I’ve bit my tongue long enough, but it was either this or a rant on Twitter. I opted for the lesser of two evils.
To say that I’m struggling to deal is an understatement. But after several friends (and glasses of wine) telling me to just stop being a baby and speak up, say what I’m feeling blah blah blah, I went ahead and did it.
Now tell me. Please someone explain this. How someone. With ? degrees. From a very ? university. Can be SO clueless. Or at least be so good at playing the part. I figured by bringing it up, a conversation where I could let this all out would ensue. Clearly, didn’t happen. So, I bring to you, this incredibly pathetic post. Apologies in advance.
I like you. Not just like, think you’re an okay human to be around. I opened myself up, foolishly, and somehow you got hold of me. I didn’t want for that to happen, truly. I was finally comfortable in my old skin. The skin that would shamelessly flirt with guys, get free drinks, and then never return texts. The skin that never saved people’s phone numbers. The skin that got annoyed by guys asking me to hang out more than once in the same week. I had sworn feelings off, and I was so okay with it. Meeting you made that skin something I wanted nowhere near me.
Well. That escalated quickly.
After getting waaaaaaaaaaaaaay too drunk the first time I met you, I didn’t think that I would see you again, let alone WANT to see you again. I guess it is kind of funny the way things change.
After my attempt at DTR, I felt a little upset (Read: laid in bed and cried for 20 minutes while my friends hugged me and then went back to the party for a drink), deleted your number, and moved on.
What a joke. I should have known it’s never that easy.
Fast forward to finding out you were going to move. That made the little 20 minute pity party look like a rager compared to the days and nights that I was so *~lucky to experience. I physically felt the pain. And I couldn’t understand why. I knew I wasn’t supposed to like you. I knew that you didn’t feel the same. I knew we would never be on the same pages. But, controlling the mind is evidently a pretty difficult thing to do. I knew it would be a bad idea to see you again before you left, but I knew it would be a worse one to not.
So here we are. Three weeks post-move. And it’s immensely flipping bothersome that I like you. I will be the first to admit, it’s a big deal if I care about you. I’m usually looking out for number one, or my friends. I made the mistake of caring about too many shmucks, so to say I’m choosy is an understatement. It is downright impossible. Why? I don’t trust guys. I would rather not open up. I would rather not let them see me drunk as hell, dancing in a living room with no makeup and no pants. To feel as at ease as I had felt was a truly liberating feeling.
And you fuckin’ left and now I can’t say I’ve been the same.
So, if it wasn’t painfully obvious by now, let me spell it out for you. One. More. Time.
I like you. Got it? I’m sure this will go away eventually, but for right now it’s here and it needs to be said.