conclusive proof: boys and booze dont mix

last night, i went to a show. i must have taken a wrong turn in albuquerque and gone to a play, cause all i got was drama. admittedly, it was my fault; tipsy girls and the boys they want but cant have are never a good combination. it was the sort of night you knew was going to end badly, though even cynical me could have never predicted how badly it would end.

things with dewey decimal have never run smoothly. starting in november it went from dinners and movies and phone calls and emails to crickets. there was never a fight or a specific incident i can point to, but suddenly i was lucky if he returned a phone call and we averaged seeing each other more than once every six weeks. last night, i saw him on the street outside black cat. his band was playing and he asked if i was coming inside. mistake number one.

we talked and we talk-talked and then we left to talk some more at his house. the night ended in tears (mine) and with one of us making a spectacle out of themself (i'll let you guess which one...). sadly, this was not the ladylike type of crying which would qualify as delicate or dainty. nope. this was hysterical, sobbing, body-shaking, convulsive crying. this was a year of pent up anger, sadness, frustration and misguided hope coming out all at once with an unstoppable force.

after walking me out of his room, he turned and walked back into his apartment. its 2 am, and dewey has many times told me his neighborhood is marginal and cabs are scarce. does he offer to walk me through columbia heights to the metro, or help me flag a cab? no. he left me crying on his front stoop and went back to bed. my cabbie pitied me enough to offer me a cigarette and offer to come upstairs with me, because he "could make me feel better."

once home, i proceeded to call several people who had been involved in various parts of the night. apparently i left a message for a.h. where i was so distraught it lead her to believe i was the victim of or witness to a violent crime.

that said, heartbreak doesnt feel like i remember it. in place of the sharp pains of insecurity and unrequited adoration that plagued the last 9 months, im left feeling dull and empty.

thankfully, i have great friends. friends who call me worried at 5 a.m. telling me to call them at any hour. friends who bring me mcdonalds picnics complete with 4 different sundaes so i dont have to choose between caramel or chocolate. friends who bring me books since i cant go back to the library. friends who call to share exciting news about having something published or call to invite me to celebrate their "weekend of love" commemorating their first anniversary as a married couple, who switch immediately into support mode as soon as they hear my voice.

boys against girls

it seems that a few boys from the past have unionized, and on tuesday executed a coordinated attack of douchery and idiocity (yea, i made up a word. what?). it was unfortunate for many reasons not the least of which was a significant depletion of the available "men on reserve" stockpile. its the mormon in me; we like to stockpile a years supply. and lets face it, when the world ends and we're forced to live off of the canned peaches and homemade pickles, we're gonna also need some recreational activities to keep from going insane.

velveeta has in his head that i am some sort of vagina delivery service that makes house calls 24 hours a day. or more appropriately, who gets him off mentally so his girlfriend can get him off physically. i cannot stress strongly enough how very, very (very very very) wrong this assumption is. velveeta and i havent seen each other since october, and it was perhaps the first completely amicable and mutual faze-out, break-up in history. he started getting serious with someone just as things between dewey decimal and i were getting good which allowed for us both to quietly walk away with no awkward scene or conversation. i can safely say the relationship died a completely pain free and natural death. until tuesday that is, when he fell under the impression it could be revived as some sort of online flirtation/possible booty call. he resurrected it only so it could die a painful, sloppy death guaranteed to generate absolutely no goodwill whatsoever. how do you end something with a guy so submissive that you cant express to him what a selfish assface he is, without him getting aroused? it isnt easy folks. eventually diplomacy failed me entirely and i was forced to put the relationship out of its misery after a long and intense battle of wills (or rather my will v. his persistence). ultimately his passport to van nasty was revoked and his name added to the list of enemy combatants.

you would think that was the end, but due to fat fingers and a small keyboard, it wasnt. i sent my friend a message saying the cheeseman and i had had a fight and officially declared it asshole day. unfortunately, she lives next to him in my phone and i sent the message to him. thats right. i sent him a text message calling him velveeta. i tried to explain it away but, you know what, fuck it, maybe now he'll get the message.

from what i can tell, dewey decimal abstained from joining the union. he's never struck me as a "joiner" though my guess is he just didnt want to pay the dues. although who knows. maybe there is another, future attack planned and they're just trying to keep me on my toes.

that said, things are looking much better lately. my three year old niece has apparently named her in utero brother-to-be "cocky;" "fairytopia" if its a girl (naturally). not to mention diet coke plus was on sale at cvs for $.77 - is it my birthday and i forgot? or van nasty appreciation day? i dont know but its a sad state of affairs when an entire person can be replaced by the thirst quenching refreshment of a zero-calorie, vitamin fortified 20 oz bottle of caramel colored goodness.

p.s. sorry if that whole knocked up thing was a secret sis. but lets face, people are gonna start noticing eventually.

coincidence? i think not.

while googling velveeta,* i came across an amazon wish-list belonging to someone with his name. naturally, i clicked to see if it was his. the wish-list contained exactly one item: a book called "99 ways to tell a story," which illustrates the same one page comic 99 different ways. a book which probably only one person in america owns. and that person is dewey decimal; he showed it to me a week ago while we sat at ellas drinking beer and sharing cigarettes (none for me since i quit. and sharing doesnt count - i dont care what you say!) the day before i left for austin. while it turned out not to be my velveeta's list, it did turn out to belong to a man with the same name from austin texas.

* i know i should probably be more ashamed of having googled velveeta, but lets be honest, we all do it. if i know your first and last name, ive probably googled you. if weve ever gone on a date, ive definitely googled you. hell, what is myspace, facebook or friendster if not google for the ones-we-loved-who-got-away(or in my case, turned out to be gay); the ones-whose-last-name-we-doodled-on-our-trapper-keeper-in-6th-grade; the-ones-we-mildly-obsess-over-but-cant-tell-because-theyve-already-dated-our-friends; the-ones-who-emotionally-scarred-us-by-head-fucking (but never actually fucking)-us; and that-guy-from-craigslist-just-to-make-sure-he-isnt-really-in-prison?