It’s been a long time since I’ve written anything.

And by anything, I MEAN anything. I turned into some psycho volleyball jock that only makes time for work outs, eating, open gym (for volleyball.) snuggle time with my boyfriend (which is so few and far between) and work.

A good friend Phoebe – I love you! – has called me several times with the intent of catching up and I am such a doucheface, assbag, that I have not returned her calls. By the way, that was my ass-backwards way of acknowledging that I totally know you exist and need to stop being a dickhead and call you back. I miss you.

Instead, I’ve been focusing on salvaging the relationship I have with a guy that I am ridiculously (yes, ridiculously) in love with, for reasons I can’t even explain – so I won’t. Which I somehow managed to self-sabotage, joint-salvage and now I’m dangling the pieces into tiny-thread-like webs of hope through my fingers. Meanwhile, I hope I have the spun skill set of love, loss and minimal regret that will keep me afloat, happy and content that he is still with me.

Pathetic, I know. Desperate, even. In the last month I’ve cried enough tears that I’ve finally hardened up where I don’t think he’ll be able to tell.

I preferred to be a mantis, honestly. I don’t know when the shift occurred. I’ve chewed through more men than I have wrigley’s. Guess it was just my turn. I must have forgotten to bite his head off after I fucked him for the first time. He was just too pretty.

And sweet. He’s the sweetest guy I know. Every ounce of shadow that has darkened him has come directly from me. I am ruining him – and for a while, the idea was thrilling, sexy. As the years went by, the thrill turned to guilt and I wondered if I would be good enough. Would he see through me and realize that there is a wholesome girl out there that will love him better than I ever could.

Ugh.

It’s been a long time since I’ve written anything.

And by anything, I MEAN anything. I turned into some psycho volleyball jock that only makes time for work outs, eating, open gym (for volleyball.) snuggle time with my boyfriend (which is so few and far between) and work.

A good friend Phoebe – I love you! – has called me several times with the intent of catching up and I am such a doucheface, assbag, that I have not returned her calls. By the way, that was my ass-backwards way of acknowledging that I totally know you exist and need to stop being a dickhead and call you back. I miss you.

Instead, I’ve been focusing on salvaging the relationship I have with a guy that I am ridiculously (yes, ridiculously) in love with, for reasons I can’t even explain – so I won’t. Which I somehow managed to self-sabotage, joint-salvage and now I’m dangling the pieces into tiny-thread-like webs of hope through my fingers. Meanwhile, I hope I have the spun skill set of love, loss and minimal regret that will keep me afloat, happy and content that he is still with me.

Pathetic, I know. Desperate, even. In the last month I’ve cried enough tears that I’ve finally hardened up where I don’t think he’ll be able to tell.

I preferred to be a mantis, honestly. I don’t know when the shift occurred. I’ve chewed through more men than I have wrigley’s. Guess it was just my turn. I must have forgotten to bite his head off after I fucked him for the first time. He was just too pretty.

And sweet. He’s the sweetest guy I know. Every ounce of shadow that has darkened him has come directly from me. I am ruining him – and for a while, the idea was thrilling, sexy. As the years went by, the thrill turned to guilt and I wondered if I would be good enough. Would he see through me and realize that there is a wholesome girl out there that will love him better than I ever could.

Ugh.