Sage advice from a friend on the STI front: "You're already going into this with your eyes open; now it's just if your legs are open, too."
I told the guy I couldn't meet him until I got tested, with a remarkable number of apologetic qualifiers for telling a man that sex with him may not be worth the risk of going the rest of my life with a disclaimer on my vagina. ("Not a big deal" depends who you ask. I will ask a doctor and go from there.)
I said if he didn't want to meet me, I'd understand, but he said HE understood and would meet me when I was ready. Later, he called me sexy, smart, and quick, so you can see why I'm trying so hard to ride this particular unicorn.
He's actually so good on paper that I'm worried it's a trap. Like, am I the only woman who didn't immediately say "no" to this? How is he saying everything I need to hear? Is that instinct honed from years of practice on various conquests he's humped and dumped? Is he, like, 70 years old? (He's not, I stalked his Facebook. Don't judge me, that's HIS fault. There's a reason MY personal account is locked down -- all you get is photos of sunsets and the profile pic they make you leave public.)
But in the meantime, another friend sent me this article/podcast, should you wish to read/hear more on the matter.
Seems fitting for Groundhog Day, but with advance apologies to the few readers who emailed me to say I shouldn't waste anymore time in this place...
This is the point in the That Guy cycle when I'm worried we're not actually done -- that I'll let my guard down and then he'll pop up somewhere. It's been a discernible pattern, so much that I'm in a mental fighting stance every time I check any element of my digital existence.
I don't think it's going to happen this time. We weren't exactly kind to each other. And he wasn't trying to resurrect our friendship, which it turns out we never HAD. He was just finally confirming he'd been using my body and affection to make himself feel better, and that I was inadequate in both capacities. (Still a great feeling if you ever get the chance.)
Logistically, I don't see how he COULD pop up. He can still see this page because it's public (everybody wave!). I'm not changing that to avoid one person. (Unless it's, like, Dexter.) But I don't think he's going to "like" anything after I gave him a bunch of shit about liking posts about my body or masturbation.
I think I've taken every other precaution, but I'm still a little on edge. When I stopped speaking to him last New Year's, I don't think a month passed thereafter where he didn't remind me he was checking on me -- a text, blog like, Facebook friend request (to my professional account), a LinkedIn profile view. But I probably said enough that he'll avoid setting off that particular powder keg again.
And we'll just save it for therapy that I still miss him. (Shut UP, I don't KNOW. He told me I "claim dysfunction and use it to explain away being wrong," so...yeah, dibs on that. I was crazy, I thought we were friends -- I was wrong. I'm basically Clarissa right now.)
Oddly, I think I'll relax about all this around Valentine's Day, since that'll be about 6 weeks. I'll aim to spend that day finally unclenched, hopefully in more ways than one, with a movie, a glass of wine, my bombass lasagna, and an obscene quantity of really good chocolate. Ideally with a man under me as well, but I think it'll be a decent day either way. Me and my Valentine "Serenity" -- in all the ways. Shiny.
You know those Facebook Memories where it shows you what you were doing on this day however many years ago?
The one I just saw might as well have said, "Ha ha, remember that time you were about to fuck up your whole life? MAN! Good times," and then punched me in the stomach.
Eat a dick, Facebook.
All things considered, my life has turned out pretty well, but damn -- between careers and homes and relationships and assholes, that was a lot of progress to process before I even finished my coffee. This probably explains why I'm so hesitant to change very much in those realms right now.
Unless Robert Downey Jr. calls. Then all bets are off. And so are my panties. (Joking. I would never have on underwear if I were anywhere NEAR Robert Downey Jr. I would always wear dresses and trampy nightgowns and go commando, so he could have a 24/7 all-access pass.)
It's adorable how I thought I could exist in my family and get away with saving some cash by getting LESS therapy. But at least they gave me some money for Christmas, so they're inadvertently footing the bill.
Are you serious? We're adults. Someone in the family just DIED -- they are now an EX-parrot. Maybe get some perspective? When YOU die, are you gonna be like, "Heh... Yeah, I was a complete DICK to my niece in 2016, remember? Deleted her from Facebook for some BULLshit -- I showed HER. LIFE? HA! NAILED IT. Go 'head, Jesus, take the wheel!"
I'm pretty close to telling everyone to go fuck themselves. I've already said, "I want nothing to do with this." Do you know how much you have to fuck up before *I* won't talk to you? You have to, like... kill a Muppet.
Time to invoke The Asshole Inference: "I don't know. I don't wanna know. I'm out." *hand gesture*
(Actually, I think writing this and seeing Token was probably all the therapy I needed. And also bearing in mind that running away to CA and never coming back is always an option.)
I emailed him back, because I am an idiot. He'd clarified some things, so I wanted to do the same.
Aaand it turned out exactly as I thought it would.
One day I will learn to listen to my friends and just be an asshole when the situation calls for it, which is what I think he wanted -- for me to keep quiet and stay away.
But there it is. "The cold never bothered me, anyway."
P.S. Fun fact: Gmail's "block" feature is apparently about as useless as Facebook's. Technology can kiss my dick.
P.P.S. Sorry, I'll take the weekend off and stop buzzkilling your news feeds.
A friend pointed out that I'm kind of shitty to myself when it comes to my ability to be an adult: "You are constantly talking about being incapable, an unfit adult, generally sucking at everything, along with other negative talk about yourself."
Hm. That's because I genuinely do FEEL incompetent probably half of the time, like I can't even believe I'm allowed to drive and make life choices. But I think the difference is, unlike everyone else, I say it out loud. And probably too often.
A Facebook friend who doesn't know me very well went so far as to imply it was my "thing," and a coworker sent me a JPG of an "adulting honorable mention" ribbon that said "I put on pants today."
I really don't want ineptitude to be my "thing." Especially at work.
We'll add that to the list of goals to work on with the therapist, because I'm really not sure how to go about fixing it. (Other than to just shut the fuck up, which I guess is probably the best option.) But I can't get butthurt when people treat me like an incompetent asshole if I continue to act like one.
But ssshhhh... I'm totally going to go eat Froot Loops in my blanket fort. And the pants will be gone as soon as I walk in the door.
This is probably a story that would've been more useful before Christmas, but maybe we can all carry the concept into the new year...
One of the best things my ex ever did for me was help me realize I shouldn't let it bother me when assholes behave like assholes.
Years ago, my aunt said something REALLY hurtful to me on Facebook. I was at work, and had to leave my office and call my ex to cry about it in the parking lot. (I rarely cry. It's one of many unhealthy points of pride. But she'd hit a nerve.)
And my ex said, "I don't understand why you're upset."
"Because she's horrible. Who would say that?"
"Well...an asshole would say that. You think she's a dick, right?"
"Yeah..."
"Do you value her opinion? Do you want your life to be like hers?"
"No. She's awful."
"So why are you upset about what an awful person thinks? She's an asshole. Why are you letting an asshole make you cry?"
"...Well, shit...You are absolutely...goddamn right..."
I was fine for years after that, but recently had a wonky emotional time in which I was letting her get to me again. It helps so much to keep that conversation in mind -- how obvious it seemed, what a glorious turning point it was for me to finally see it, and also to know other people see it, too. It helped a LOT this past Christmas.
You go ahead and make your snide little comments, dearie. I don't know what made you such a miserable jag, what made you so unhappy with your life, but you're damn sure in no position to judge mine.
Namaste. Bitch.
"Suggested Post" is apparently code for "Making sure you stay single."
I'm avoiding my personal Facebook after seeing PEOPLE I KNOW say Charlie Sheen "had it coming."
Don't fucking make me defend Charlie Sheen. Christ.
(I'd already been avoiding FB for a few days, but I do check it here and there to remind myself that everyone and everything there is still awful. Facebook is where Suck goes to blow.)
For whatever reason, this GORGEOUS non-Melissa-McCarthy dress came up in the results earlier when I was looking for the Melissa McCarthy clothes at Nordstrom, and now Facebook is mocking me with it via a "sponsored post."
I can TOTALLY wear that to Christmas dinner, right? My family wears sweatpants to weddings, so this is perfect, no?
See also: Fuck you, Facebook, I don't have $150.
