This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Moment of *squeak*

Well, it's currently official, pending interference by natural disasters.

Roman is coming out to stay with me for a few days in three weeks.

The one man in my life right now that I'd actually sleep with.

The one man in my life right now that I can actually talk to.

I'm torn between a *squeak* of happiness and a "what exactly is the universe planning that is going to prevent this from happening?" thought.

Because that happens to me a lot.

In other, less exciting news, tomorrow looks to be packed. Scattered errands and socialization in the morning and early afternoon, date in the late afternoon/early evening with the porn director, clubbing at night. Invited to a birthday dinner as well, but that's likely not going to happen.

Not really... wanting to go out on that date tomorrow.

It's one of those fruitless endeavors. It really is fairly useless. He's not anyone I would have a relationship with, nor can/will I sleep with him. Too risky. So it's just another social point of contact in yet another series of social leapfrogging because I don't let my social circles overlap.

Which is probably because of experiences I had in childhood/early teenage years of losing entire social groups due to drama, and always being the little bitch of the group (because I did not grow a set until after getting kicked out of college).

It's simply not socially safe to have a small number of social groups.

Things happen, people change, drama happens, groups age and then... cocooning. Watching some partner off into safe, happy, sexless relationships. Content. Not adventuring. Locked into their lives. Locked into their friends, their friends' friends, and those who float in, having little to no say over the whole group.

I never fully belong.

But, sometimes, that's a good thing.

So, another friend. Maybe someone I mildly mess around with. Another person to work into my too-busy schedule.

Useless.

I kinda don't even want to get to know him, as he's just going to wind up another guy that I hung out with once or maybe twice, then tapered off talking to because my plate is already too full. And then I feel bad, and pressured.

Heh, I'm kinda setting myself up for a miserable date, aren't I?

No time for a relationship, losing desire for casual sex.

Frightening to think that maybe, after what I experienced with GV8, that I may no longer be able to have casual sex. God knows that the only reason I'm able to consider sleeping with Roman is because I care for him so much. As much as you can when all you have is the voice on the other end of a telephone, knowing that things will go absolutely no where.

So am I there now? Stuck in that place where nothing is going to "work" except for emotions, that I'll start emotionally entangling myself with any man I end up sleeping with regularly?

Or is that just weakness, vulnerability, left over by GV8 stripping me so raw?

That, eventually, I'll get back to normal, to casual sex for the sake of casual sex?

Maybe. I suppose time will tell.

Kinda of odd, being so emotionally vulnerable on a sexual level. That's so new, something I can hardly remember. When I started banging the nights away, I was doing so out of self-destruction, more focused on myself than the person I was sleeping with, using them to hurt my basic value system instilled in me by my parents. So the man didn't really matter, and I was aiming, purposefully, so low quality, that one-night stands were expected. It wasn't until I was 17-18 that I started having regular partners.

Aside from the first person I slept with, I never had that real chance or inclination to bond with my partners. And even that first person, while I thought myself in love with him, the sex did nothing to bring us closer together, though I enjoyed it. It wasn't needed, no bonds were strengthened.

Then GV8 flips things around on me. Shows me what emotional sex can be like.

Never thought I'd learn that.

Never thought I'd be one of those people that say making love is better than fucking.

Another check-mark in the column of "craziness".

The things that you say that you do...

It's been a bit.

I know, I know. Six different kinds of fail. It's not like things haven't been happening, my life has suddenly grown dull. No, things are still chugging along, life is still odd, observations running full tilt, like they do. Still spending most of my time off in my head, watching the world.

It actually hasn't been that long. It only feels like it, I think, because of all the things I've been getting up to.

Kinda hard to cover them all. The experiences stack up and I only have short periods of time to allot to attend to them.

Family- my sister's exboyfriend phoned her with a suicide threat. After his mom called the cops, he admitted he only did it so they would get back together. Reminded me of the boyfriend I had when I was 17-18. He used to threaten suicide all the time, run off into the night saying he was going to throw himself into the nearest large intersection, but actually hide in the bushes. He was... 27, I think. A year older than I am now. Funny how then it seemed normal, and now it seems like crass idiocy.

Date- I have a date this weekend. No, not a serious one. Just a "get to know you" date. A "maybe we'll connect" date. Which I normally would've said no to, but when a man in his early forties with a shaved head who directs porn and owns a large loft/studio/warehouse/dungeon in downtown asks you out after you break up with a man in his early forties with a shaved head who has porn filmed in his large loft/studio/dungeon/adult club in Hollywood, you say yes.

Because I couldn't say no.

Because it's too goddamned silly.

And it cracks me up, in a way, because I am nowhere near as hot as the girls these guys see every day are, yet I'm the girl they ask out.

Win for me?

Work- training my assistant is... interesting. I'm trying out a new way to train and my boss wants me to document it so it can be implemented for future hires... assuming it's successful. The assistant himself is a total, total omega. At least in the way I view them, which may or may not be accurate to public opinion. He makes betas look alpha. It hurts. I want to take him to the kennel and teach him how to use newspaper instead of just making a mess everywhere when he "potties". He's a nice guy just... yeah.

Been talking with Roman a lot.

He's been going through some life upheavals.

It's... odd. I feel so connected to this man. Not necessarily in a romantic sense, but just, we get each other. We get each other in that basic way. So much so that we can actually talk to each other. About anything. Well, anything for me. He's still a bit hesitant. Doesn't matter. That driving urge for understanding I have so deep in me, that haunts me so much, he meets it.

Unusual.

He talks to me and I mellow out. My anxiety, my stresses, they leave my system and I feel like I can breathe again.

Hard to imagine I won't have his constant companionship soon.

But that's the way life goes.

I have a picture of my mother on her wedding day on my desk. She's holding her bouquet, smiling so widely, her dress pooling out around her. I have her smile.

I think she was twenty-three when she married my dad.

That's the way life went.

Twenty-three and so in love, so young, so inexperienced. They've been married over twenty-five years and the things they have gone through together are things that none of them had any inkling of when they met, when they married. My father danced at the wedding reception with his older sister, tall and blonde. Didn't know that a few decades later they'd find her body in the garage, a bullet in her brain.

Things move on. We just keep stringing ourselves through time, linked by experiences.

In a few years, I'll have lost friends to life, and I'll have gained new ones. I'll have dated and slept with men that I have yet to meet. Another broken heart, another experience to scribble about here, half-mad with exhaustion. Sweep me off my feet, then set me back on my heels.

There are people we connect with that we can't imagine not being there, in some capacity, for the rest of our conscious existence. Our parents are there from the moment we're born (usually) onward, our world is defined with them as part of it.

When they die, when they leave, what happens to our world? That role they filled can't be occupied by another.

To someone, somewhere, we truly are unique snowflakes. Common, but unmatched.

He asked me why I am so fascinated with him.

Am I supposed to say that every tone in his voice, I hear? Each word, each inflection, the shift in his moods comforts me. It's warm. It's like hearing every fantasy I've ever had come to life in a rough reality.

But it doesn't matter.

There are things that are real, things that will not be real. It doesn't matter how good you are, how true, how brave, there are things that will not be changed. It's not that they cannot be changed, but there are paths and dreams to follow, and friends wish you well, a smile, a hug, and hope that things work out to your fondest hopes.

Because they're nothing more to do.

And that's the way it goes.

To attempt to change it would be selfish, to demand more would be obscene.

I'll settle for what I have, keep ticking out these words, writing alone in my apartment, listening to the water run through the pipes and the traffic speed through the streets.

In the morning, I'll wake up, stretch, and keep living.

First, I've gotta say, this guy's writing continues to impress me. I mean, really, this post was gold. Swoon.

My head has been all over the place the last few days.

And being unable to write for part of those days... I've kinda retreated.

I've been noticing that more and more lately, after one of my friends told me that I shouldn't lay everything out on the table for people in the belief that mysterious girls have better game.

Of course, that friend was the one that hid from me the fact that he had a kid.

So that bit of advice must be taken with a grain of salt and a margarita. Or two.

But I have been withdrawing. I haven't been communicating as much. The only man that I talk to regularly on a personal level without holding back is Roman. But that's because he's him and I'm me. It works. It works now. In a few months, shrug, that's the way life goes.

What am I supposed to say, really?

The Bassist came over on Tuesday to fix my laptop. I was perfectly good. Angelically good. Sexual situations were diffused with quick adjustments, physical distance was kept, jokes were not made.

Then C came over.

My behavior changed rapidly, sexuality coming to the forefront.

I believe it was a combination of her expectations of me and me knowing that I couldn't "accidentally" (*cough*rationalize*cough*) do anything with her there.

The former, though, is why I keep my social groups separate like I do. Everyone has a different image of me, of who I am, of what I'm like. I can't play the roles everyone has for me at one time. It doesn't work, which makes two major things happen: personality discontinuity and loss of trust.

Not trust as in "I trust you with this secret" or somesuch nonsense, but trust as in "I trust, innately, that how you've presented yourself is who you are and the behavior patterns you've shown me will continue on in logical paths set forth by what I've observed of you". The kind of trust that we don't really think about.

We trust authors to make sense. We trust that, midway through a book, they won't suddenly change genres from romance to sci-fi. Aliens will not suddenly descend. Writing style will stay the same or if there are any changes, they will make sense in context of the book.

Otherwise we put it down.

It's not like I'm acting. It's more that certain people are comfortable with certain things and I need to stay within those boundaries. I'm more than a 2D character. I can suppress my sexuality and become "the Friend", "the Ear", "the Guru" or "the Shoulder" without thought. Or I can play "the Wild One", "the Aggressor", "the Sub", or "the Sex Queen". With all the various tweaks those come with.

With C, I tend to roll "Sex Queen". With the Bassist, I try to keep myself in "Friend".

So when he's sitting at my desk working on my comp and she's lounging in my bed talking about my oral skills to me... there's a bit of conflict.

Also of note, I realized that a good deal of C's affected social apathy (that stems from anxiety/awkwardness) is alleviated when she's able to put herself, mentally, in a superior position. And she considers herself in a superior position to The Bassist when it comes to my friendship and my apartment. It was interesting to watch her shift like that.

Anyway, that's enough notes. I still feel like I'm burrowed deep inside my head, thinking and planning, but hiding it from myself. Something is going on in my brain and it doesn't want to be known... and since it's midnight, I'm going to put this "thinking" stuff to an end and enjoy this "sleeping" activity.

Rough day.

Doesn't help that I'm spending my evenings up and wandering, not getting enough sleep.

Have to push myself into the ground, of course. It's what I do, what I've always done. Push and push until you crash, recover, then do it again.

Didn't have a nightmare about GV8 last night. That was... good. Unexpected. It's so hard to play out the different versions of the same thing, watching echoes of past relationships creep up on me, consolidate into the last ex.

In the dreams, I'm nothing to him.

In the dreams, I'm less than a stranger. I'm "someone he knew, once". Someone he thought he loved. Someone that was worth his love and attention. And then he looks at me in the dream and realizes that I was nothing. An infatuation, a symptom of foolishness. Not worth the most basic of human caring.

Back to those fears again.

Always devaluing myself. Always doubting. Always taking my value from the man who I spend time with, the man who I do my best to please.

It's better now than it was.

Still not 100%.

And it's hard to untangle the strings of actual lust from the strings of internal motivators stemming from other sources.

I have one man right now that I would willingly take to my bed, with near total confidence I would do so out of caring and connection. Being a couple thousand miles apart, though, means my bed is going to be empty for some time.

I'm coming up on my first cut-off. I said no new partners until a week after GV8's and my anniversary. Next Monday. I thought, by then, that there could be a chance that I'd be okay enough to start engaging again.

But I was wrong, and I'm having to move it to the next cut-off. August 1st.

I don't think I've ever gone so long without sex since I was 16 or so.

But, what? Do I really want to just trip up again? Find some "special" guy when I'm not ready for it, have to start again when it falls apart a year or two from now, when I'm 28 and I'm still at the same spot I was before? That I've been at so many times? How foolish that I keep turning to immediate pleasure, knowing the outcome.

So much easier than dealing with what I am now: tension. Anger. Grumpiness. Anxiety. Mood swings. Barely controlling myself from snapping at those around me.

I caught myself on film today. It was unexpected. I went to Lucha Va Voom's Cinco de Mayo show at The Mayan in downtown. A man with a video camera walked down the line, recording people waiting for the doors to open. I was on the phone with a friend, walking away from the line so I could hear. The timing was perfect. I walked about thirty feet in front of the camera, just for a second or two. They played the whole video just before the show.

I haven't seen myself move in years.

Yes, there are mirrors at the club, but I don't really look at them and, honestly, I'm dancing. It's a given that I'm going appear somewhere between decent and very good.

But I got to watch my walk. Something that I've been working on and adjusting, something that gets commented on and draws attention fairly often. Controlled, centered, internal. Rollingly smooth. The hipsway my family teases me about, saying I move like my cat.

It was surprising. I knew I moved differently, but I didn't realize how noticeable it was. Good to know that my body-awareness is paying off.

The show was good, the dancers, the performers, and, of course, the luchadore. For all three matches, each set of wrestlers were "thrown" out of the ring and into the chairs in front of me, people dashing out of the way, spilling drinks, the girls buzzed and shrieking.

I walked to my car afterwards, bidding C and friends good-bye for the evening. They were wandering off to find food, but I wasn't looking to spend money on things I already had at home. The freeway was smooth and empty, I slid into an easy 80, sometimes 90, letting my wheels take me home. My left-handed driving is getting better, though the awkwardness of using the turn signal is cropping up. Less and less I need to bring my right hand into play to make sure I get those extra-tight curves. I think that, within a month at most, I'll be driving just as smooth with my left as I do with my right.

It's a bit of a reality check for me. Making myself face the likelihood that I'll eventually lose all fine motor control in my right hand. Not anytime soon, but probably in the next ten to twenty years, depending on lifestyle choices. If I learn to do more things with my left, that time will extend, which I am aiming for.

But it's 1AM and my neighbors are slowly staggering home. I hear the laughter in the hallway and that's my cue to get myself unconscious.

Another night where I am... not writing my final paper.

You know what's going to happen? I'm going to spend all Saturday running around with my mom in Hollywood, then go to a club, which will likely be followed by going to some sort of all-night dining establishment that will round us into 5AM departure, in bed around 6AM, up at 1130AM to dash up the freeway to my stylist to (finally) get my roots done (I've an inch of blonde coming out of my skull. AN INCH.), and then I will plop my sore body down at some coffee shop and hammer out the paper in a five hour sitting, complete with rainbow highlighter markings all over my hands.

I just can't get myself to do it in pieces. And I keep flopping around what I want to write on.

It's... been a year. As of last night/this morning, a year.

A lot has happened in a year. A year with him, parts of it without him.

Ending without him.

Trying to remember what life was like then, before we met.

I had just started couchsurfing. I was still recovering from the terror that Darkeyes had instilled in me, terror of life, terror of control. This blog was a few months in the making. I had just been in that car accident that ensured me that I was my father's daughter, that my hands on a steering wheel are everything I will ever need.

I had no idea what would happen, what the coming twelve months would bring.

That I would learn to love, to love whole-heartedly. That I would actually meet a man I could trust and respect. That those things were the things I was missing. I'd learn how to blindly leap into someone's arms... and how to recover when I impacted the earth.

I made new friends, did things I never thought I would do. I grew, grew so quickly.

Yesterday I went to Disneyland. It was a large social event for a group of us.

The last time I was there, it was December. I was with GV8. We ate at the Blue Bayou, the restaurant inside Pirates of the Caribbean. We took pictures beside the tree in the Grand Californian, laughed and explored.

Roman called when I was physically on the Pirates of the Caribbean. I had just passed the restaurant, felt my stomach clench and the drive towards my redeeming sexual contact, that need to center me.

It's what I do.

I talked with him until we were plunged past cellphone reception, warned that dead men tell no tales.

All day I was with varying friends, catching up with people I had not seen in months, sometimes a year or two. Waiting for that Disney romance that I know doesn't happen. Wishing that someone would steal me away from my reality, just for a moment. For a dinner and conversation, something to hold on to for the coming weeks.

It's just another drug.

Emotional high.

I left the park a little before ten, walking through the crowds of families lining Main Street, waiting for the fireworks to start. Looking at the children, the husbands and wives that saved for the magical day, saved for the weekend or the vacation, to have this experience for their offspring.

The magic of that place.

That one day that the child dreams about until it finally happens. And then they hold fast to it, waiting to go again.

I remember, when I was younger and we were poorer, we'd go once every year or two. Pack lunches. I'd stay up at night, hardly able to sleep, fantasizing about everything we would be doing the next day. I loved the park so much, idolized Mickey. My mom has a picture of Mickey pushing himself up off the sidewalk after a three-year old me tackled him to the ground in excitement.

I'm 26 and I still love it there. Not the rides, not the shows, but the people and the details that go into that park. I used to take a book or a drawing pad and go into the park, prop myself up somewhere and enjoy the atmosphere, the laughter and so much joy.

I forced myself to leave. I forced that stupid, girlish daydream, spawned by multiplied insecurities and my constant need to partner, out of my head.

Turned my back on the fireworks, the young couples embracing.

Walked to the tram, eyeing the outside of the Grand Californian, dragging my mind away from the lobby that I could spend hours inside of reading. Slid into the back car next to a couple, was suddenly joined by a few too many people, ramming my pelvis sideways in order to fit us all.

Drove home, freeway flying under me.

Wished, wished for more than just a moment, that GV8 would be there. That he would have used the keys I had given him months ago, and come here, to spend what would have been our one-year together.

I came home to an empty apartment.

Dropped my bags next to the bookcase by the entry way.

Showered by myself, water scalding my torso pink, wet hair pressed tightly down my back. Roughly dried myself, leaned over the tub and squeezed the excess water out, listening to the drops fall the few feet, thunking into the bottom of the tub.

Crawled into bed, wet hair loose over my pillow. Black on black. Knew my friends would be out at clubs as I laid there, dancing their evenings away.

My life is slowly coming towards a semblance of average order. Nothing spectacular, but nothing dismal.

I've done this so many times. It's a strain. I never last long.

One of my friends asked me today, what it is that I am so good at that I take such comfort in.

I told him, "I'm good at pleasing, at pleasure. It's something I love, but also a way I've learned to cope and give myself value. I was breaking that habit, finally learning to have sex with no internal motivators. Just got to get back to that point."

I've said that so many times, or rather, versions of that. Most of my "adult" life has been versions of me trying to get my insecurities and issues under control so I can stop running my demons loose in bed.

It gets old. It's become a soundwave on repeat.

I'm tired of it. I'm tired of saying it, I'm tired of working on it. I'm annoyed that I'm 26 and, while so much better than I've been, still having issues with not having that sex partner to focus on.

I need that other person. It gives me something.

It's so hard to be without it.

Every day I go exploring in some way. Every day I look for that one connect.

And I'm not even over GV8. No chance.

I hate that this continues. I need to do something new about it, need another tactic, but I'm fumbling blind.

I don't know what more to do than what I've already done.

But somehow I manage...

C and one of her partners came over last night.

They hung out in my kitchen making taquitos while I showered. We're no strangers to each other's bodies, given the amount of time I spent couchsurfing with her, wandering around my apartment naked while the water grew hot was nothing out of the ordinary.

She's been seeing this new guy, not the one that was with us last night. I don't like him much. He's very controlling, but in the way that makes you think he's doing you a favor, or that he "really respects your decisions". His hands are cold and damp, his haircut too feminine, his posture lacking.

The four of us are going to a Cinco de Mayo event next week. C, her two guys, and myself. He didn't want to go with us. He wanted to have her to himself, didn't want to share. Doesn't want to get to know the other people she spends so much of her life with.

My right arm has been aching lately, as it often does when I overuse it. Too much time playing keyboard jockey, too many nights falling asleep with my hands clenched into light fists, jaw locked shut, grinding my teeth.

I find myself daydreaming about a male arm sliding around my waist, pulling me into him for more contact while we sleep.

I find myself at a club in conversation with a one-night stand from two years ago, discussing how his girlfriend finds me desirable, and how that interest is, oddly enough, returned. Imagining a threesome- he's tall, well-dressed red-head, she's a leggy blonde, and I've my dark hair and swishy curves.

It'd look good. The three of us would look gorgeous together.

I spend my days talking with Roman, text, IMs, phone calls. Constant companionship of the platonic variety. I'm comfortable with him, comfortable talking with him, arguing with him, teasing him.

Found myself shooting emails back and forth with a man who I've been interested in for several years. When it trickled down from several paragraph exchanges to one or two sentences, I shrugged and moved along.

His loss.

I actually thought that. Without a trace of snark, but a sincere observation. I don't have interest in playing "chase the overworked businessman". He can hunt me down if he so desires.

Got a comment on an earlier entry. One sentence. Saying something like, "Damaged... so very damaged."

Had that mild rage rise up.

Probably not that rage one would expect.

But the rage that comes from being confronted with another set of beliefs that rolls egocentric in nature.

To express to someone that they are damaged is to say that you are healthy enough to comment on their state of being. Not only that, but that how they feel, how they experience life, their value system, is entirely incorrect. That you know, you know exactly how to be healthy and happy.

That one truth to living. You've got it.

Unfortunately, since it's a single sentence comment, that Ultimate Truth of happiness and health isn't being shared. There's nothing supportive or constructive.

No, it's just a drive-by comment. Unneeded. Expressing to the poster their superiority, the recipient, their inferiority. Nothing further to be communicated.

The buck stops here. Whatever that means, exactly.

It means that the opinions being expressed in the post were indiciative of damage. Meaning those opinions were unhealthy. Meaning that unhealthiness is wrong. Meaning those opinions were wrong.

But the commenter, the commenter is oh-so right. Because they know. They know that their opinions are right. Which means their opinions are healthy. Which means they are healthy.

When speaking with Roman on a similar, but totally unrelated topic, I can only that this to mean that the commenter, or anyone expressing such egocentricity, knows what the universe wants. Knows the Ultimate Right, the Ultimate Goal, the Ultimate Path to happiness.

At the time, I described it as the girl in question being on the other side of a double-ended dildo shared with the universe.

I swear that it made sense ...I think.

I have no tolerance for such mindsets, as hypocritcal as that may sound. I will argue with people whose worldviews I agree with if I feel like they believe they know the Right Way to Be, in whatever forum that may occur. Religion, social, sexual, political... I won't discuss their beliefs with them, but I will rip them a new one (as Roman discovered yesterday) if they're platforming for the Ultimate Right.

It's one of my biggest peeves, one of the things that will be guaranteed to either set me off of make me leave a room. I have walked out of family dinners with the sentence: "Let me know when this discussion is over."

Back to the initial starting point for this topic.

Am I damaged?

In my opinion, yes, I am damaged.

And that's the only opinion that matters on this subject.

Roman has prescribed to me that I need to step away from the MRA, evo-psych, and general PUA blogs for a bit, get my head out of that world. I was thinking that myself, so I'm going to try to mellow that side of things out.

When Friday rolled around, I was a small ball of rage promoted by fears and insecurities regarding ending things with GV8. I was snappy and unfocused, completely bitchy and anti-social. Work doesn't help at the moment, as my boss is out of town for the next few weeks, which puts me in charge of a department that I've never been taught fully how to manage.

So I drove over to a large Mexican restaurant down the street from the office after work, book in hand.

I go there about, eh, once every month or two.

But when I arrive, the hostesses (only one of which I ever recognize) seem to know who I am, comment that I haven't been around. I suppose that doing what I do (going to restaurants and eating while reading a book) makes me fairly easy to remember.

"Oh, there's that loser girl. Why isn't she at the bar with friends? Why is she off in a corner, reading a book?"

Nah, I know it isn't that bad.

For more brain relaxation, I went to see "The Back-up Plan" after dinner.

While I was not the only solitary female attending this movie, I do believe I might have been the only one there reading "The Mating Mind" through the previews.

That movie kinda hurt. But the water-birth scene had me laughing so hard I was falling into the seat next to me.

I also was breaking down the male lead's game techniques in my head. I really need a vacation from thinking.

Saturday, I went to the LA Times Festival of Books.

I did not think that there would be so many people there. I mean, really, people don't read. They just don't. Especially here.

But there were people.

I ended up feeling rather awful, for two reasons.

1. I... always feel outside of things. Outside of groups. I never fit in anywhere, in my opinion. So I'm wandering around this book festival surrounded by, theoretically, people that love reading as much as I do. So we should be... similar. Right? Constantly buried in books? Passion for words?

Well, that proved untrue. Well, untrue as far as I could tell.

Looking through books, through all these different booths and publishers with their own agendas to spread, looking for that one that will make me fall in love with the written word again. Failing.

I just want that one writer to knock my socks off. I want roughness and honesty, I want internal range and a hint of self-destruction.

Then I started checking in with the writers groups/guilds/camps/flocks/whatever, trying to see if I could find a writing group that would suit me.

When I tried to explain what I was seeking to do to the VP of GLAWS, checking to see if they had such a group (they sort by type), not so much. He just looked at me, slightly glazed, but still selling. Nice guy, but...

It's probably just me.

It's probably me expecting to be the outsider, expecting that constant judgement and that instinctive recognition. You know, the one where you feel people know you aren't like them just by looking at you, even if you look like everyone else, somehow, some way, they know.

Walk into any group with that mindset, and they'll likely "know", if just by your body language.

So, there was that.

Then, #2, walking around, looking at all these people that are self-publishing, starting their own publishing company, pursuing their dreams, getting themselves out there... and I've done nothing. I do these short bits for the blog and then... that's it. Nothing long, nothing in progress. I don't put in the effort, the time, that is needed for something more quality. I don't submit pieces like I should, I don't try to improve my writing.

I'm so afraid of failure, and so afraid of completing this project, that I do nothing.

So I was walking around feeling like a miserable outsider who has done nothing to try to achieve her goals, put in no work toward the "next great American novel". Going nowhere in life.

It was... no good.

So, around 230PM I used my lifeline and called The Bassist. We decided to go MOCA in downtown, as I had never been.

He got stuck in traffic, so I had a good forty-five minutes to wander around and take pictures of that area of downtown. It was pretty nice, though cold.

When he finally arrived and we got into the exhibit, I realized that I've never understood "contemporary" art. So much of it seems like a waste, like a bunch of overpriced pretentious bullshit.

But The Bassist, being all artsy and stuff, was able to explain it to me in a way that made sense, so I actually started appreciating it and understanding it. Which makes me a little sad because now... yeah, sure, I could see someone buying that painting that is two solid colored rectangles standing next to each other for, oh, $50K.

Or whatever these crazy people do.

The museum had a couple amazing photography displays. Completely emotional, near biographical work. I loved those.

And then The Bassist told me what had happened with this girl he had met.

He's such an unusual guy, and way too smart, that he has a hard time finding women that he connects with. He's also leans towards dating older women, prefers them in their 30s or 40s. He's a young musician. There's this definite gap for him between who he wants to date and who will date him because of that reverse age separation and the social stereotypes that come with being in a band and going on the occasional tour.

So he met this girl last week who was a near perfect fit in all these ways that he never would have expected to find in another person. He was raving to me about her for days because they were so ridiculously well-suited.

Turns out she has a boyfriend that she's been living with that past seven years and he's given her permission to have an open-relationship.

The Bassist, he doesn't swing that way.

He was so disappointed and so angry. Not at her, but at life, about meeting someone so near perfect to find... that.

We drove over to Hotel Figueroa for dinner while he ranted. Sat in the restaurant in the lobby and people-watched and ranted more. Wandered around the Staples Center, then went back to Hotel Figueroa (where we accidentally crashed a private party at the pool/bar, where French women were handing out plastic monkey masks) then drove mad-cap through downtown listening to some amazing Swedish band.

I hit the club without him after that, dancing the evening away even though my legs felt wrecked from walking all day. It's amusing that such minor physical exertion over the course of ten hours can wipe someone (me) out on a purely muscular level.

Afterwards, a group of us hit a nearby IHOP.

I'd rather have gone to Fred 62's, even though it was significantly farther away. But majority (and proximity) won out and about ten or so of us headed over to an IHOP with a too small parking lot.

I think I'm going to make a habit of taking a change of clothes along with me when I go clubbing. This is the second time where I have, fortunately, had a change of clothes in my trunk, so while all the other girls are sitting around in their too-tight club gear, all sweaty and uncomfortable, I'm peeling my stockings off in the bathroom, wriggling out of my mini-skirt, and putting on a comfy pair of cargo pants and flip-flops.

Sure, one might say I should have stayed clubified because I was sitting next to that DJ I have a small fancy for, but I simply could not bring myself to care. It is so very, very nice to be in clean, dry clothes after a night of dancing, while people are bringing you food.

And since I switched to flip-flops in the ultimate effect of laziness, and then propped my feet up on the chair across from me, I got a foot rub.

Yes, that's right. I got to spend all night dancing, sweating my ass off, to go out to an IHOP at 330AM, have food brought to me, be fed perfect bites of pancake by the man across the table from me, and get my feet rubbed.

It was so nice. I was near purring, leaning on the DJ apologizing for my occasional noise, but it felt too good. Being on my feet all day, then dancing... they were sore as hell.

Drove off around 5AM or so, headed home. Quick shower and crawled into bed.

Roman jarred me from my sleep with a phone call at 11AM. I knew I should've texted him when I went to bed, telling him not to call before noon. I think he has a thing for my "oh jesus christ what time is it, where am I, oh god why am I awake??" morning voice. It's all low and raspy, and I'm not coherent enough to be a smartass.

Basically, the morning after a club, I am a defenseless bed-kitten.

I tried to go back to bed after that, but it was too late. Forty minutes of tossing and trying to convince my body that it needed more sleep did not work. Ended up putting on Flashdance while I cooked breakfast, then cleaned and posted some furniture I needed to get rid of on craigslist (did a little photo shoot of it, too). Which still hasn't sold. This is lame.

Finally motivated myself to leave the house, ran by Trader Joe's on the way to my parents' and picked up ingredients for dinner.

There was this cashier, a woman in her fifties or so, dyed red hair, cropped close to her skull. Thinning. A little chunky, but nothing that would be unexpected on a woman her age. Large-framed glasses, heart-shaped face. No wedding ring.

She reminded me of my aunt, the one who killed herself last year.

Just that sort of open, slightly disconnected expression. Not stupid, but a little uncomfortable and unsure. Awkward without knowing why.

I watched her for a bit, as she rang up the man in line in front of me. Wondered if she was a lesbian, a widow, a divorcee, a spinster, or just a woman without a wedding ring. Wondered what she was doing, at her age, running a register at Trader Joe's. Wondered if she had experienced love, how many times, if her heart had been broken, if he was a cheating bastard, or if she had a partner at home that she was totally devoted to. If working at TJ's on the weekend was a way of making ends meet, or just something to do: a time-kill for lonely weekends. A way of getting out of the house.

Arrived at my parents', popped my laundry in the dryer, sat out on the patio with my parents while my father read the newspaper and my mother kicked my ass so hard at Scrabble. It was painful. Something like 196 to 300. I rarely lose that bad.

When I started cooking dinner, my dad got a little snappy. Not at me, but at my mom. Snappy, and unprovoked. Snappy, trying to pick a fight. Snappy, releasing aggression at something other than the actual source. Fuck-with-your-mind snappy.

That combined with his increased activity during the course of the day, even though he's got a chest cold and the last time he had that he ended up in the hospital with pneumonia, I had a mild freak out.

Totally contained, all internal.

But... yeah. The thought of him going into an extreme manic episode again, when there's no drug to blame, how badly that would fuck everything up, topple me off this unsteady perch of sanity, I started shaking. Started quizzing my mom on his behavior, his moods, when the last time he had been to his therapist was.

I'm not going to let this happen again.

My mother is all optimistic, doesn't want to think about it, doesn't think it'll happen again.

I'm on high alert.

I don't want to go through that again. I don't want to watch my mom go through that again.

Dinner was a success with the folks, but I was disappointed. It hadn't come out nearly as good as it had before. Afterwards, Dad and I curled up on the couch and watched Nightmare on Elm Street which, somehow, he had managed to not see until now. He was unimpressed, but I still love that series.

I drove home and went to bed, making it a weekend without any sort of contact with GV8.

It's hard. I feel a bit directionless without him, a compass with no north.

I've never really had a solid direction. Five year plans are as foreign to me as one year plans, it's only of late that I've really be considering the future. I have an envy for people who know what they want to do with their lives, where they want to end up, what their priorities are. A career path, even. It terrifies me to think that I might always be working jobs that I'm good at but don't really have a passion for, don't have an interest in, always rather be writing than sitting at a cubicle.

Three years from now and still in the same industry?

I'd be twenty-nine. How sad is that?

Four years and I'll be thirty. I can't even imagine.

I've been developing this theory lately, about how, when I was a child, avoiding chores (most typically, it was mowing the lawn and I would hide up in my room, hoping that my mother would not wake me and I could "sleep" until it was too late to mow the lawn, which my eleven year-old brain would not realize that it would have to be after dark for that to happen), avoiding pain (shots, lighting matches)... these were things that were dreaded, were focused on.

Each month was slow, waiting for things that were planned weeks or months in advance to happen, waiting for the weekend, waiting for Christmas or Halloween. Life crawled, and each event seemed to have a larger impact then than a similar event would now.

I'm starting to wonder if it is a ratio thing.

When we're five, one day is a significantly larger percentage of our life than one day at the age of thirty. Sure, it's less than 1%, but if we're comparing...

5 yrs x 365 days = 1825 days means 1 day is equivalent to 0.055% of our life. Which doesn't sound like much.

But then we go:

30 yrs x 365 days = 10950 days means 1 day is equivalent to 0.0091% of our life.

Which is, in my opinion, is a relatively large difference. At least it is in social stat. Wish I remembered more of it.

So each day, and the events of each day (or lack thereof) has a greater impact when you've experienced less time because it is more of your life.

Time, in your view, would technically take longer.

Which could help explain why time seems to move so much faster as you age, and the little things have smaller impact, you don't go out of your way to avoid mild, expected pains.

And, yes, I know that there's many contributing factors. Experience. Deadening nerves. Maturity. More activities, more demands on time.

It's just an interesting thought for me.

My parents, being hippies, used to take my sister and I on long roadtrips across the western half of the US. It was normal for a day of driving to range around 8 hours. Sitting in the car for eight hours when you're five or six is a nightmare of boredom. You're sitting there going, "Jesus Christ, this is eight hours of my life and I haven't experienced a large volume of hours yet, I'm only six!"

And you're asking your mom how much longer and, in my family's case, I would be answered in Sesame Street episodes, which were an hour.

"Mooooom, how much longer?"

"Two Sesame Streets, V, and then we'll get lunch."

If it was less than a Sesame Street, she'd hold her fingers apart and explain that if this distance was a Sesame Street episode, then this shorter distance was how much longer we had to drive.

It was those indeterminate ones that drove me nuts.

Time has been a focus of mine, lately. Dealing with self-discipline and reality, shoving through the things that bother me, realizing that it's past midnight right now and I'm exhausted and I'm going to be up in less than seven hours and I lost myself at the computer again.

Goddammit.

Alone and barely breathing...

Saturday night, I hit my favorite club.

Before that, though, I was doing my usual: hanging with a friend and marathoning whatever TV show we had decided on (this time it was "Father Ted", which is an excellent BBC comedy). We made pizzas, me working my mad stylings on some ground turkey for his sausage needs.

Which sounded really gay. Yes, I know. I bring the funk.

Pizza was a success, wonderfully good.

And afterwards, I stepped into his bathroom to play what I call "Pretty, Pretty Princess". This is the fifteen minutes to an hour+ girls spend in the restroom getting "done up" for the evening. He lives significantly closer to the club I chose than I do, so I talked him into it. Which, admittedly, was pretty easy.

We've been platonic friends for over a year now, spending time together about once every week or two. He hosted me weekly during my ten month couch-surfing expedition, and it has been perfectly without any push or tension towards more than what we have.

Doing my part, I've kept it at jeans and t-shirt level, no make-up, hair usually pulled back.

So I go into his bathroom in casual gear, plain-faced, then come out in a mini-dress, sexy hair, and club make-up.

And he was perfectly cool with it.

Drove over to the club, chatted with the valet, backed myself into my usual spot. My club friend from the previous Friday was already in his usual spot next to mine, a song I love blasting from his stereo- on the mix CD he made for me.

Walked past the door guy with a smile and a wave, my club friend guest-listed me at the inside door.

And then I hit the floor.

Glorious. It was such a perfect night for dancing, the floor was recently cleaned which made every move smooth and perfect. Friends I had texted earlier in the week to harass them out started arriving, quick reunions then back to the music.

Unfortunately, one of those friends, someone I've been quite happily platonic with for about four years now, had suddenly determined I was now desirable. Too-close hugs, roaming eyes, extended touching, excessive (for him) complimenting.

Awkwardness, on my part, ensued. Untangled limbs, edging away. It was managed, as much as it could be.

Another friend brought her date from a previous club.

I had told her to bring him, as we had been discussing dance styles over time within a particular club circuit, and how one could track the music, club, and what time the person entered the scene based on how they danced. He is a dancer, salsa, swing, ballroom. Actually straight, suprisingly, and not feminine at all.

What was even more surprising, occurred at the end of the evening when he hugged me goodbye, pulling me against his hard body by wrapping one arm around my waist and yanking, almost like he was in the middle of a tango. I began to suspect that my friend wasn't his date, but their body language from earlier illustrated private physical intimacy, so I dismissed my suspicion.

And dismissed the idea that him touching me all night, bumping into me, leaning into me, brushing shoulders, was not because of trying to be heard over loud music, but him maintaining physical contact out of interest.

This all happened, of course, after I told her to give him my number so I could text him when I went out clubbing. He wants to learn how to dance the style I do, and there's not a lot of people better to learn from, I will admit.

So he texted me today, to find out if I would take him shopping, get him the right wardrobe for the clubs.

I couldn't... I just kept thinking back to what GV8 told me once, that he wasn't going to give me the play book to figuring him out, that if we fit together, we'd do so naturally, without me shaping to fit him.

I've been using that more often lately. I'm usually so straightforward with my communication, but it really is frustrating to constantly have to be feeding the men around me the tools they need to, essentially, manage my attraction for them.

I want them to be able to do it on their own, from their own observation of me and their own intelligence, like GV8 did.

I'm not talking about not sharing my emotions, making a man figure out what I'm mad about and how to scramble about and fix it, but simply how to gain my attention in the first place.

So I kept texting light and minimal on my end, watching to see what he would do.

Here's our text message series from this afternoon. My notes are in bold, so you all can enjoy(?) how my brain works.

H: "It's ******. ******'s friend. I got your number from her. I'm think of going shopping for some newer stuff to wear to the clubs. Wanna help out?
At this point, I still thought he was seeing my friend. Not very observant of me.

V: Sure!

H: sweet cause I have no idea where to go. we used to look down on ********, but I'm not sure if it's still like that.
Wait, wait, why are we suddenly dropping our punctuation and capitalization at the beginning of sentences? Please tell me this isn't going to be another guy who doesn't pick up on my near perfect texts and can't conform to my texts in a sort of mimic like body language. At least I don't have to worry about him being interested in me, since he's seeing my friend.

H: do you live locally?
Ah, yeah. There went the caps.

V: ***********

H: o ok that's not bad. I'm right next to ******. where's a good place to shop?
And he's lost his "h" in "oh". That's going to drive me insane if he keeps it up (there is a non-anal reason for this).

V: There's some places in Hollywood, one in OC, another in HB.

H: I'm too familiar with hollywood's shops but I remember the ***** in HB. whatever outfits I end up with need to be sexy :)
You need to be sexy???? What guy says that? What do I even say to that? And the emoticon?

V: Sexy is relative to what type of girl you want to attract.

H: I trust your judgement :)
Uh... wait. Is he inferring that the type of girl he wants to attract is my kind? (reluctant understanding begins to dawn)

H: but preferably the fun ones

V: I dunno. Not a lot of girls like fun these days.
Must... insert... teasing. Must... hope... he... picks... up... on... this... and turns this conversation into something that isn't so boringly generic.

H: their loss i guess cause I like to have fun and in as many ways as I can find :)
...I suddenly hate my life. I like having fun and doing fun things and I love to laugh omg. Puppies are cute. And did he just toss in an innuendo at the end of that?

Which continued into a boring bit about money to spend and clothes he needed to get, which shifted into a logistics of our relative locations and where we needed to shop, which, of course, shifted into what he does for a living, and how he met my friend. I assumed it was because they work in the same field, but he said...

H: I met her when I was riding my harley with some friends which happened to live next door to her. she came out riding with us after that and we became friends
Huh. Math. She lives on the beach. Her neighbors to the south are hot beach guys, loaded, lazy, and doing lines of coke way too often. Did he just raise his status?

V: Ah, sweet.
I have no comment.

H: yeah, she's a good friend :) never short on cool things to check out. like clubs with cute girls :)
Fuck. Friend. Fuck. Lame line about cute kids in clubs, directed at me. Fuck.

V: Yeah, I really don't spend enough time with her.
Um, let's focus on... not me.

H: what clubs are you going to hit this week/weekend?

V: None, too busy. I'll be at ***** next weekend, though.

H: I might be riding to yuma for a kids charity this weekend. what else do you do for fun?
Well, now we've established he's a "good guy", he "likes kids", and he's "adventurous". With one activity. If only I liked good guys. Or other people's kids. What's with the generic question?

Insert discussion about hobbies here. One of my favorite activities that came up was, of course, driving.

H: ever ridden on a motorcycle?
Oh, I know where this is going.

H: I know some kick ass places up and down the coast. I've seen every mile of coastline from san diego to the middle of oregon.
Which is pretty cool.

V: Lucky. I'd love to have the time and money to do that.
Generic comment is generic.

H: well when you have time I'll take you to a spot I like. get to go check out the tide pools

H: we can ride the bike if the weather is nice enough. I'll have to see if I have a helmet that fits you.
Called it. Clinging to his back as his powerful metal steed propels us up the coast for a romantic beach trip, complete with tide pools while he establishes his rebellious masculinity with his control of his motorcycle.

Trail off into reminders, once he asked, that I was already busy this weekend.

I haven't re-read the above, but I likely sound like a stuck-up bitch. My mental tone isn't as derisive as it sounds, really. Just... kinda bored, kinda leaning back, looking at my phone going off, groaning slightly as I feel vaguely like an idiot for dismissing him and not guarding against him like I normally would if I hadn't thought he was with my friend.

It made me feel... just, myeh. Isolated. That feeling has passed, mostly. But when I finally ended the conversation with this guy, I was frustrated and feeling so socially abnormal.

I want to say I'm not supposed to think like this, that I'm not supposed to be analyzing the behaviors of the men around me and breaking them down into little parts (most of which I did not include in the above, as that would take too long and I'm a major over analyzer).

Having this guy do this... I felt so out of sync with my age group, so alien. I'm passing as standardly attractive now, and that means socially standard men, which means I'm left feeling like an oddball when "normal" guys hit on me.

So I texted Roman to get on IM so I could bask in the glory of his equally abnormal masculinity. Get back to baseline of talking with someone whose company and banter I enjoy. Even though, as I was bitching about my feelings of isolation brought on by the text conversation above, he totally smacked me down in his own way.

Which is what he does.

But at the same time, I'm left feeling like people expect me to be grateful for male attention. That I should be just happy as a clam. However happy that is.

I can't make myself feel glad of this. Reminds me of when I was younger, forced into going to church with my family, going to a youth group that was part of the church, staring sullenly at my peers while they pray and sing, while the youth leader would tell me the way I should be, what I should believe, and how happy I should feel that God loves me.

In a room full of people, people willing to listen and discuss, but none of them willing to understand or accept, viewing me through the light they choose, not caring that the light doesn't fit me. I'm not who they so desperately want me to be, if only to stay within what they deem okay.

I'm supposed to be some sort of male-interest Buddha, able to easily deflect desire, able to handle situations that arise, however uncomfortable they may be, constantly forgiving of transgressions and totally understanding of fumbles.

But I'm not. I'm a just girl, and experience has given me certain expectations. I bring certain qualities, good and bad, to my partners, just as they bring good and bad qualities to me. I will get frustrated, I will feel put out when yet another man steps outside of behavior I am comfortable with.

And I will feel lonely when I come back to my apartment and realize that I've opened up to so many people, but never enough. That I'm always guarding myself.

A bit of an emo post tonight. I'm much too tired to attempt to think.

C is already passed out beside me, tangled up in my blankets. It's probably time I joined her.

He calls.

Sitting at my desk, working into overtime, coworkers slowly exiting the building, monitors turning black one by one, my phone rings.

I hear the soft growl in his voice, the undercurrent hum that indicates distress, exhaustion, or inebriation.

Sometimes that "or" is an "and".

Usually that "sometimes" is an "often".

So I close up early, making last minute adjustments before clicking files closed. Tap folders into uniformity on the surface of my desk, pens into straight lines, calculator gone home to roost in the right-hand drawer.

There's no longer the initial hardness in him, where I have to twist at impossible angles when I attempt to dive beneath his layers of defense. Each time we spoke, it took less and less time.

I told him he was like a feral cat, with me taking one step closer every day, making sure he was growing used to my presence, making sure he wouldn't bolt or scratch.

When he calls, his voice tinged with gravel tells me things I need to know. He calls, and simply dialing those numbers removes most of his bristles. Acrobatics on my part are no longer needed.

I open my car door, the phone wedged between my ear and my shoulder. Purse is tossed on the passenger seat, followed by a book and now-empty tupperware, vacated home of last night's leftovers.

On the freeway, his silence is enough to push me to ask him if he would like me to leave him be for the evening, or if there was something he wanted me to do.

"Talk," he says, "Just talk to me."

So I do.

Inane babblings, stories of no value, things that only my mother would be interested in fall out of my mouth. My weekend plans. Recent purchases. Delving into psychology of friends. Cat stories.

Yes, cat stories.

It isn't about the content.

Nearing ten o'clock, he called for connection, called for distraction, called for a voice with an easy monotone to help him achieve sleep. It wasn't about what I said.

And in the morning, he won't remember it.

In the morning, he'll look at his call log, see who he might have drunk-dialed, and groan and wonder what things I drew out of him that he never meant to tell me. Kick himself for being human, for having vulnerable moments, for allowing alcohol to weaken.

It's odd. Tipping a few (or several) back something associated with masculine behavior. Men drink. Men get drunk. It's "manly". It allows easy access to emotions, whether it's rage or depression, that some refuse to tap on during sobriety. It allows expression of feelings, albeit sloppily, that men normally would prevent themselves from putting forth. It's an excuse for violence, but it's also an excuse for tears.

In the morning, you can shrug it off. Blame it on the booze. Those emotions normally aren't there- the alcohol made me feel that way. You're still a man. And your friends understand.

I exited the freeway, checked for police outside of the station, and began describing the neighborhood. Just words. Picturing him sprawled out across a bed or leaning back in a chair, phone held to his ear by gravity, eyes closed, brain not registering the meanings of the sounds I was making, only that I was making them.

Parked behind my apartment, checked the mail, glanced at the bar across the street, still talking.

A pause, and he's waking up. I ask if he'd like me to continue talking, or if he's at the point where sleep is possible.

He tells me he's drifting off, and I tell him to go to bed.

Shifting the items in my arms, I dig my keys out of my pocket in front of my apartment door.

I barely hear him, his voice is so low, when he tells me he's sorry. He's sorry how things happened, sorry how complicated everything was, how complicated everything became.

I wish him a good night, and he's gone.

Just words. It's only the memory of them, how they made you feel, that gives them permanent value.

I'm going to be unable to post tonight due to social activities and C crashing with me.

So, in other news, Roman pushed me to go be all "technologically with the rest of the world's population" and I find myself the mildly unwilling owner of a Facebook page.

Yeah, it hurts me too.

I just hope it doesn't start crapping on the carpet or somesuch nonsense.

So, in order to make me feel like less of a goob, or if you want to listen to the occasional thought during the day when I can't sit down and write a blog, or see whatever random pictures I put up, along with the general internet asshattery I tend to get up to, friend me.

Badge is on the side, underneath the Followers section.

Or you can go here.

Why am I in at 1230AM on a Saturday night/Sunday morning, listening to the bar across the street rage on?

Let me enlighten you.

But, for this exercise, I've been instructed by a good friend to speak only positively of myself, instead of the constant criticism I subject myself to. So let's see how this goes.

Friday morning rolls around. Pretty tired. Go into work, boot up the box, decide that I should just give in and drop the money for the tickets to a club that's having an event that I really didn't care about, really wish wasn't happening.

But friends were going. And while events mean large crowds and significantly increased door charge, they also mean new faces, new, potentially attractive faces. I can dance, which drops me quite visibly into the "regular" category and since I dance well, it ups the visual value.

So I win all over.

I go buy the overpriced tickets online, text my friends, make dinner plans, power through the day, go through the usual pre-club routine, etc. Dinner, dancing, Taco Bell.

No Taco Bell. That was a movie reference. If you get it, awesome. If you don't, eh.

So, I meet up with my best friend and his girlfriend of four or five years that I've mentioned here before, and they tell me that they're planning on getting married sometime in the near future.

Which concerns me. I like her, but she's completely unaware of her sexuality. She recently almost cheated on him because of this, caused a big issue, they almost broke up, and a few weeks later and he's... clinging to her. This isn't going to solve anything.

Anyhow, get to the club, start making the social rounds.

And then I go down to my usual spot on the first floor, leaving my friends up on the third. Nothing new with this, I tend to keep to myself after my hellos.

Who rolls up on me?

The tall blond in the freaking suit from last time. He's hovering over me, again, like he's Edward and I'm Bella and we're about to re-enact some teenage drama and I'm starting at him thinking, "Fuck, really? He doesn't remember how hard I shut him down last time?"

Then he says, "You're that girl."

"That girl?"

"Yeah, the girl who asked me if I was drunk last time. And I said no. And then you said that I shoulda said yes because that would have excused my behavior."

He remembered. Word for word, he remembered. And he still came up.

Balls. Balls or total stupidity.

So I thought I'd give him a chance, see if he was drunk this time. If he was being ballsy or stupid.

And we chat a little bit, with him leaning into me touching my back, trying to put his arm around my shoulder at one point and draw me into him (which was a quick step back and a "Oh no, no, no, you don't get to do that" scold and push).

Since I'm me, and how I screen for guys is being a complete smartass and seeing how they roll with it and which ones will just hand me my ass (those are the ones to take home, in my opinion), I put him through some mildly light paces before I realize he's not only drunk, but stupid.

And he's nagging me for my name and I'm politely handing him his ass, making jokes that he's not able to keep up with, occasionally apologizing for being such a smartass, but he keeps trying to grab me.

Finally, I tell him that I'm going up to the top floor to dance and next time he tries to pick me up, I'd prefer he'd do it sober so I wouldn't have to deal with the mild guilt of mentally manhandling a drunk. Because that's just sad.

I bolt, and he's calling out after me as I near sprint up the stairs. As much as one can sprint in a mid-thigh dress.

He follows me up a few minutes later, which causes me to grab one of my guy friends and instruct him to place his hands on me and look territorial. Five minutes of that, I assume I've hopefully connected with this sad guy's buried intelligence, and he'll leave me alone.

Such was not the case.

I head back downstairs, dance for a bit, and he's back downstairs with me. He's not following me I think, as much as roaming. And he's trying so hard. I would've sworn he was sarging for the amount of women he was going up to, just powering through them (getting rejected 100% of the time), occasionally going back to talk to this one tall, well-dressed man.

But there is no way, no way that anyone with any small amount of education in game could be that inept after at least three weeks of clubs.

I hope.

So he comes after me again, I tell him that he's a) not getting my name and b) being way too obvious with the amount of girls he has tried to pick up in the thirty-forty minutes I've seen him. He denies that he's picking up girls, tells me that he just likes making friends. Keeps trying to guess my name.

During this period, one of the guys, a friend of mine I've mentioned earlier, joins us downstairs, takes a seat at the bar a few feet away from the aspiring ladies' man and myself. I had mentioned to him earlier how much this guy had been annoying me, cracking jokes and the like. So a song comes on, I excuse myself, dance for a bit.

When I get back, the annoying guy is gone. A curvy redhead is leaning on my friend at the bar, laughing and hugging him, then introduces herself to me and explains that my friend, after I had left, told the guy that he was my boyfriend and, essentially, if he stayed in the area I was dancing in, he'd continue in his failure rate because the girls in that particular room are the ones that are there to dance, not socialize, not fuck.

Which is 100% true.

This wouldn't seem like a big deal to most girls.

However, most girls aren't me.

I totally teared up.

Yes, you read that line right. My eyes got wet and I was incredibly overwhelmed.

My guy friends... I love them. All of them are so wonderful in so many different ways.

But none of them ever stand up for me when it comes to men. I'm the maneater, I'm the shark, I can handle myself. I'm, especially of late, constantly having to shut guys down. When I see someone I want and they display interest, I walk up to them and go for it. I'm the sex queen who no one touches on a mental or emotional level.

They know I can take care of it.

They don't realize how much I squirm whenever I reject a guy. They don't know how bad I feel, even when I'm being a smartass, when I shut someone down. I'm not a bitch, but I do have a way with conversations that... works. That is playful and smart and will keep you on your toes. Most guys, especially when I'm out, can't keep up with it.

And I feel bad. I feel guilty and uncomfortable and I wish that I could go find them the right girl at the club or show or wherever we're at so they don't have to deal with the rejection.

But that's not life.

So this man, this man that I've known for a little over a year, who has asked me out a few times, who has expressed a good deal of sexual interest, who I have spent time outside of clubs with, eating at 24 hour diners while the sun rises on a new day when we haven't even finished with the old one, both of us covered in sweat from dancing, who is such a scene fixture it's ridiculous, this guy stepped in and chased someone off for me so I wouldn't have to deal with it.

Because he's just a good guy. And that's normal behavior for him.

...this, and an additional moment of emotional vulnerability that carried over from Thursday, was why I ended up in one of the side rooms, on a couch, making out with this guy.

Yeah.

And he could kiss. I actually got a little dizzy from one of them, which was amusing.

But I know, I know he'd date me if he could. Relationship.

Which is why I pulled back from him, locked eyes, and said, "This is a one-time thing, okay? This is just tonight. This is not carrying over."

That was, physically, as far as it went. Which is progress for me. No negative criticism. Not doing it. I'm pulling back, this is good. For the extreme emotions I went through on Thursday, with the resulting emotional flow and need for comfort, it's amazing that I didn't just drag him into a corner and ride him silly.

I was talking with a good friend of mine, someone I've known for a couple years. He's, apparently, a fairly famous anonymous blogger. I say apparently because he refuses to give me any information on it. But he can write, I know. And he's calming to me, in his own way.

I mentioned to him my current frustrations. I'm feeling a lack of value because of things with GV8, vulnerable because of some oddly emotionally heavy things that happened with Roman that caused me much embarrassment and self-doubt, instability in my worldview due to what has been going on with my father, and emotional drag because I'm the only person my mother talks to about all the things that are going on and she's cried so much this year and it eats me alive. Combine those things, along with working, school (and the just completed midterms), and the fact that I haven't had sex in over a month...

Sex is how I breathe. Sounds odd, but it's so very much a part of my body functioning. It mellows me, it centers me, it stabilizes me. There doesn't have to be an emotional connection, just the act of sex is calming, lets me get through my day, week, month so much easier.

That seems normal to me.

And then my friend told me that I could replace the word "sex" with "alcohol" and I'd be considered an alcoholic.

That kinda set me on my ass, but he's not wrong.

So, in this combo of use and appreciation, I took a little edge off of the physical and psychological tension I've been under lately with my friend. Hoping, hoping that he wouldn't read more into it than I was offering, that he would take me at my word. That things wouldn't change.

And, in a moment of... God, I don't even know what that was. Probably validation seeking. When we were in a much more public setting, when he was talking to some other people, I walked up to him and just started going at it.

Grinned at him when he leaned down and self-consciously said, "Who all saw that?"

Patted him on the shoulder and said, "I don't know these people. Have fun dealing with any social fallout." And walked off to go dance.

I just wanted to claim him for a minute. Yes, he's my friend and I care for him. But he's also a social pillar, in the scene for so long, popular, has worked, and still works, for various promoters, like he was that night. He's such a good, amazing guy, and while I don't believe a relationship would work out between us, I still wanted that... moment. I wanted to say, "Hey, I might be that serious, aloof girl on the dance floor, I might not drink or smoke, I might not party, and I definitely don't fit in, but this guy, this guy that is so damned amazing, thinks I'm wonderful and desirable."

And I'm not going to criticize myself right now. I know I am mercenary at times, not for money, but, yes, status. That's normal. That is standard female operating procedure and I know I'm not like most other girls when it comes to many social things, but when it comes to sex, I'm the poster child for my sex viewed through evo-psych theory.

I got home at 430 or so, in bed at 5AM.

Then Roman called me at 930.

930. I was sore and tired and confused as to the noise that weird, vaguely rectangular thing on my nightstand was emitting.

This call started off normal, conversation as per usual. About an hour or two in, I suddenly spoke what my brain had been suspecting for a few days, about another woman. Someone established significantly prior.

I hit that right on the nose.

Talk about embarrassment. For me. As I internalize everything. My responsibility, everything is my responsibility. I should have seen that coming, I should've asked, I should not have been flirting and gaining interest when I'm still not sure what is going on with GV8, I should've been focusing on myself like I said I would, I should have not been getting emotionally engaged with someone when I'm still messed up over GV8 and therefore much more vulnerable to such things.

This all played through my head.

Is that negative? I don't think so. It's just what I was thinking. This trying to stop myself from criticizing myself is a bit awkward for me.

Just lots of kicking myself.

Feeling that imbalance that comes when one party is only partially engaged, shifting in value. Makes you feel horrible.

Well, maybe not you. But me.

I felt so low. Just so disgusted with myself, and so used, as more information came to light.

When I got off the phone, another hour had passed. I wanted to curl up in bed and mope, but I had told myself I was going to get off my ass and do what I had planned prior to being stripped raw on an emotional level.

So I drove, still tired and sore from the club, to Westfield Plaza, which is like a condensed version of Orange County, but in Los Angeles. So rich white suburbia. I missed my originally desired movie, so I hit "Clash of the Titans" instead, then sat out in the food court, eating sushi and reading Frankenstein, slowly cheering myself up with good fish, a good book, and good sunlight.

That's when I was unexpectedly approached by a man in his mid-to-lateforties (why, why oh god why is it always the forty+ year olds??) who proceeded to sit down with me, introduce himself, and start talking.

And talking. And talking.

Which was fine.

He fucking grilled me though. Running through all the points you would on a first date, gathering info. Family, education, neighborhood you grew up in, occupation, interests, goals and... oh, yeah, boyfriend? It wasn't that subtle. But, then, most things aren't that subtle to me when it comes to such situations.

That was all fine. I wanted the distraction, didn't mind the reading break, he was decently intelligent so it was an okay conversation.

What I did mind was two things:

1. He repeated himself. Enough to be noticeable. Which made things feel odd.
2. The significantly more major one, when I went to leave, instead of shaking my hand, he went to hug me. And I just went along with it.

And then he held me. He just stood there and held me and tried to do the full body hug and did actually kiss my cheek way too close to my mouth, and then when I went to go, he tried again for the kiss and I was just standing there going, "Oh my fucking god, I want to go, I don't want to be a bitch, I don't want to cause a scene, I wasn't flirting with you at all, I didn't escalate at all, fuck, you didn't even escalate, you just immediately went for it, why the hell are you holding me, I told you I was sorta seeing someone and not dating at all and made that VERY clear, where the hell did my personal space go, why the hell did you go from an okay conversation partner to creepy and gropey as we went to part ways?????"

As odd as this may sound, it's days like today/last night that make me glad that I'm not standardly attractive (blonde haired, tan, model-thin). I would not be able to hang if the standard issue man was hitting on me all the time. I'd go bezerk and kill someone.

So I run away from him and head over to my friend's party, still feeling rather low (and creeped out, yay!).

It took me a little, but as I was sitting on the floor of their living room, meeting new people, having interesting conversations, sharing stories and jokes... I suddenly felt more okay. I've got some great friends, people that unexpectedly entered my life and they're fantastic people that I'm glad to know. There's no motive other than enjoyment of each other's company, we lend support when needed, time when it's open, and caring.

The morning's events that left me so distressed faded.
The man with his verbal escalation at the mall that took on a weird vibe because it was not encouraged, but he continued anyhow, interrupting the conversation with small, physically complimentary comments that made no sense and derailed everything... it still bothers me, but it'll be okay.

I won't be negative here (again), I think I did... okay.

And, my friend is right, I'm really not comfortable with not criticizing myself. I don't know how to do it, it makes me hesitate and stumble over the words.

He says I have to practice.

Wonder how long I can keep it up.

Quickest girl in the frying pan...

It seems as though I'm developing an attachment to someone, or at least the beginnings of a potential attachment to someone.

Someone that isn't GV8.

It's a mixed bag.

My sadness at GV8 leaving me, even if it winds up being temporary, has morphed into a mild lack of respect for him, which I believe I've mentioned recently. When he's reminded of me strongly, through events or actions, he forgets his rules... maybe forget isn't the right word. He discards his rules for the pleasure of my company.

Just tosses them straight out.

And something that I valued in him, the first thing that made me stop and realize that maybe he was one of those few men I truly consider mine (in the sense that this type of man belongs to me, fits with me) was his self-control.

A friend of mine mentioned, when I told her how much I admired his self-control, that it was easy to have self-control when you had no rules for yourself.

I'm finding that more and more true.

I miss him, I truly do. It becomes easier each day, a little bit at a time, to not think of him. But when he does stray into my brain, that gutpunch feeling causes pain and mental doubling up around the source, trying to wad the memories of him in foam, box them up and store them in the furthest corner of my attic.

So I don't think of him.

And I try not to be angry. I try not to think that I opened myself to him fully, was willing to bare pieces of myself that I've held tightly so long, to mesh with him without reserve or doubts... and he said no.

Or, at least, not yet.

How can I return to that? How can I go back to him with open arms? Trust is burnt, respect is damaged, I'm shying away from him again, going back to my wild mustang hindbrain: teeth-bared-eyes-rolling-ain't-never-gonna-to-put-a-bridle-on-me-boy.

How can I expect him to even want me back, with his wild nights ahead of him, the club opening up in two weeks, living the life of a playboy, girls falling on him like they do.

How could he ever look back at me and think that he'd be willing to compromise, he'd be willing to give some of it up, so he could love me?

He's told me so often that he isn't relationship material, but he keeps trying with me anyhow.

I pass his tests. I'm the whole package, he says. The whole package, as far as I can tell from our talks, entails a combination of intelligence, drive, family values, confidence, ability to handle money, constant honesty, and insane sexual ability. I think I'm a bit wishy-washy on the drive and the confidence, but he was mostly okay with it.

Even if he did come back, even if he was able to gentle me, heal the damage between us, do I want a life with a man who won't offer monogamy? Who already donated one STD to my life? Who won't give me children? Who constantly changes his mind and his plans, who is never dedicated to one path if another one arises?

I don't know.

I say that often.

At least I admit it, I suppose.

And then this dark horse shows up, and I end up intrigued.

Makes me wonder if I'm just as bad as all the MRA guys say when it comes to women. Toss someone who smells like alpha at me and I'm spreading my legs. That's the belief, right?

No, I'm not having sex. I haven't touched anyone since The Bassist. My body feels like begging for touch, for an hour in bed with someone with hard, smooth skin and a strong jaw.

I feel disloyal.

Imagine.

I feel disloyal who a man who never offered me physical loyalty. To a man that said he'd call me when he figured things out... with no set date. It could be next year when my phone rings. To a man I may never actually talk to again.

I feel inconstant, easily attracted, easily distracted.

In my defense, I wasn't looking for it.

In my defense, maybe it's a good thing to remind myself that there are the occasional rare males out there that I can actually connect with, so I'm not so desperately hinged on GV8, thinking that he's the beginning and end of my world and letting that dictate my behavior.

It makes me wonder if I'll be able to respect a man again, or how long it will take for that respect to develop. GV8 pushed the bar so high, so far out of reach when it comes to certain behaviors and desired traits, and then... then he fell.

I remember, one of the last times we were together, he was sitting at his desk, looking at me. I don't know what we were talking about, but he commented that he wondered how long it would be before I was disillusioned with him, until I looked back at him like I do so many other guys who didn't live up to my expectations- not of a partner, but of a person, the same expectations that I hold to myself, constantly striving for, even if I don't meet them.

I have high demands of the people around me. The closer they are to me, the closer I allow them to me, the higher the demands rise. Those expectations aren't financial, or social, they aren't about wardrobe or who drops the most names. They center around honesty, integrity, self-awareness, ability to communicate, lack of external judgement, self-control, ethics, honor, perception, compassion, emotional stability and intelligence.

It's a lot, I know.

I strive towards those traits. I respect those traits.

So I look at myself and wonder why this is happening. If I'm being weak by allowing it to happen, if I'm guarding myself from the pain that GV8 will inflict when he lets me know he can't compromise his life style for me, if I'm giving myself a platform of objective reality, if I'm cheating on my lack of intimacy rule I've set for myself, if I'm using him as a crutch to feel not so alone as I deal with all these changes in my life, if I'm a disloyal and inconstant whore, if I'm just as bad as all the MRA guys would say, if it's all about that alpha-related tingle, if GV8 will just add it to his mental list of reasons he should not be with me, if this is really as weak as it sounds.

Lots of ifs.

One instinct.

My brain runs wild and I balk. Rare connection, ability, blessed ability to talk, to discuss ideas, to find someone who will be honest with me with their feedback, no rose-colored glasses, no white knighting. Knowing I'm just as wrecked as them.

What am I going to have to give up with these actions?

Which domino will start the chain of events that will unravel this thread?

How much can be held against me, and how much can I hold against myself?

What am I doing? Creating self-loathing or saving myself?

Probably the former.

So weak. Still so weak.