Come on life, I’m not asking a lot of you. I’ll even forgo good hair days for a week if you’ll strike up a deal with me. I think I’m pretty low maintenance as far as humans go (and if you lived in Orange County these days, you would know what an impressive statement that is), which is why I’m making a request to the universe. An open letter to fate, if you will.
So tonight Mr. Pretty and I were supposed to meet up. To cut this story short, I did that thing that single girls do on St. Patrick’s day, or any drinking holiday. I got drunk, we got separated, and so I showed up crying. When I mean crying, I mean that point where you can’t distinguish phlegm from tear from drool and this weird cocktail of fluid has wiped of all your makeup, but left long war-like marks of black from your forehead to chin. He, rightfully, was concerned, but we didnt’ talk about what had me so devastated because a: I couldn’t form words, b: when I did they were irrelevant and c: I think I fell asleep shortly after my unannounced arrival. He was worried, and his worry I think translated into irritation that I couldn’t tell him what was wrong. Later that day, he left for the weekend… and shit got weird. er.
So fine, he left. I went out, did my “I just got a tan” thing and drank with my girlfriends while we pretended to be slightly more fabulous than we really are. He admitted though that he wanted to talk about all this… No, no, he didn’t say he wanted to talk like it was a break up…. I’ve never been broken up with though, so I wouldn’t know how to tell if it was coming… but Mr. Pretty was, admittedly, being weird. Anyway- we set up the “talk” for tonight. After work. At 6:45 he tells me he can’t make it, long night. I move it to Thursday thinking that (today being Monday) he’d be indignant at waiting so long to see my beautiful face and discussing whatever is so important!
Um, okay, Mr. Pretty and fate let’s get something straight here lest I forget and begin to wallow again. I am a catch, as stated somewhere else on this long-winded blog. You, you are insane. You have funny hair and you are quite moody and actually, have more baggage than most single-mothers I have had the misfortune of dealing with. Further— you are bad at responding to BBM’s which is more irritating that I ever thought possible. But, Mr. Pretty, I like you… You are part of one of the most exclusive clubs I know of and you are so quick to relinquish your membership. I’d like to say you’ll regret this, but part of me wonders if this is all just as simple as the chase.
Regardless- why his change of heart? Why did he go from wanting to have serious conversations that probed my history to not responding to texts? Don’t worry, these are rhetorical… I have an improptu drive to Vegas tomorrow during which I’m fairly sure I’ll think of nothing else.