I'm Off to See the Wizard

I'm so excited. Tomorrow afternoon the three amigas will descend upon a modern Little House on the Prairie for the weekend. Teri invited two of us to join her for a weekend at her farm. She has assured us that there will be no pig slopping, cow milking, corn shucking or hay bailing. There will be her Friday night high school football, starring her brother. What could be better?

It is only an hour away, but that's not the point. It is a change of scenery, which could only do me some good.

Teri is the gal who blew off her boyfriend to hang out with me the weekend after I was deposited in dumpville. She's a great friend and she's smokin' hot. It should be a blast.

I'm a virgin. Sue me.

If you’ve been reading you now know that after two years we of dating my ex and I never had sex. Even some of my friends are surprised or doubtful of that. Now before you think I’m Charley Taco, keep in mind that I made it clear to him at the outset where my boundaries were. And more importantly, where my boundaries were not. And while he was probably lying, he told me the same thing.

And when I date again, I’ll have that discussion again. I don’t want to invest a lot of time in some guy who isn’t looking for the same thing I am. And I would guess that a most guys aren’t looking to waste all that time and effort, either. If he’s a player, isn’t he better off playing someone else?

I am not scared of disease, or pregnancy or even my reputation. It isn’t a Silver Ring thing. It is just that I’m not ready for it. Not right now, and not in the foreseeable future. I don’t think before marriage.

I view sex as transcendent; almost spiritual. On second thought, strike the “almost.” I do view it as spiritual. Or rather I want it to be when I’m involved in it. I just don’t want to be that physically intimate with someone I’m not that spiritually intimate with. And that sort of intimacy is not created overnight. And while I don’t think of marriage magically, I do think marriage is an outward sign of the internal commitment that such intimacy requires. I want that. I need it.

The thing that put me over the edge about my recent dumpdom was his insistence that he had “needs” that I should have been fulfilling. Since I wasn’t fulfilling his needs, he turned elsewhere. This bugged me twice. First, he knew I wasn’t going to fulfill those “needs” at this point in our relationship. If he needed it that badly, better find someone else. But after you find someone else, don’t bother coming back to me.

Second, I don’t want to be used. Not now. Not ever. I don’t want to *merely* be the means to an orgasm. So even if we were sexually active, your “needs” wouldn’t be enough reason to roll in the sack. And I think that is a two-way street. I don’t want any guy to *merely* be the means to my orgasm. (Or the means to my house or my car or my family or anything else.) Ever. I don’t want a marriage where he gives me stuff and I give him sex. I want to be his partner, and I want him to be mine. I want to be equals; sharing ourselves totally. Sharing ourselves not only spiritually, but also physically. And I hope the headboard shakes frequently and loudly when we get there.

I’ve been told that I am in for a big letdown. And that my view is naive and fanciful. And that I shouldn’t start sentences with conjunctions.

Myspace isn't very anonymous, is it?

I have a confession to make. I have another blog. Rather I had another one. It was one of those crappy Myspace ones, and I am sick of Myspace. Hopefully you are living in a dungeon guarded by demented trolls who torment you and have never visited myspace. For the rest of you, my condolences for the pain you no doubt endured when surfing myspace.

I have two bones to pick with Myspace. First, their templates suck so bad and make the entire thing unreadable, and second, not quite unreadable enough, as my mother manages to read it every spare moment she gets. I will spare you the details, but my posts there include how I hate Paris Hilton, about a necklace my friend made for me, a Hoobastank song I like, about two of my roommates getting tramp stamps, and about how Dipshit and I "decided to see other people."

I have no effing clue why I wrote that, because "we" didn't decide jack. He decided that he was going to screw Colette (not her real name, her real name is Colleen). He didn't discuss it with me ahead of time, so I wasn't part of the decision. (Not that I would have objected. The mere fact that he would have wanted to screw her would have been enough to make me decide to see other people.) My point is, WE did not decide it; he decided it for the both of us. It was just easier than admitting to the world that he'd rather do her than wait for me.

Anyway, Dipshit apparently (post-Colette) told his mother about the myspace blog. She then read the entire blog herself. For some reason she focused on the part where I referred to his family as "one broken washer on the front porch shy of completing their white trash certification." Apparently they took offense at that, no doubt because they already had the certification. Why they didn't judge the blog on its literary content as a whole I'll never know. I mean the tramp stamp post alone was worth the price of admission.

So I now have an email from her telling me that she is disappointed in me, because I had seemed so nice and that she hopes Dipshit will find a quote classier girl in the future. I can only guess and obsess about what details Dipshit might have thrown in. I can guess which details he left out.

Needles to say (yes, NEEDLES), I took down the myspace blog. A little late, don't 'ya think?

Don't Talk to Me.

I'm lashing out at my friends --who are trying to offer consolation and support-- because all that's a lie. I won't get over him, I feel like crap, and I am so damn depressed that I just want to wallow in my malaise. Alone. And that's not how I am. I'm bright and energenic.

No one fucks around on me. Ever.

And everytime I think of him, I feel like I'm not being true to myself. I miss him. I miss what I thought he was. I can't go back, and I don't know how I'll go on.

I miss cuddling with him on the futon while we watch TV. I miss holding hands. I miss standing pressed up against him, when his arms are wrapped around me in an embrace --with his arm just touching the bottom of my breasts, in a way that conveys both that he respects me enough not to paw at me in public, and yet shows a nonchalant attitude about it. I miss the hot kisses on my neck.

More than anything else, I miss knowing that there is someone who really cares for me, and who desires me above all other girls. Except he doesn't. Fuckin' Bastard.

What to say

I have come to the conclusion that men, especially cheating men, need a primer on how to communicate with the woman they have just fucked over.

Here's a list of things not to say:

1. "You owe it to me to talk with me." I don't owe you jack. And, you owe it to me not to screw other chicks. Even if you are drunk and have needs. So, just unscrew her and I'll talk to you.

2. "You don't understand." You're right. I don't understand. I'm also glad that I don't understand.

3. "It was just sex. It meant nothing to me." I'm glad to know that there's no meaning to sex for you. I've never wanted to have sex with you more than right now.

4. "We can work it out." I'm sure we could. But we won't.

Here's a list of things that are acceptable to say.

1. "Do you know where I can find a book on how to properly commit Hari-Kari? I'd hate to dishonor the Ancient Samarai tradition in the same way I dishonored you."

2. "If I move to Madagascar, would that be far enough away from you?"

A Dozen Long Stem What?

Check this out. Dipshit (not his real name) sent me a dozen carnations. Carnations? What's up with that? Who sends carnations? I'm not your freaking mother. (I'm also not your girlfriend, but I digress.)

Look, Dipshit (Really, it is not his real name) there's a reason that roses are so closely associated with love. Not only are they are beautiful flowers, but they also have thorns. And note that the beauty of the flowers makes the thorns seem like minor inconveniences, just as the love between two persons make the sacrifices seem trivial. Get it? Furthermore, the flowers start out as little buds, then spread and grow more beautiful as the pedals separate, just as love grows more beautiful with time. Like us, only not. Get it? Thank God I'm not bitter. That would only make things worse.

I'm fine. Really.

This will have to be a short post because I am sooooo busy. I mean my social calendar is bursting at the -- wherever it is they burst. I'm so freaking excited about the start of my first weekend as a single girl since freshman year. After 100 weekends in a row, I now have zero plans. I can't decide whether to study or work out. Ahh screw it. We all know I'll put on my sweats, get some microwave popcorn and chocolate and go watch movies with the boring girls. Maybe we'll have a pillow fight and paint each other's toes! Maybe I'll find a Ken doll and see if voodoo really works. If it does, there's a perfect topic for a term paper.

Single life sucks. I can't go out. I don't relish getting asked to dance out of pity, nor do I want to deal with someone trying to rescue me or, worse yet, catch me on the rebound. I almost wish I lived in the damn dorm. At least I'm not bitter.

But I'm not bitter

My boyfriend of two years and I just broke up. Well, we didn't really break up so much as he decided to sleep with someone else. And while I never thought this was going to last forever, I always thought that I would be the one to find someone better. But I'm not bitter.

According to his persistent emails since the big event, this was really my fault, because I wouldn't (how does a lady say this?) fuck his brains out. And you'll be glad to know that he wants to try to work through this. I've been working on my measured response, but I am having difficulty figuring out how to get close enough to him when he has his glasses off to stick a pencil four inches into his left eye socket. But I'm not bitter.

I'm hoping that if I authorize a few more computers on my iTunes, will it automatically erase all those songs from his iPod. Will it? But I'm not bitter.

So, I've got no plans for the weekend. I guess I can research how to poison someone using ordinary kitchen spices. Then I can bake him a cake, just to show there are no hard feelings. I'm glad I'm not bitter.