Tuesday, 1107PM.

Timestamping seems irrelevant since Blogger will go ahead and tag this for me.

Probably should get out of the habit.

Especially since it only kicked in because I was so stressed and losing track of time because I was living hour to hour, not day to day.

Updates... I'm moving on Saturday. I was approved for the apartment I wanted on Monday afternoon. I spent most of this last weekend packing and organizing, so I'm very good to go come Saturday morning.

Living alone.

How strange. I never expected that, really. Yes, I am loner, but I always assumed that I'd either be living with my parents or with my partner, as has been the case my entire life. I hate the idea that if I lose my job, there's no one living with me to back me up on rent and bills until I'm employed again.

It feels foolish.

I hold my safety nets dear.

But here I am, moving into a large apartment on my solo. I already have most of the furniture I need, and the majority of the things I am lacking are going to be given to me by my mother or GV8. GV8 seems to be covering all of the moving expenses as well, so this entire thing is... financially pretty easy. Some of my friends are happily(?) volunteering(?) to help unload, so I'll have a chill enough time of it.

Speaking of GV8... called him yesterday to let him know that I was approved for the apartment and the moving date was still set for Saturday, then asked if he'd want to go clubbing with me after the move, as one of my favorite clubs is that evening. He loves to watch me dance, I love to dance, and I thought it would be fun.

Didn't really think it through.

Going to any scene place tends to invite people we both know. His friends, my friends, acquaintances, one-night stands, etc. Going to that particular club, where I have my small group of male admirers that do not understand/accept my lack of interest, along with the women he'd likely to run into that he has already slept with, along with his need not to feel constrained/cock-blocked... it doesn't work.

He knows it would hurt me, hurt me deeply, if he picked up another woman.

And it would bother him if I picked up another man.

I'm significantly less likely than he is do to so at any scene events because club kids aren't my type.

However, he's equal opportunity for anyone that is hot and interesting.

Which is how we met.

I still remember that night, me with my swiss cheese memory. Seeing him sitting at the club, in one of the side rooms, bobbing his head to the music. Me walking in his general direction, going to swerve around him at the last minute to take my seat and him thinking I was walking over to talk to him and striking up a conversation in his usual confident manner.

Afterwards, after he bent me over some leather piece of furniture, dragged my pants in my ankles and bruised the hell out of me, we stood outside the club, me leaning against my car, wondering if I should offer to take him home with me. I had the Artesia apartment to myself that night, which meant I could finally have some play time.

I let him talk, let him convince me, slowly, and then made the offer.

We didn't have sex that night.

But I showed him that there are 25 year olds that can give amazing head.
And he showed me that my body could squirt numerous times in a row.

I got twenty minutes of sleep before I had to get going for the day's activities. Twenty minutes allowed because he did not want to stop the pleasure, did not want me resting. Wanted to push me.

And I sailed on it.

Who knew that some man I accidentally struck up a conversation with at a club would have such an impact on me? It still boggles my mind.

Anyhow, it was rapidly determined that it would be a horrible idea for the two of us to go to a club together. Which sent me spiraling down into a small pit of depression.

It's easier now, to a degree. I'm certainly not over him, and it continues to feel as though I've got a gaping, gasping chest wound, but I am reaching that point where life is continuing.

An apartment to myself. A place where no one is telling me I can't decorate in a certain way. The past two men I've lived with have always told me no, no I can't have particular decorations up. They aren't kosher, they aren't normal, and we need to compromise.

Of course, that compromise is that they have average ideas of decoration that average people like and don't rock the average social boat, damn it.

A place of my own. A place where no one is checking up on me, where I don't have to pad in quietly after a club, where I can bring whoever I want home with me, for whatever purpose, and eject them when I'm done with them. Guests. As many guests as I can fit. Furniture arranged how I want it. No one touching my food. No parties that continue until 6 or 7AM, where I end up having to scrub vomit out of the carpet.

My life, suddenly.

26 and single. 26 and a decided lack of interest. 26 and damaged. 26 and finally living.

GV8 said to me that, if I do the math, the first half of my life was the most boring. Which is true. 13 years of youth, boring. I consider my life fairly blah until I hit 16, 17. Then things changed.

It's odd to look at it that way. When I hit 34, the first half of my life will still have been the most boring. Talk about building up.

... ...

On the home front, my father was laid off yesterday. We're thinking that this is mostly a good thing. He seems happy about it as well. He's more stable, though not 100% yet. My mother took him to a psychiatrist to figure out what could stabilize him out more fully, so I'll have to check in with her on those results.

He called me as I was writing this post.

I haven't been talking to him lately, if I don't have to. I can't deal with his aggression at the moment. It's too much. It breaks me down. He breaks me down. So he called because we haven't talked lately and he let me know that he was speaking at a convention soon in front of a few thousand people and wanted to know if I would attend and finally see his project in motion. We'll see if I go. Depends on scheduling more than anything. Wanted to see how the car was treating me.

Really, he wanted to connect. I could feel that there was more he wanted to say, but I did not prompt it. I did not want to deal with it. I know it's hard on him that I'm moving out, that I'm slowing my school down so much just because I can no longer share space with him.

He probably feels incredibly guilty about it.

But he'll never admit that, at least to me.

He'll just keep trying to make offers and deals with me. Offering these things I want so badly that I cannot take from him, that will just cause even more of an internal rift in me regarding whether or not I'm making the right decision by moving out instead of continuing school like I planned.

I wonder if he'll try anything before I move. A call, a dream-come-true offer. Chance of a lifetime.

I've noticed more and more, when watching movies, you know how things are going to end, how they have to end.

That's not what causes the tension.

The tension is caused by the wonder of what is going to be lost, willingly or unwillingly. The price the characters will pay, that you as an emotionally involved audience will pay, for the ending you so desire.