leftunspoken's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The question being 'Are they whacko when I meet them, or is it some temporary response to my departure?' Because really, I'm cute, but I'm not all that. So I called the whole thing off. Picked up my toys and went home. i.e. Told the new guy that in the short six weeks we've been dating, neither one of us should have had to say "sorry" that many times. (To me it was a sign: Go directly to the next guy. Do not pass go. Do not collect any further sobby-phone-call material for the drunk-on-DrPepper Saturday morning chats with the twin sister.) He took it mostly well. Said it was fine if it's what I wanted. Said he didn't mean to hurt me. (He is a good person.) Then he cried...the poor darling...which resulted in me feeling sorry for him...which resulted in there being even less chance I will ever go back to him. Pity = lust/love/desire - Not so much for me. So one day passed. I almost called him. Not to change my mind, but to see how he was doing. Because I felt bad. Because he's going through a rough time and I really didn't want to add to that. It caused difficulties in our building-a-relationship-thing, even though his problmes were NOT the reason I chose to split. The main reason I guess was this: I didn't mind holding his hand while he waded through his miscellaneous muck, but there was no way I was gonna stand around being his iv morphine drip while he just moaned about the pain. Anyway, wiser mood-swings prevailed and I didn't call. Only to find an email this morning when I arrived at work. The gist of which was as follows: I thought about everything you said and you were right. {i always am.} I suck. {why yes you did.} I'm sorry. {you're forgiven, but that doesn't mean i'm going back.} Maybe one day we can be together again... {yeah maybe, you never know, though i've already got a line of possibilities for mr. next (i'd forgotten how many men you meet when you work at a bar.)} ...Forever. {wait, what?} I love you insert my firstname, my lastname, then HIS lastname here. {oh, fuck.} It's all fine and dandy to like me a lot. Or even think you're falling in love with me. But I tell you "this is too hard, and it makes me feel like it's not right, and I don't think we should see each other anymore"...and all of a sudden you start tacking your lastname onto mine like an invocation. I know he's harmless, but I can't shake the vivid visions of me in doll make-up and a muddy wedding dress ankle-cuffed to the hot water heater in his basement. Why does this always happen to me? I've said it before and I'll say it again...I need a taser. Anybody so inclined to buy me one can have at it. Christmas is coming you know. 3:09 p.m. - October 15, 2004 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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