wants to see me, he will. If not, then oh well. I’m getting tired of these games. We’re twenty-fucking-three, I think we’re a little old to be doing this shit. I have a boyfriend, who I am happier with now, and while I do cave and break all my rules for this kid, I can’t keep doing this. Not anymore. (This is not to say that it’s OVER and that I’ll never write on him again, because we all know I will.)

To be continued…

Post title: Usher You don’t have to call

There was exactly a week in between his messages and the day of the game, so in that time I started asking my friends if any of them needed a ticket…turns out most of them did.  I gave it to Dev and notified BP a few days later that I wasn’t going to be able to give it to him.  He said he probably wouldn’t be making it to Greenville then, but there was a small chance he still might.

I left on the first Thursday of the month and it was one of the first cold days of the season.  I attempted to dress appropriately for the weather and the game by wrapping myself up in my roommate’s gold scarf and paired it with my strangely lucky gold zebra earrings. I looked cute and was going to have fun whether I saw him or not.  My biggest concern at the moment was having enough pre-gaming time before the game.

I pulled up to the Brothel, the house where my old roommates, best friend, Dev and Amanda all live, a little before 4.  This left exactly 3 and half hours to pick up liquor, pre-game at the house with Dev, walk to the pre-gaming field to drink some more, stuff airplane bottles in our bras and walk to the game.  Needless to say, three and half hours was plenty of time and by the time the second quarter had started and Dev and I had chugged our Absolut and Cokes in the stands, I was drunk.

I found myself telling old guy friends, who were still in school, the importance of finding a job now, since I so clearly didn’t have a career yet.  Dev was dancing and yelling and not one of us were watching the game.  It was atrocious; our team played terribly, but only as terribly as the other team and left us with a motionless, boring game.  When the fourth quarter started, we decided it was best if we just left and continued drinking at home.  We traipsed down the bleachers, through the stadium, down the hill and started walking through campus.  I figured at this time, there was no better time to text BP to see if he had made it; he hadn’t.  I said he didn’t miss much and yammered on about some other things until I admitted that I was drunk.  He asked if we should stop talking so that neither of us says something stupid or regretful.  I distinctly remember rolling my eyes in a drunken state and quickly typing back, “No, I’m just saying that so you can excuse my inability to text at the moment.” And then that was that…

I lived it up the rest of the weekend–got trashed, danced, saw people I hadn’t in a long time, yelled, and stumbled to the Brothel a few nights in a row in skinny stiletto boots, just like old times. Except this time it was different and it wasn’t because of BP’s absence; I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

I came back and was starting to feel unsure about my relationship, where it was going and what I wanted from it.  I started distancing myself, because, well ya know, that’s always a great way to solve any problem.  And of course it didn’t.  Thanksgiving came and went and Mr. TDH was getting ready to take me home to New Orleans for Christmas to meet his family.  He started sensing things were wrong and started asking questions, but I didn’t know how to deal with it, so I said I didn’t know and that I wasn’t sure I should be going to meet his family.  That didn’t go over extremely well and in the end, I decided I would just go and try to resolve all these issues I had floating around my head about the relationship.

Seven am, December 22nd, he and I boarded a plane to the MYS airport in New Orleans.  This was after we both had worked ten-hour shifts on very little sleep and then didn’t go to bed before the flight.  We were both exhausted, in bad moods and ready to take naps once we landed. The plane touched down around 11 New Orleans time and no later than 12:30 had we crawled our way into his mother’s guest bedroom’s bed.

We woke up at 5, a little less sleep deprived and delusional and got ready to meet up with his friend for dinner.  The drinking began there, but carried over into a bar filled with all his old high school friends.  One glass of wine, two Absolut and Redbulls, 2 tequila sunrises, one Patron shot and one Negra Medolo later I was back in my natural habitat.  I sat perched on top of a bar stool between Mr. TDH and all his friends.  The waves of the alcohol started rolling in and took my better judgment with them.  I checked my phone for missed calls, texts and emails.  I checked the emails last and was halfway through a Facebook message email before I realized who it was from.  I scrolled back to the top: Baseball Player.

Wait. Wait… What did that message say?

I quickly scrolled back down through it realizing he had just simply commented on my Facebook picture and was wishing me a merry Christmas, but that’s when I said, “FUCK IT! I’m just gonna tell him. I’m sick of pretending this shit doesn’t exist!”  And at the time, it was a great idea. A genius idea. It was brilliant and I was just going to do it.  All I needed was a little inspiration from Love Actually, once I had that, my Facebook message and I hit the ground running and ran ourselves into a light pole that went a little bit like this…

December 23, 2009 at 2:55am

haha thanks BP! thats me at work bored bartending. but so I wasn’t going to say anything but you messaged me so I will, but look im drunk and im going to admit it because apparently according to love actually you tell the truth at christmas, but I never got over you. I think about you when I shouldn’t. and I know nothing ever happened and I know you have a gf and I have a bf, a bf im in new orleans with to meet his family at the moment, but I got (don’t) know I can’t get over it. maybe I miss college maybe im crazy(probably) but that’s what it is. my biggest hope is you don’t give a shit about me so I can get over it, but it is what it is and im drunk merry fucking christmas BP. that’s all I got …

Sent via Facebook Mobile

Sometimes writing isn’t really my thing…you see, this is why I always say, “yo just letting you know I’m drunk, so you can forgive my retarded typing and grammar skills.”

When I finished, I was proud of it and hit send with a great boost of confidence. Mr. TDH was too busy drinking and hanging out with his friends to even notice that his girlfriend was sitting alone on a bar stool, covering one eye and typing furiously on her phone for what was at least thirty minutes.

I carried on drinking with the rest of them and thought nothing of my message…

that is until I woke up 5 and half hours later in a haze, snuggled up to Mr. TDH on his friend’s futon.

I didn’t remember at first. I just kept thinking how awful I felt and how I wasn’t in any shape to be meeting family members in a few hours.  Then that light pole came down on top of me.

“OH MY FUCKING GOD!

To be continued…

Post title: Fiona Apple’s A Mistake

Since I’ve been gone for so long, I’m unsure about where I should pick up, but because you know the most about this one, I shall start there.  However, it is important to know that I have had a boyfriend since I disappeared last June and it is, in fact, Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome.

————-

Baseball player…who is obviously not Mr. TDH, who we all remember (not so fondly, I’m sure) is kind of, well, back. And kind of, well, never went away. I know, I know. I wrote time and time again that it was OVER and that I would never write about him again. Well, I’m sorry I lied and old habits die-hard, OK?  And Baseball Player, while he was able to escape my thoughts for a while, fought his way back in–all on his own time and own accord…

————–

It was June, right when I posted that I had Baseball Player news. I was laying in bed with Mr. TDH and listening to the rain. We were telling stories and still in that crazy infatuation mode, the kind you only miss when it’s very much gone. Baseball Player was miles from my mind, the first time in years and I actually enjoying being with someone else.  But somewhere in a much more northern city, sat a boy who suddenly knew I was happy and certainly couldn’t have it. BP sensed it, as he always does and decided to text me. There between sporadic lightning strikes and hearty laughs, my little phone lit up, screaming at me, “remember me, remember me!”

His text was simple, said something about thinking about me and asked how I had been. Confused about how I should feel about this, I laughed and showed Mr. TDH, saying that my old fuckbuddy was trying to pull some shit. I entertained him for a few minutes and then told him I had to go. But my curiosity got the best of me and I texted him back the next day when I was at the gym. We went back and forth for a long time. I told him I had a boyfriend and he said he was happy for me.  When the formalities were done and the catching up had been caught up, I finally decided, “Fuck it. I’m gonna do what I wanted to do all along.”

“You want to know something now that it doesn’t matter?”

“I don’t know, do I?” he seemed worried.

I reassured him that it wasn’t about having an STD or anything like that and then finally let it out. I tactfully explained to him that I had liked him for those two years and it’s why I was such a bitch and that I was sorry for how things played out. I was running on the treadmill at this point and dropping what felt like a 100 lb weight.  I ran harder and harder just staring at my phone, willing a response–one that wouldn’t be awkward or full of snide remarks–and five minutes later that’s exactly what I got. What played out across my screen was what my brain had told me along. He said he had felt the same and had he not been so screwed up by girls, he would have tried to date me. I didn’t know what to feel.  I couldn’t be elated, I was with a wonderful boyfriend, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say I was a little sad that we were too childish only months before to see what had been shouted, underlined, crossed out and shouted again in the quietest and most obvious of innuendos that were buried deep in lies, coercion, manipulation and plain ol “hatred.”

He then apologized for everything he put me through and for once seemed very sincere. Now I know him and I know not to believe everything he says, but for the first time in a long time, he seemed genuine and everything was very heartfelt.  He knew I had a boyfriend, so essentially we both had nothing to gain or lose.  And then that was that.

Until August…

I was in the middle of vacation with my family at the beach.  Mr. TDH and had just left the day before after spending a day and a half getting to know the family and railing me on a sand dune. The fam and I were all sitting on couches watching TV that evening and I decided I would start uploading some photos to Facebook. I was sitting next to my brother’s crazy best friend and mindlessly clicking photos, when a chat box appeared.  Baseball Player.  I had to know what he wanted and I wanted to know how he had been and really, I couldn’t rationalize any reason to not talk to him besides all the obvious ones in my head that I strategically ignored.

We talked for two hours. I told him how Mr. TDH and I once had sex in his bathroom in the middle of a party while listening to all the best Kings of Leon songs and that it kind of reminded me of him. He wanted to relive some of the details of our threesomes, but I wouldn’t go that far. I knew better. He mostly told me of his inability to meet any girls up in the city he was in for a summer internship.  I offered my condolences and smiled a little on the inside.  He ended it all with, “Well if it doesn’t work out with your boyfriend, we should totally have sex again.” I knew he was horny and to not read into it. But it started hitting me that I had just spent two hours talking to him–eagerly–and wasn’t completely put off by the statement, just pretended to be. And then that was that and I went back to my fantastic relationship and he got ready to return home.

Two months had passed. My relationship had gotten passed the “I love you, I love you, I LOVE YOU,” phase and I was starting to feel a shift only really perceivable to me. I wasn’t sure what was going on, but something had changed.  I was sitting in my room one afternoon getting ready to go to work, when right on course with his two month time-line, he texted me again.

“I forgot to tell you, I have you beat.” I squinted at it. Hmm? What does that mean?

“What, you had a foursome?”

“No, I had sex AT the Kings of Leon concert.”

“I hate you.”  Was all I could type back.  Mainly because hi, WHO are you having sex with? Kidding, no I was annoyed because two months earlier the only songs he knew by KOL were Use Somebody and Sex on Fire and really, who didn’t know those songs by then?  So for an amateur KOL fan to get to have sex at their concert and for me to NOT have…well… that’s just wrong ladies and gentlemen!

I weaseled my way into asking him who he had fucked at the concert, only to find out it had been his girlfriend. A-ha! The real reason he had texted me, he wanted me to know he was dating someone. Which, please I already knew.  A few weeks earlier, my roommate wanted to know what this BP saga was all about and what he looked like and when we went to stalk him, I saw his relationship status changed.  And I thought, “Hmm. Eh, oh well. Good for him.”

I pretended that this was news to me and congratulated him on the fact that Mr. Non-commitment committed. Halloween was days away so we shared our plans with each other. And then it hit me, his birthday was the day after Halloween and Halloween marked a sort of two-year anniversary for us. It’s when it all began and when we reconnected.  I kept my nostalgia to myself and asked about his birthday plans.  He said he would be getting laid for the first time on his birthday and I thought, “Wow, are we here again? The place where we brag about the other people we are with to see how the other reacts.”  I didn’t humor the situation and only congratulated him.

The week after Halloween was a huge ECU game that I and everyone else was trying to get tickets to.  I managed to land two and was excited about it and my return to Greenville for a long weekend.  I asked if he was going, assuming he would be as he’s a huge football fan and I think his girlfriend is still in school.  He said he ws trying to, but didn’t have a ticket, so as a birthday present I offered my second one if my friends didn’t need it.

He appreciated that and I told him I would get up with him closer to the game.

With that statement alone, I felt like I had officially set things back into motion.  I was going back to Greenville and possibly going to see him, while I would never cheat on my boyfriend, I couldn’t help but be a little excited about the idea that it could, just for a second, be like old times…

To be continued…

Post title: Adele Chasing Pavements (fantastic CD by the way)

If you’re new here, which I imagine if anyone is reading again that you probably are and therefore I recommend starting from the beginning with this long drawn out tale, but it’s one that includes threesomes, facials, angry notes, face slapping, drunken debauchery, jealousy and a lot of confusion. This is the closest thing I can find to the beginning and while it really isn’t it’s certainly close enough.

Hi.

It’s been awhile and I have no excuse for my absence.  I just needed a break and then I just needed inspiration, but I resolved to start this again and to write as much as I can–not for readers, who are mostly non-existent by now and have moved on long ago, but for myself.  Maybe because of that my writing will be better? But one thing is for sure, my writing has gone to shit, my grammar and vocabulary have died. In fact, sadly, this might be the longest paragraph I’ve written in a long time.  Since graduating, I’ve gotten sucked into the depressing world of hospitality, where I went from server, to cocktail waitress to bartender.  And the “glamorous” life of a bartender, is in fact, not glamorous at all (not that you ever thought it was).   I’ve gone through ringer with jobs and interviews, had call backs but didn’t take them.  I entertained the idea of taking jobs I knew I could do simply for the salary and to say I had a real job, but then that was more depressing to me than bartending and serving the assholes of my city.  So at the moment I’m stuck–do I settle for a job not worth my time or keep working a job I’m too good for?

I have a meeting next week at the giant university in my city to talk about grad school, because what else am I to do?  My industry does not exist here and my other industry is a dying art. I’ve begun looking at Wilmington, as the Photographer (yes, he still exists and I still love him–but not really) said he could get me into set design and wardrobe (awesome).  I’ve begun looking at other cities in North Carolina in hopes of there being more fashion related jobs there, but so far–nothing.  I had dreams of moving to NYC and they still linger in my head, but at the moment, packing up and going, with little money and no job prospects would be foolish.

So what will most likely happen is I’ll go back to school, which even just the idea of it excites me and will be beneficial to everyone else, because granted the whore days are over (maybe) I’m more likely to get myself into some crazy shit if I’m in school.

But all of that, is the real reason I haven’t been writing, or it’s at least my wishful reasoning of it.  I hate my job, there is no creative energy there, therefore mine is dwindling. I work too much, therefore my time is little.  The free time I have, I rather spend drinking, eating, sleeping and working out, but that is no more. I will bring my creative energy back and until the economy improves or I start grad school, I’m just going to have to make the most of it and stop blaming outside forces on the reasons that I’m not writing. Because truthfully, I’m the real reason.

So here’s to 2010, may it be much better than 2009.  That will be the last of my pity party updates, hopefully, and I will now entertain you with what the fuck has happened in the last 8 months. Sheesh, you’ve missed out! Where ya been!?

Post title taken from John Mayer’s War of my life.

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…