Beetle (guy I shtupped in May) is apparently in town this week. I know because last night, while I was sulking and tending my wounds, his brother called looking for pot. Thing I could do: call my model-gorgeous marijuana-connoisseur friend who's been trying to invite himself into my jacuzzi for months. See how many hot, intelligent boys trying to get into my pants it takes before I stop caring that one in particular doesn't want to carve my initials into the sunset.
Most recently revised version of "my type:" The Lonely.
Last night talking to HDS, writing, snuggling my dog, and leaving an appointment time change confirmation message on my therapist's answering machine, it dawned on me quite how well-supported I am. I have all these healthy, expressive outlets, all these ways to be sad and work through everything. How far I've come.
Possible Boy has no one to talk to, and until yesterday, we never really talked. I was always doing some sort of fan dance. He needs a friend. He said that, or tried to tell me that when I was leaking tears on his couch.
I'm a writer. I'm a lonely soul, fascinated by other lonely souls, collecting their stories as evidence in The Case against the Feeling I'm The Only One (as of yet unsolved by Nancy Drew, Freud, Nietzsche, All the Kings Horses and All the Kings Men).
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