While chatting with an ex-girlfriend last week, a blog entry materialized...
Her: Damn you, Scuba Steve.
Me: Scuba Steve?
I think you've got your guys confused again, dear.
Her: No no no.
Nevermind.
You've obviously never seen Big Daddy.
Me: Nope.
Well I saw part of it, I think.
Is that where they pee side by side?
Her: Mmm . . no?
You would like Big Daddy.
You should rent it.
Me: Are you sure?
Her: Yes, they don't pee together. I know that movie backwards, frontwards, sideways and upside down.
No peeing.
Me: Mmhmm.
Wanna bet?
(This is where I quote a Roger Ebert review I found after googling Big Daddy...)
"The predictable story arc has Sonny and Julian bonding. This is not as easy as it sounds, since any Adam Sandler character is self-obsessed to such a degree that his conversations sound like interior monologues. It is supposed to be funny that Sonny has a pathological hostility against society; when McDonald's won't serve them breakfast, he throws another customer's fries on the floor, and when a restaurant won't let the kid use the restroom, he and the kid pee on the restaurant's side door."
Ahem.
Her: He didn't pee.
The kid peed.
Because he has to pee every three seconds.
Me: OK, so Roger Ebert is wrong and you are right. Sure.
Her: Adam Sandler's on the lookout for him and says something like "Gee, you and my grandmother pee this much!"
Me: You're so self-assured when you're wrong. That's the amazing thing.
:-)
Her: I'M NOT WRONG!
Rent the movie.
Me: You still wouldn't believe me.
I remember it. It's the only scene of the movie that even stands out to me. Roger Ebert wrote about it in his movie review. You're wrong.
Her: You stink, Justin Matisse.
Me: This is why we're not together.
Her: Because you stink?
Me: Because you can never ever ever admit you're wrong.
About anything.
Ever.
Her: Oh for the love. . he doesn't pee on the wall.
Me: Even with written proof from one of the 3 most popular movie critics in the history of the world.
So what chance do I have in a regular argument?
None.
Her: Oh oh oh.
Wait.
Okay.
I'm wrong.
When Julian can't pee on the wall because they're in public, Adam Sandler does it to show him that it's no big deal.
You're right.
Me: Wow.
12/04/08
Let us commemorate this day.
Her: Goodnight, Bone.
Me: Or we can not commemorate it and say we did.
Hello?
"I hope them cigarettes are gonna make you cough. I hope you heard this song, and it pissed you off. I take that back, I hope you're doing fine. And if I had a dollar, I might give you ninety-nine..."
Showing posts with label ex-files. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ex-files. Show all posts
Sunday, December 07, 2008
Friday, August 04, 2006
The Ex-Files: Kara
I will be trekking over to the ATL this evening for my last remaining single cousin's wedding Saturday. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this third installment of the Ex-Files, a glimpse into Bone's vast yet mostly unsuccessful dating past...
At some point during the years of 1992 or 1993, I met Kara. It has been said that all great couples have an interesting, amusing, or uncommon story about how they met. Well, Kara and I were no different. Or, we were very different.
It was the custom of the day after the mall closed at 9 PM to ride around the parking lot and socialize. Looking for someone you knew or someone you wanted to know. And that's where the paths of our lives intersected.
She, and her friends, in her green Honda Accord. I, and my friends--my posse, entourage, if you will--in my friend's black 1990 Hyundai Excel hatchback. We pulled up beside each other, right in front of the Castner Knott. I could tell immediately this was someone who was going to be a big part of my life for a long time. Or at least four or five months.
OK, truth is, I couldn't really tell much about her at all. It was dark and we weren't directly under a street light. So we all agreed to meet up across the street inside the McDonald's. That's where I first saw her jet black hair, cute slightly-oversized nose, and... some-colored eyes (green, I think). I got her number, which seemed a whole lot easier to do then. And the rest, as they say, is a blog entry.
Three memories stand out more than others from my time with Kara. The first concerns the making out, the cornerstone of any strong relationship. She had an active tongue. She was an aggressive kisser, to the point that I had to be aggressive back, almost in self-defense, or fear being choked to death.
Don't get me wrong, it wasn't bad. I mean, it was making out, after all. But sometimes it seemed like she was checking around for a loose crown in there or something.
To prove it wasn't bad, one night as we were driving around in my burgundy 1989 Mustang she directed me to a place she referred to as Skyline. A place she described as a lookout point where people went to make out. Well, I couldn't imagine a better idea. Unless maybe we would be playing Sega after making out.
We drove down a road I'd never been before, crossed an intersection, and continued along the road, up a hill and thru some trees. We wound up in an empty parking lot next to a large building. Sure enough, down below the lights of the city could be seen. As could the buildings of the local mental facility. Nevertheless, we began.
Maybe ten minutes later those all-too-familiar blue lights began flashing behind us. The officer knocked on the window and asked me to step out of the car. Suffice it to say I never went back there again. Those are memories you can't replace.
The other thing I remember about Kara was that her mother really liked me. So much that after Kara and I weren't dating anymore, but still in touch from time-to-time, her mother would call me at work to chat. I didn't mind it. It was just different. The only time in my dating life anything like that happened.
I think her mother always wanted us to get back together. But we never did. I still remember where her parents lived. They still live there, to this day. I just googled it. I recommend googling at least one person per day, just to stay in practice.
It seems I went thru a phase where either the girls liked me and the mothers didn't, or vice versa. Then, of course, there was the time where neither the girl nor her mother liked me. That was fun.
But that's another story for another nostalgic edition of the Ex-Files. So until next time, uh, word to ya mother.
"Tomorrow we can drive around this town, and let the cops chase us around..."
At some point during the years of 1992 or 1993, I met Kara. It has been said that all great couples have an interesting, amusing, or uncommon story about how they met. Well, Kara and I were no different. Or, we were very different.
It was the custom of the day after the mall closed at 9 PM to ride around the parking lot and socialize. Looking for someone you knew or someone you wanted to know. And that's where the paths of our lives intersected.
She, and her friends, in her green Honda Accord. I, and my friends--my posse, entourage, if you will--in my friend's black 1990 Hyundai Excel hatchback. We pulled up beside each other, right in front of the Castner Knott. I could tell immediately this was someone who was going to be a big part of my life for a long time. Or at least four or five months.
OK, truth is, I couldn't really tell much about her at all. It was dark and we weren't directly under a street light. So we all agreed to meet up across the street inside the McDonald's. That's where I first saw her jet black hair, cute slightly-oversized nose, and... some-colored eyes (green, I think). I got her number, which seemed a whole lot easier to do then. And the rest, as they say, is a blog entry.
Three memories stand out more than others from my time with Kara. The first concerns the making out, the cornerstone of any strong relationship. She had an active tongue. She was an aggressive kisser, to the point that I had to be aggressive back, almost in self-defense, or fear being choked to death.
Don't get me wrong, it wasn't bad. I mean, it was making out, after all. But sometimes it seemed like she was checking around for a loose crown in there or something.
To prove it wasn't bad, one night as we were driving around in my burgundy 1989 Mustang she directed me to a place she referred to as Skyline. A place she described as a lookout point where people went to make out. Well, I couldn't imagine a better idea. Unless maybe we would be playing Sega after making out.
We drove down a road I'd never been before, crossed an intersection, and continued along the road, up a hill and thru some trees. We wound up in an empty parking lot next to a large building. Sure enough, down below the lights of the city could be seen. As could the buildings of the local mental facility. Nevertheless, we began.
Maybe ten minutes later those all-too-familiar blue lights began flashing behind us. The officer knocked on the window and asked me to step out of the car. Suffice it to say I never went back there again. Those are memories you can't replace.
The other thing I remember about Kara was that her mother really liked me. So much that after Kara and I weren't dating anymore, but still in touch from time-to-time, her mother would call me at work to chat. I didn't mind it. It was just different. The only time in my dating life anything like that happened.
I think her mother always wanted us to get back together. But we never did. I still remember where her parents lived. They still live there, to this day. I just googled it. I recommend googling at least one person per day, just to stay in practice.
It seems I went thru a phase where either the girls liked me and the mothers didn't, or vice versa. Then, of course, there was the time where neither the girl nor her mother liked me. That was fun.
But that's another story for another nostalgic edition of the Ex-Files. So until next time, uh, word to ya mother.
"Tomorrow we can drive around this town, and let the cops chase us around..."
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
The Ex-Files: Summer of '91
This post is the second in a series. For now, I'm keeping it to girls I dated for at least two months. Also known as, until the new wears off.
It was the Spring of 1991. My favorite sports teams were in the midst of an incredible hot streak. The Reds had just won the '90 World Series. The Bulls were on their way to winning the first of their six NBA titles. And my Crimson Tide and Dallas Cowboys would soon follow suit in football. Life was good. And about to get much better.
I was at the mall with a couple of friends. In the arcade. Or as I liked to call it back then, my office. That's where I met Shelly. She was with friends as well. And one of her friends, Christy, had evidently come into the arcade with the sole intention of finding and introducing herself to my friend Mark.
While Christy went looking for Mark, Shelly and I started talking. We invited the girls to play putt-putt that night after leaving the mall. And as we sat on the bench by the 18th hole, I asked for Shelly's number.
The next few months we talked. Dated. Made out. A lot. Hung out at the ball fields, which was the cool thing to do then. And when Christy broke up with Mark for one of his best friends, we kept dating.
Shelly was pretty. I always thought so. My friends approved. Which shouldn't matter, but does when you're 18. She was plain and simple. And I mean that in the best possible way. I liked that about her. She had big, dark eyes. And brownish-blonde hair. More blonde than brown.
I fell in love. For the first time in my life. Heels over head. It sounds trite. And you may not think it possible. But I was in love with that girl. As much as an 18-year-old boy can be anyway. She introduced me to Beverly Hills 90210. How could I not love that?
She lived way out in the country. I'm talking two miles out a one-lane dirt road. Many nights that summer were spent on her parents' couch. Or on the front porch swing, looking out at the stars, listening to the crickets. And occasionally seeing the one neighbor who lived past them on that dirt road driving by like the mailman on Funny Farm.
It's amazing how much I've forgotten. And a little sad. There was a trip to Opryland with her church group sometime late that summer. And one night I got overly excited while making out and bit her lip, causing it to swell up and turn purple for three days. Why couldn't that be one of the memories I forget.
We dated the whole summer. Then came the fall. I'm not sure why we broke up, unless it was the lip-biting incident. I remember her acting like something was wrong. And then handing me a letter when I came over one night. What is it with these girls and letters? It said something about getting too serious and being too young.
She had told me a few weeks earlier that her mother had been talking to her and was worried about us getting so serious. So I always figured it had something to do with that. Either way, I was crushed. Shelly was my first broken heart.
Songs that remind me of her include "Everything I Do" by Bryan Adams, "Good Vibrations" by Marky Mark (don't ask, cause I don't know), and "Then Again" by Alabama. It came on the radio as I drove home from her house that night. That was the first time I remember crying over a girl. Wouldn't be the last.
Nevertheless, when I think back to those days, I remember them with only fondness. And a smile. There was a sense of innocence in that summer, one that seems to get lost too often as we get older. It was young love. Pure, sweet, and simple. Just like her.
Thus went the summer of '91. Kinda like the summer of '42 without the sex. Or the older woman.
I ran into Shelly a few times after that summer. At ball games. At a concert. And most recently, at Wal-Mart two or three years ago, or more.
Not long after she got married, they tore Opryland down.
I loved that place.
"Oh how quick they slip away. Here today and gone tomorrow. Love and seasons never stay. Bitter winds are sure to follow..."
It was the Spring of 1991. My favorite sports teams were in the midst of an incredible hot streak. The Reds had just won the '90 World Series. The Bulls were on their way to winning the first of their six NBA titles. And my Crimson Tide and Dallas Cowboys would soon follow suit in football. Life was good. And about to get much better.
I was at the mall with a couple of friends. In the arcade. Or as I liked to call it back then, my office. That's where I met Shelly. She was with friends as well. And one of her friends, Christy, had evidently come into the arcade with the sole intention of finding and introducing herself to my friend Mark.
While Christy went looking for Mark, Shelly and I started talking. We invited the girls to play putt-putt that night after leaving the mall. And as we sat on the bench by the 18th hole, I asked for Shelly's number.
The next few months we talked. Dated. Made out. A lot. Hung out at the ball fields, which was the cool thing to do then. And when Christy broke up with Mark for one of his best friends, we kept dating.
Shelly was pretty. I always thought so. My friends approved. Which shouldn't matter, but does when you're 18. She was plain and simple. And I mean that in the best possible way. I liked that about her. She had big, dark eyes. And brownish-blonde hair. More blonde than brown.
I fell in love. For the first time in my life. Heels over head. It sounds trite. And you may not think it possible. But I was in love with that girl. As much as an 18-year-old boy can be anyway. She introduced me to Beverly Hills 90210. How could I not love that?
She lived way out in the country. I'm talking two miles out a one-lane dirt road. Many nights that summer were spent on her parents' couch. Or on the front porch swing, looking out at the stars, listening to the crickets. And occasionally seeing the one neighbor who lived past them on that dirt road driving by like the mailman on Funny Farm.
It's amazing how much I've forgotten. And a little sad. There was a trip to Opryland with her church group sometime late that summer. And one night I got overly excited while making out and bit her lip, causing it to swell up and turn purple for three days. Why couldn't that be one of the memories I forget.
We dated the whole summer. Then came the fall. I'm not sure why we broke up, unless it was the lip-biting incident. I remember her acting like something was wrong. And then handing me a letter when I came over one night. What is it with these girls and letters? It said something about getting too serious and being too young.
She had told me a few weeks earlier that her mother had been talking to her and was worried about us getting so serious. So I always figured it had something to do with that. Either way, I was crushed. Shelly was my first broken heart.
Songs that remind me of her include "Everything I Do" by Bryan Adams, "Good Vibrations" by Marky Mark (don't ask, cause I don't know), and "Then Again" by Alabama. It came on the radio as I drove home from her house that night. That was the first time I remember crying over a girl. Wouldn't be the last.
Nevertheless, when I think back to those days, I remember them with only fondness. And a smile. There was a sense of innocence in that summer, one that seems to get lost too often as we get older. It was young love. Pure, sweet, and simple. Just like her.
Thus went the summer of '91. Kinda like the summer of '42 without the sex. Or the older woman.
I ran into Shelly a few times after that summer. At ball games. At a concert. And most recently, at Wal-Mart two or three years ago, or more.
Not long after she got married, they tore Opryland down.
I loved that place.
"Oh how quick they slip away. Here today and gone tomorrow. Love and seasons never stay. Bitter winds are sure to follow..."
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
The Ex-Files: Rachel
Today we begin a new feature here on IYROOBTY, called The Ex-Files. In each of these posts, I will discuss a past relationship. This will, in turn, hopefully have a two-pronged effect on you, the reader. First, you will be entertained. And two, you will learn more about me, the man cowering behind the blog. But the best part of all is, none of these girls will be here to defend themselves. Giddy-up!
Close your eyes and journey back with me if you will... On second thought, you'll probably need to keep your eyes open--unless you have one of those cool computers which read aloud to you.
It is the spring of 1990 and I am in the eleventh grade. I come into class one day, and Ms. Dandridge, the voluptuous American History teacher was there. And... uh.... oh yes. And Lucy, one of my classmates, approaches me with a proposition. And a photo.
It seems that one of her fair-skinned, dark-haired friends had noticed yours truly around town and had been inquiring as to my situation and taste in women. Or, just my situation. A date was arranged and for the next six months or so, I would be in the throes of a relationship with one Rachel.
Rachel was a year older than me. She went to a neighboring high school and invited me to her senior prom. I had no idea about proms or pictures or anything. Actually, I've been to three proms and in several weddings, and to this day I'm still not sure what the purpose of a cummerbun is. Or how to spell it. But I went. And I think I will always remember how she looked that night.
She had an odd face, I remember. I honestly didn't recognize her on prom night. If she hadn't walked out of her parents house, I would never have known that was her. She had her hair done a way I never saw it again. And she never looked more beautiful than she did that night.
There were several oddities about our relationship. For one, prom night was the only night we ever hung out at her house. I normally wouldn't care, but at this time in my life, I wasn't knee deep in cash.
This was the same girl I would only ask out every other weekend, because I'd skip lunch at school and save up my lunch money for two weeks to be able to pay for our dates. So hanging out at home would have been nice. Especially since they had a pool table.
Most of our dates would consist of a movie and/or going out to eat. Then parking in front of an abandoned country store and making out until the last possible minute. And racing time to beat her curfew home. I remember one night she unbuttoned her shirt while we were making out.
Another oddity, I suppose, is that she would drive the majority of the time on our dates. This probably had a lot to do with the fact that she had a 1989 Camaro, and I had a 1984 Ford Escort with louvers on the back window.
She seemed to have control of the relationship for the most part. Maybe because she was older. Maybe because she was the first girl I ever really dated. I mean, I'd been on dates before, had girlfriends, made out in the 8th grade hall with the assistant principal's aide, but this... this was new.
We dated for six months, or seven, or eight. I don't remember exactly. Roughly from early spring until sometime in the fall of 1990. Rachel was also the first girl I brought over to have dinner with my parents.
As we didn't go out but once every two weeks, we spent lots of time on the phone. I remember her complaining several times that I never had anything to talk about. Although I'm sure I did, I suppose Nintendo and sports were not her favorite topics of conversation.
She complained so much, and I think maybe even threatened me, that I began making a list of things to talk about before I would call her each night. Pathetic, I know. But again, I was new at this relationship stuff.
So I would call her and just go down the list, one by one. I changed my oil this afternoon. Do you like that new song by Wilson Phillips? You won't believe what happened in Physics today. Do you want to go out again a week from this coming Friday?
Songs that remind me of her include "It Must Have Been Love" by Roxette, "She Ain't Worth It" by Glenn Medeiros and Bobby Brown, "So Alive" by Love and Rockets (I think), and "Here and Now" by Luther. Cheesy, yes. But at least I never made her a mix tape.
I don't remember the how and why we stopped dating. Maybe I ran out of things to talk about. I think I heard she liked someone else. Maybe she thought I didn't like her because I only asked her out every other week. I recall her mentioning it at least once, and I didn't want to tell her it was because I couldn't afford to.
I did tell her eventually, maybe after we stopped dating. I would describe her reaction upon hearing that as surprise with a tinge of guilt.
I asked a girl I worked with to the Homecoming game my senior year. We played Rachel's school. She called me and told me she had seen me at the game. Then I remember her coming by my house at some point and giving me a ten page letter she had written, and wanting to get back together. But I was over it.
As with most of my relationships, I mainly remember the good about Rachel and me. I grew and learned a lot from dating her. I gained confidence. And I'll always remember those nights parked under the stars. Steaming up the window. How good her lips tasted. And wishing time would stand still. Or at least slow down. But it never does.
When you're seventeen, you think of time in minutes and hours. Not months and years. When you're seventeen, parking is very good indeed.
"Sometimes I long for just one night of the way I felt back then. Ain't that just like a dream, it always ends..."
Close your eyes and journey back with me if you will... On second thought, you'll probably need to keep your eyes open--unless you have one of those cool computers which read aloud to you.
It is the spring of 1990 and I am in the eleventh grade. I come into class one day, and Ms. Dandridge, the voluptuous American History teacher was there. And... uh.... oh yes. And Lucy, one of my classmates, approaches me with a proposition. And a photo.
It seems that one of her fair-skinned, dark-haired friends had noticed yours truly around town and had been inquiring as to my situation and taste in women. Or, just my situation. A date was arranged and for the next six months or so, I would be in the throes of a relationship with one Rachel.
Rachel was a year older than me. She went to a neighboring high school and invited me to her senior prom. I had no idea about proms or pictures or anything. Actually, I've been to three proms and in several weddings, and to this day I'm still not sure what the purpose of a cummerbun is. Or how to spell it. But I went. And I think I will always remember how she looked that night.
She had an odd face, I remember. I honestly didn't recognize her on prom night. If she hadn't walked out of her parents house, I would never have known that was her. She had her hair done a way I never saw it again. And she never looked more beautiful than she did that night.
There were several oddities about our relationship. For one, prom night was the only night we ever hung out at her house. I normally wouldn't care, but at this time in my life, I wasn't knee deep in cash.
This was the same girl I would only ask out every other weekend, because I'd skip lunch at school and save up my lunch money for two weeks to be able to pay for our dates. So hanging out at home would have been nice. Especially since they had a pool table.
Most of our dates would consist of a movie and/or going out to eat. Then parking in front of an abandoned country store and making out until the last possible minute. And racing time to beat her curfew home. I remember one night she unbuttoned her shirt while we were making out.
Another oddity, I suppose, is that she would drive the majority of the time on our dates. This probably had a lot to do with the fact that she had a 1989 Camaro, and I had a 1984 Ford Escort with louvers on the back window.
She seemed to have control of the relationship for the most part. Maybe because she was older. Maybe because she was the first girl I ever really dated. I mean, I'd been on dates before, had girlfriends, made out in the 8th grade hall with the assistant principal's aide, but this... this was new.
We dated for six months, or seven, or eight. I don't remember exactly. Roughly from early spring until sometime in the fall of 1990. Rachel was also the first girl I brought over to have dinner with my parents.
As we didn't go out but once every two weeks, we spent lots of time on the phone. I remember her complaining several times that I never had anything to talk about. Although I'm sure I did, I suppose Nintendo and sports were not her favorite topics of conversation.
She complained so much, and I think maybe even threatened me, that I began making a list of things to talk about before I would call her each night. Pathetic, I know. But again, I was new at this relationship stuff.
So I would call her and just go down the list, one by one. I changed my oil this afternoon. Do you like that new song by Wilson Phillips? You won't believe what happened in Physics today. Do you want to go out again a week from this coming Friday?
Songs that remind me of her include "It Must Have Been Love" by Roxette, "She Ain't Worth It" by Glenn Medeiros and Bobby Brown, "So Alive" by Love and Rockets (I think), and "Here and Now" by Luther. Cheesy, yes. But at least I never made her a mix tape.
I don't remember the how and why we stopped dating. Maybe I ran out of things to talk about. I think I heard she liked someone else. Maybe she thought I didn't like her because I only asked her out every other week. I recall her mentioning it at least once, and I didn't want to tell her it was because I couldn't afford to.
I did tell her eventually, maybe after we stopped dating. I would describe her reaction upon hearing that as surprise with a tinge of guilt.
I asked a girl I worked with to the Homecoming game my senior year. We played Rachel's school. She called me and told me she had seen me at the game. Then I remember her coming by my house at some point and giving me a ten page letter she had written, and wanting to get back together. But I was over it.
As with most of my relationships, I mainly remember the good about Rachel and me. I grew and learned a lot from dating her. I gained confidence. And I'll always remember those nights parked under the stars. Steaming up the window. How good her lips tasted. And wishing time would stand still. Or at least slow down. But it never does.
When you're seventeen, you think of time in minutes and hours. Not months and years. When you're seventeen, parking is very good indeed.
"Sometimes I long for just one night of the way I felt back then. Ain't that just like a dream, it always ends..."
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
The "Ex" Files
Ah, our exes. What would we do without them? Some still love us. Some hate us. Some express their anger with colorful profanities and hand gestures hurled in our direction at every opportunity. Some disappear never to be heard from again. (I don't know anything about that.) And some pop up every few months or so like Bob Dole. Well, maybe not exactly like Bob Dole.
Anyway, it started last weekend. I was over at a friend's house on Saturday night when out of nowhere I got a text message from an ex-girlfriend. I hadn't spoken with her in about nine months. (The fact that this time period is roughly the same as the normal human gestation period is purely coincidental. I hope.)
I don't remember what the first couple of messages said. Just general small talk, I guess. Said she was having a bad week or something. Then it started. I kept the next four messages on my phone just for the purpose of blogging them. (Spelling has been corrected because, well, that's just what I do):
"Just know I love you with every fiber of my being, but I have faults."
Um, OK.
"You are who I love and want to spend forever with."
Um, have you been drinking? (I actually sent that to her.)
"In my heart there has never been anybody else that compares to you. Just know you are who I love."
Where is all this coming from? (That, too.)
"You are it for me. I have things to tell you. Just know it's always been you."
What the crap? I mean, seriously. Who says this? This isn't like, "You wanna go out to eat sometime?" And where is this coming from anyway? Is it some sort of pre-Valentine's Day loneliness thing? Why didn't she say all this when we dated?
And the thing is, I know that in all likelihood, this is a bad idea and would never work. But by this time, it's like a game of Space Invaders. I have my defenses up, but every text message she drops eats away a little bit more of my shield.
Fortunately, I am able to ward off the attack. I get like a text message a day for the next three or four days. Not responding to half of them. Then this past Saturday night, I get this message:
"I have cool whip..."
Again, what the crap? How completely random!
I respond with: "OK?"
Then I recieve: "Sorry. I thought you liked cool whip."
That was followed last night with "Is there anything I can do to get you back into my life?"
No... I don't think so.
I get yet another message this afternoon. To me, if you need to text more than two or three times, you might as well call. So I finally text her back and tell her I'm tired of texting, and that if she needs to talk she can call. After all, I do consider her a friend. And actually, I could totally hang out with her, but I know that she would want more. And I wouldn't.
But then I start to think. Someone baring their soul can sometimes do that to you. I start to re-evaluate everything. Maybe there's something I missed. Who feels this way about me. I'll be 33 years old in twelve days. Never been married. No kids. Maybe it could work...
No... No... It couldn't...
Anyway, that's the last I heard from her. She hasn't called. Which is probably good. My shield is almost completely gone. And I could be running out of quarters.
"And the tears come streaming down your face. When you lose something you can't replace. And you love someone but it goes to waste. Could it be worse?"
Anyway, it started last weekend. I was over at a friend's house on Saturday night when out of nowhere I got a text message from an ex-girlfriend. I hadn't spoken with her in about nine months. (The fact that this time period is roughly the same as the normal human gestation period is purely coincidental. I hope.)
I don't remember what the first couple of messages said. Just general small talk, I guess. Said she was having a bad week or something. Then it started. I kept the next four messages on my phone just for the purpose of blogging them. (Spelling has been corrected because, well, that's just what I do):
"Just know I love you with every fiber of my being, but I have faults."
Um, OK.
"You are who I love and want to spend forever with."
Um, have you been drinking? (I actually sent that to her.)
"In my heart there has never been anybody else that compares to you. Just know you are who I love."
Where is all this coming from? (That, too.)
"You are it for me. I have things to tell you. Just know it's always been you."
What the crap? I mean, seriously. Who says this? This isn't like, "You wanna go out to eat sometime?" And where is this coming from anyway? Is it some sort of pre-Valentine's Day loneliness thing? Why didn't she say all this when we dated?
And the thing is, I know that in all likelihood, this is a bad idea and would never work. But by this time, it's like a game of Space Invaders. I have my defenses up, but every text message she drops eats away a little bit more of my shield.
Fortunately, I am able to ward off the attack. I get like a text message a day for the next three or four days. Not responding to half of them. Then this past Saturday night, I get this message:
"I have cool whip..."
Again, what the crap? How completely random!
I respond with: "OK?"
Then I recieve: "Sorry. I thought you liked cool whip."
That was followed last night with "Is there anything I can do to get you back into my life?"
No... I don't think so.
I get yet another message this afternoon. To me, if you need to text more than two or three times, you might as well call. So I finally text her back and tell her I'm tired of texting, and that if she needs to talk she can call. After all, I do consider her a friend. And actually, I could totally hang out with her, but I know that she would want more. And I wouldn't.
But then I start to think. Someone baring their soul can sometimes do that to you. I start to re-evaluate everything. Maybe there's something I missed. Who feels this way about me. I'll be 33 years old in twelve days. Never been married. No kids. Maybe it could work...
No... No... It couldn't...
Anyway, that's the last I heard from her. She hasn't called. Which is probably good. My shield is almost completely gone. And I could be running out of quarters.
"And the tears come streaming down your face. When you lose something you can't replace. And you love someone but it goes to waste. Could it be worse?"
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