A History Lesson

Damnit, something in my apartment smells bad, and I can't figure out what it is...

Anyway, hello. It's Sunday, and I'm sober now (which I absolutely was not at last posting), but I'm still pissed off. And sad. A lovely combination, no?

I went to bed remarkably early last night--being drunk and depressed will have that effect--but at least 14 hours of fitful sleep saved me from waking with a hangover today. I made some breakfast, went back to bed, got up, showered, and did laundry. Now it's 6pm and I'm trying to figure out what, if anything, I can do for the rest of the evening to keep me from obsessing over the recently imposed shift in my perspective.

Sadly I couldn't come up with anything, so I figured I'd obsess in blog form.

But first I'm going to take the trash out and hope that alleviates this horrible smell. It really is overwhelming.

...

It's not the trash. I just walked all over the apartment sniffing and the smell is concentrated to this particular corner of this room. Lovely. Something probably died in the wall.

I lit a candle. And I'm going into the livingroom. Yet another bonus to having a laptop.

...

Anyway, back to the subject at hand: my endlessly shitty love life (or lack thereof).

It may seem to the casual observer that I am taking this awfully hard. After all, it's not like I was even dating this guy, right? I just wanted to... but therein lies the crux. It is exceedingly rare that I ever meet a guy I would even want to date, and an even rarer occasion that I actually allow myself to believe that the feeling might be mutual.

Don't get me wrong, I actually think I'm quite a catch. I'm attractive, intelligent, low maintenance, I've got a good sense of humor and I'm a great cook... but I've also come to realize that while I think these are admirable qualities in a girlfriend, the male population at large generally finds me good for two things: sex, or beers and pool on a Friday night with the guys. Dating? Not so much.

The last time I was in love, I was 19 years old... and even that's a stretch, as I fell out of love with the guy about a year before I finally managed to break up with him; so I guess it would be more appropriate to say that the last time anyone was in love with me, I was 19. That relationship, which lasted for 3 1/2 years, was not a healthy one, and practically destroyed my self-esteem where men are concerned. I'm not sure I ever fully recovered. Actually, I'm fairly certain I haven't, for the longest any guy has stuck around since then is maybe two months; eventually they all disappear/cheat on me/become drama queens/some combination of those three. Or go back to ex girlfriends, like the English Ex.

Speaking of whom, funny how my current situation is suddenly so much more similar to that one, eh? I should have known... when I realized that the way I felt around B (I really can't call him Maybe Crush anymore, though I always thought I'd be making that switch for a happy reason--idiot) was the same as I felt around EE... I should have known something was up. It's like my subconscious already had it figured out.

I know lots of girls get melodramatic whenever their expectations are dashed and say "oh, I'm going to be alone forever!" before finding a new boyfriend within the month. But I really have honestly felt for quite some time that I'm just meant to be alone. Not that I'm happy about it--clearly not!--and I don't mean this in a "woe is me, my life sucks!" kind of way, but the evidence is overwhelming. If it looks like a duck, and smells like a duck...

And this is why I'm kicking myself. Kicking myself for letting myself hope--nay, believe--that this time was going to be different. As I said yesterday, why do I even bother? It all ends in tears.

Oh, and did I mention that as of last week the last remaining single friend among my close-knit group of childhood friends--my Girls--is now engaged. I am now the only one--the pariah. Even the couple that can't legally marry has bought a house, and a car, and a dog. We get together and they all sit around talking about mortgages and weddings and babies, comparing wedding albums and diamonds, and what can I do? Tell them about yet another one night stand? Another night spent alone? It's fucking depressing.

And at the current juncture there is no happy outcome for me. I'll still see B every day, and like I said I'll still talk to him, and smoke with him, and walk to the train with him... but it won't be the same. The giddiness is gone. And he knows. Whenever we're together I'm going to wonder if he's pitying me. If he's told his girlfriend what I told him. I don't want to think those things--he seemed genuinely upset when he said he hoped this didn't mean I would stop talking to him, and that he's glad we met, that I was the first person here he felt he could really talk to.

Yeah, twist that knife a little deeper pal.

And sure, as Spunk said, perhaps his "complicated" relationship will eventually end--but a break-up does not an automatic happy-ending make. First of all, there's no saying he would actually want to date me even if he were single, and second, do I want to be complicated-relationship-rebound-girl? No thanks. Been there, done that, and it all ends the same.

(See Also: The One That Got Away; or ED, who I'd been casually seeing/fooling around with for a few weeks, and then one morning after I'd spent the night I ask if he wants to go get breakfast and he says "actually, I've been talking to my ex-girlfriend and we're getting back together"; or T, who said he wanted to date... then the next time we make plans tells me that actually, his ex called him being all crazy and now he realizes he's not ready; or EM, who I actually waited till the third date to sleep with, and who then systematically bailed on me every time we made plans thereafter and I later learned through the grapevine that he was just coming out of a long term relationship; and of course, let's not forget EE...)

Right. Some other highlights of the asshole pool include the Alcoholic Chef who, after 2 weeks of dating asked me in the middle of sex if I loved him, then stopped calling because he "got bored" and I later learned was screwing half of Manhattan; or the guy who went to my good friend to say "I think I made a mistake, I'd rather be dating you," yet let me think that I broke up with him and therefore was still able to booty call me several times over the next year until my friend finally told me what had happened--after he'd moved to Pittsburgh.

Is it any wonder I have trust issues? Sometimes I wonder if there is a sign on my forehead saying "Nice guys need not apply," or what strange switch in my brain only allows me to be attracted to men I can't have. Even when I don't know that I can't have them.

This whole situation would have been so much simpler if I'd just known up front that B had a girlfriend. Sure, I still would have been attracted to him--the boy is HOT--but that would have been it. He would have been "my hot guy friend that has a girlfriend." The End.

Instead I get this emotional clusterfuck that only serves to reinforce what I've been telling myself for years. I'm just meant to be alone.

I just wish I could get used to it.