Schedules make me itch. Organization is that of the devil. My passivity has been stronger than ever these past few months; finally, my parents threw their arms up in the air and cried, enough is enough! So I'm leaving. Back to New England. Apprehension has begun to sink in. The guy I've been hooking up with has either A) died or B) lost interest in my titties, so now I'm all bummed with rejection. I'm mentally reciting a mantra to keep my head on the ground. "Okay, it happens. There's nothing I can do. I need to love myself blah blah blah..." but it's barely enough to keep me from sending a text that undermines his manhood. (True shit. I fantasized about this dude and his station wagon for months and assumed his confident swagger was all the proof I needed that he was the proud owner of a blue-ribbon peen. What did they tell me about having expectations? That's right. I was disappointed. Very disappointed.)
All the more reason to be glad about leaving the state and the alcoholic dickwads who inhabit it behind. It was dumb to pursue a relationship when I have a two week expiration date, but I just romanticized the potentially short lived affair a la "Before Sunrise." Except instead of galavanting around Europe, my temporary soulmate and I loiter outside of Wawa and make out in the woods. I was open about wanting to hang out before I left (I will be celibate for nine to eleven very, very long months) because sex is the one action we've yet to check off on our to-do list. AND GOD DAMNIT, I GOT SO PUMPED I HAD A PLAYLIST FOR THE OCCASION. He was going to be the special somebody who I would finally romp with to the raw groove of Voodoo Chile. One week later and zero communication. What do I do? Well, I do what any desperate hussy would do: drive to the workplace of a guaranteed rebound whose advances will briefly boost my self esteem. Then the gods intervened at the last minute and I left empty handed. I should plan an erotic tea party and see who shows up.
Wednesday. I'm tired, overstimulated, overwhelmed, and wish I could just fast forward these next two weeks because the waiting game fucking sucks. I'm getting anxious in limbo.
All the more reason to be glad about leaving the state and the alcoholic dickwads who inhabit it behind. It was dumb to pursue a relationship when I have a two week expiration date, but I just romanticized the potentially short lived affair a la "Before Sunrise." Except instead of galavanting around Europe, my temporary soulmate and I loiter outside of Wawa and make out in the woods. I was open about wanting to hang out before I left (I will be celibate for nine to eleven very, very long months) because sex is the one action we've yet to check off on our to-do list. AND GOD DAMNIT, I GOT SO PUMPED I HAD A PLAYLIST FOR THE OCCASION. He was going to be the special somebody who I would finally romp with to the raw groove of Voodoo Chile. One week later and zero communication. What do I do? Well, I do what any desperate hussy would do: drive to the workplace of a guaranteed rebound whose advances will briefly boost my self esteem. Then the gods intervened at the last minute and I left empty handed. I should plan an erotic tea party and see who shows up.
Wednesday. I'm tired, overstimulated, overwhelmed, and wish I could just fast forward these next two weeks because the waiting game fucking sucks. I'm getting anxious in limbo.
