The daily adventures and travails of one neurotic, klutzy, hungry, cynical college girl. Tune in for prizes! (offer void where prohibited. See office for details. Not responsible for lost articles.)
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Thursday, December 01, 2005
Wow, am I so emotionally crippled that even imagining making out with someone was enough to give me "commitment issue" shakes last night?
Let's rewind.
I feel stupid sometimes, cause I rehash on my blog what I've already yapped about with a few of my friends (those willing to listen to me diatribes) and it feels redundant and blown out of proportion, especially to those people who heard it directly from the horse's mouth.
Ack. I described myself as a horse. Boo.
Aaaaaaaaaaanywho-la, I came home from hanging out with the Shan-ster and after dancing in the empty street with my newly fixed Ipod, to a very messy apt. Nothing new and hardly noteworthy. But as I am wont to do, I found myself in a Wayne's World type of "dream sequence."
I was imagining coming home from a date with hot waiter boy that I met and giggled with at lunch yesterday. (Was he hot? I don't remember anymore, indicating he might have just been cute and sweet. Which is a nice trip away from ugly and mean, let me tell ya.) But while it started out nicely, and I was enjoying my innocent brain fantasy, I started hyperventilating from the thought that I might have to deal with another unwanted commitment/relationship/drama and I think I even broke out in a rash. The secret video to my apartment will have fascinating footage of a smiley dancey girl rapidly disintegrating into babbly, shakey ball of inner scar and irrational fear on my bed.
Foolish and melodramatic, I recognize, yes thank you. But my self imposed "only use hot boys for groping and paying for dinner" and keep yourself on top, friends and family if they deserve it, and then maybe kindness to strangers before allowing yourself to do anything extra for boys you're swapping spit with may be more for my own health and sanity that a clever way to wrap up a dry spell.
Does that mean I have to drop my dastardly plan for Saturday? He's practically in the bag (not in that way, dirty) and I deserve some frivolous fun! This is equivalent to getting an invite to the dance, but you haven't got a dress yet and you really want to go. BAH. Stupid fucking psyche. Why are the scars there if I've already rationally thought out that my pain was unwarranted? Am I doing the right thing by letting myself heal, or am I retreating into the dark cause I'm afraid to face the music?
Here's some pictures for people who didn't want to read about my lameness. They're pictures of me and the girls when we messed around the apt on Ultrasuede night. The ones of me are mostly when Linda and Christina shouted things to me as part of the "photo shoot" game we played. If you're still disappointed that this post is me-centric, maybe you shouldn't be reading a blog written by me. *blows raspberry*
EDIT- Blogger hates me and I can't upload all the pics now. Enjoy the two that made the cut.
11:08 AM
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