| ||||||||||||
| ||||||||||||
|
5 years ago
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Beautiful! The searches that have led people to my blog.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
The Way The Cookie Crumbles
DATA
Employed: Working a secretarial gig at the management office of a property rental company in downtown Minneapolis with four crass, lovely women, ranging in ages from 26 to 60-something. F-bombs drop like crazy, and laughter is a constant. We have fun. It is through the temp agency, but it seems a foregone conclusion that they will hire me on full time. It is a good fit all around. The building is small, and used to be where coal was housed for the original properties on the lot, which were built in the late 19th century. I work 9:30-6, which is ideal. I'm a mere ten minutes away from home by car, probably less by bike once the weather warms. It's decent enough money to continue to get my shit together financially, while also being a stable environment wherein I can continue to get my shit together in all other areas.
In love: With a man who says he's falling in love/has fallen in love (that distinction was not clarified) with someone else. A someone else, who is, predictably, "everything I'm not", who is "sweet" (why does that word rub me so the wrong way, as if, in this kind of conversation, it's very meaning is geared to rub me the wrong way? Perhaps because that's its very design.), and who he can speak with on matters of art and music and literature without my platform of insecurity. An insecurity, mind you, that he brought about in me by treating each thing he wished to discuss like I had nothing to bring to the table. He says, now, that he realises he does want a wife and kids one day, a notion that he insisted was not even imaginable while he and I were together. All of this, despite his insistence that he's "over me" seems a fairly deeply subconscious psychological effort to stick it to me, which makes no sense, since I know, in my bones, in my heart of hearts, that the one thing he's wholly honest in every way about is that he loved/loves me less than I ever loved him. Why, then, does he feel the need for such a brittle distance, if my not being in his life leaves him so happy?
I can't help but believe there's still an us in the far-flung future. I'm a chronic romantic, you can't beat any sense into me there.
Dating: A fair amount. All of it dull. Even the ones who spark something in me initially turn out boring or flaky and while a different, more chaotic me would have welcomed the flaky if the flake himself were hot enough, this Sarah just cannot give less of a fig about you if you're not going to treat me right. I won't do half-assed any more.
Fucking: Getting none of that whatsoever. The last person I slept with was Andy, in October. Had a taste of the makeout flavour on Friday, and it was so hot I cried (being aroused, well, sometimes, I shed a tear or two it can be so intense), but I'm quickly losing faith that this will end in sexual intercourse for all the prickliness of the man it happened with. He's got no room in his life for anyone but himself and his dog. Which we knew already four months ago when we first did this pretty immediately post-Andy. Our attraction to one another is hella strong, but he won't even budge enough to give me a casual dating scenario, once, twice a week. You're 26, honey. Stop acting like you're 40 and have been living the bachelor life for two decades. Let someone in. Get laid. Have a laugh or two. Snuggle.
I promise it'll be okay.
Pets: I have four cats. I took in two baby kitties and they're...sickly. One just spewed a LOT of pus from his useless, cataracted eye this morning, and, well, it seems to be for the best, his eye looks a lot better now and he's acting fine. I really, really need to get them well and find a home for them. Unfortunately, I don't have the money to get them to a vet to expedite this process. But, as my dear friend Leland said the other day, "You've done right by them". I fret because people tsk tsk at me when I say I can't take them to a vet. I can't. They're not dying. They're happy, they are living super fun lives, and despite their fucked up eyes and the day they shat out worms all over my apartment, I'm taking care of them the best I can, on the cheap. If I hadn't taken them in from my parents' place, they'd surely be dead by now. Coyote food. Instead, they sleep, they play, and they are as loved as the best loved kitties in the whole world.
Peace out.
Employed: Working a secretarial gig at the management office of a property rental company in downtown Minneapolis with four crass, lovely women, ranging in ages from 26 to 60-something. F-bombs drop like crazy, and laughter is a constant. We have fun. It is through the temp agency, but it seems a foregone conclusion that they will hire me on full time. It is a good fit all around. The building is small, and used to be where coal was housed for the original properties on the lot, which were built in the late 19th century. I work 9:30-6, which is ideal. I'm a mere ten minutes away from home by car, probably less by bike once the weather warms. It's decent enough money to continue to get my shit together financially, while also being a stable environment wherein I can continue to get my shit together in all other areas.
In love: With a man who says he's falling in love/has fallen in love (that distinction was not clarified) with someone else. A someone else, who is, predictably, "everything I'm not", who is "sweet" (why does that word rub me so the wrong way, as if, in this kind of conversation, it's very meaning is geared to rub me the wrong way? Perhaps because that's its very design.), and who he can speak with on matters of art and music and literature without my platform of insecurity. An insecurity, mind you, that he brought about in me by treating each thing he wished to discuss like I had nothing to bring to the table. He says, now, that he realises he does want a wife and kids one day, a notion that he insisted was not even imaginable while he and I were together. All of this, despite his insistence that he's "over me" seems a fairly deeply subconscious psychological effort to stick it to me, which makes no sense, since I know, in my bones, in my heart of hearts, that the one thing he's wholly honest in every way about is that he loved/loves me less than I ever loved him. Why, then, does he feel the need for such a brittle distance, if my not being in his life leaves him so happy?
I can't help but believe there's still an us in the far-flung future. I'm a chronic romantic, you can't beat any sense into me there.
Dating: A fair amount. All of it dull. Even the ones who spark something in me initially turn out boring or flaky and while a different, more chaotic me would have welcomed the flaky if the flake himself were hot enough, this Sarah just cannot give less of a fig about you if you're not going to treat me right. I won't do half-assed any more.
Fucking: Getting none of that whatsoever. The last person I slept with was Andy, in October. Had a taste of the makeout flavour on Friday, and it was so hot I cried (being aroused, well, sometimes, I shed a tear or two it can be so intense), but I'm quickly losing faith that this will end in sexual intercourse for all the prickliness of the man it happened with. He's got no room in his life for anyone but himself and his dog. Which we knew already four months ago when we first did this pretty immediately post-Andy. Our attraction to one another is hella strong, but he won't even budge enough to give me a casual dating scenario, once, twice a week. You're 26, honey. Stop acting like you're 40 and have been living the bachelor life for two decades. Let someone in. Get laid. Have a laugh or two. Snuggle.
I promise it'll be okay.
Pets: I have four cats. I took in two baby kitties and they're...sickly. One just spewed a LOT of pus from his useless, cataracted eye this morning, and, well, it seems to be for the best, his eye looks a lot better now and he's acting fine. I really, really need to get them well and find a home for them. Unfortunately, I don't have the money to get them to a vet to expedite this process. But, as my dear friend Leland said the other day, "You've done right by them". I fret because people tsk tsk at me when I say I can't take them to a vet. I can't. They're not dying. They're happy, they are living super fun lives, and despite their fucked up eyes and the day they shat out worms all over my apartment, I'm taking care of them the best I can, on the cheap. If I hadn't taken them in from my parents' place, they'd surely be dead by now. Coyote food. Instead, they sleep, they play, and they are as loved as the best loved kitties in the whole world.
Peace out.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
