Ultimately, I loved him more than he could ever love me.
I finally re-ordered my bookcases. I left them all wonky and falling over for a while, hoping that his books would be back there soon. But it’s time to move on.
I arranged them sort of by color, because if I arranged them by genre, the sheer volume of books about Nazi Germany and Hitler would have been too overwhelming — and way too much like my Grandma’s bookcases.
Last night, I met up with Jessie at NK for some beers. We talked, drank, bitched about A., you know, the usual. Unfortunately, A. showed up a few beers into the evening. We steadfastly held our positions, and so Jessie and I ended up at a table, while A. and his friend were at another one right behind us. I could feel A. staring at me as I talked, flirted with the waiter, took a shot of whiskey. I don’t remember when he left, but I do remember thinking it was really awkward.
Jessie and I tried to take some pictures of the whole situation so I could upload them, but we didn’t want to cause a stir with the flash because we thought it might not be appropriate to alert him to the fact that I’ve been blogging about him breaking up with me. This is the shot of him coming inside from having a cigarette:
Totally works, right? Ok, well the next picture is of me hiding from him:
As you can plainly see, I’m a master of disguise.
Tonight is Twin Peaks Tuesday, I don’t want to miss it, I promised I’d go, but I don’t know if I can handle another awkward run-in and subsequent hangover.
Actually, I take that back. I can handle anything. He’s the one that left, he’s the one that has to deal with what that means — and if that means that I go to the ONLY bar in the neighborhood with friends and he happens to show up while I’m in mid get-drunk-and-flirt-mode, well then, his problem.
After my post last night and the crying and hysterics that went along with my mood, I took some NyQuil to calm down and try to go to bed. Maybe because it was only 8 pm it didn’t really work, maybe I’ve just taken too much the past week so it’s not that effective, but I ended up awake, and “drunk dialing.”
Is there a different term for that when you’re hopped up on NyQuil?
Anyway, yes, I called A. and asked him to come over. We hung out for a while, snuggled on the couch together, had sex, giggled. He left, I stayed up late watching 30 Rock.
Maybe tonight I’ll try Tylenol PM instead.
I really didn’t mean it when I said I hope his dick falls off. I’m just angry, and I don’t know where or how to direct it. It really wasn’t nice of me to say something like that about someone I love loved. I wouldn’t want him saying nasty things to people about my vagina.
Part of my job entails entering surveys from 8-17-year-olds we find in malls. Needless to say, the handwriting is indecipherable and the spelling is atrocious, so I have to Google about 40% of the entries to try and figure out what “Elags” might mean as a response to “Newest trends you’ve noticed in restaurants.”
But now, every time I Google something, it comes up relating to A. Like today, Google brought me to the dunes on Lake Michigan:
We went there last summer for the Fourth of July. I met A.’s entire family. One morning, we went to the dunes, and he told me he loved me for the first time. We had sex on the sand and went skinny dipping in the lake afterwards. He taught me how to skip rocks. I was really looking forward to going back there.
