Posts Tagged ‘Amaretto’
I Got Slapped
Really, Amaretto, you just ruined men for me forever, I hope you know that. Really, Amaretto, if you didn’t want a blowjob—which, wtf? are you a even a man?—you should’ve just told me no. You didn’t have to promise you’d call, promise you’d meet me at 9, promise me you’d text…then not call, meet me, or text. You didn’t have to stand me up. If you were afraid that I wanted something from you, you shouldn’t have pretended you wanted to meet me. If you were afraid that I wanted something from you, you should’ve stopped being such a pussy and just told me no. By the way, I didn’t want anything from you but your cock, genius, jackass, bastard, douchebag. By the way, grow a spine. And some balls.
(/dramatic version)
I Did It!
I did it I did it I diditdiditdidit omg only slightly freaking out.
When the Phone Doesn’t Ring
I’m a big girl. I’ve done twenty years of living, which doesn’t seem like a lot compared to women thirty and forty years old, but it’s nothing to be scoffed at either. The whole “Why doesn’t he call when he said he would?” thing? I’ve known it to be life ever since I could remember. It’s just something you know to be true—like who remembers the first time they realized that the sky was blue? Nobody, because everyone’s known it all their lives; that’s just how things are.
And I’ve dealt with it. No, well, I guess that’s a lie. I didn’t really have to deal with it; to Cap’n Crunch’s credit, he never said he’d call, but it sure felt the same to me. And then there was Romeo, who was so, so sweet and gentle…but who also never actually said he’d call and so I can’t blame for not doing so. In between the two was The Chemist, who did call even though I’d told him I would because I wanted to avoid the inevitable waiting by the phone business. So I guess I really haven’t dealt with it. Well. Bully for me.
I was so sure that every time a guy tells me he’ll call me, I’d say “No, I don’t want to wait by the phone pathetically. I’ll call you.” So I don’t know what happened inside my mind Friday night to make me say to Amaretto, “No, I don’t want to call you. You call me.” It was stupid, but it was fine at the time. He said, “Talk to you tomorrow?” I said “okay,” and we went continued on our merry ways.
To my credit, I knew how the story might—actually probably would—end. I knew that there was probably no call forthcoming. But he didn’t just say he’d call. He specifically said “tomorrow”. That had to count for something, right? argued my mind. And even when you know that he probably won’t call, you can’t help but hold out hope. I actually got off easy. I didn’t believe too hard that he would, so when he didn’t, I didn’t fall too far. In fact, I didn’t even scrape myself up.
But I’m not ready to let him go just yet. I will call him. (And by call I mean text) I will be the man in this story, and by God, I hope it doesn’t end sadly. I don’t take kindly to rejection. I have a good sized ego, but it’s fragile; I don’t know what I’ll do if I text him and he says no or doesn’t answer. Probably try to convince myself that in his drunken stupor he gave me the wrong number. But I’m scared, not that he will reject me, but scared about what it will mean for my self-confidence if he does.
I’m going to put myself out there and I’m going to hope so hard that this first time I’m taking a chance with a boy I’m not going to get slapped, because if that happens I’ll never want to come out of my shell again.
Almond Amore
Friday: Class, home, gym, sweat like a pig, shower, pack, run run run to Buttercup’s apartment.
We made a quick dash to Safeway with Buttercup’s 21 year old roommate in tow and returned to the car 80 dollars poorer but 3 bottles of alcohol richer, which is a fair trade in my book. Dinner at Jack In The Box (“Why does it sound sexual every time you say ‘Jack In The Box’, [truste]?”), then back to Buttercup’s to get sexy.
