I'm mad because you were an insensitive jerk for at least a YEAR, which was kind of a surprise because of the whole "Mr. Sensitive" thing you've usually got going on.SO ROMANTIC, I know.
Who am I kidding though? I'm in love with you and therefore willing to overlook pretty much anything, even if it makes me feel kind of horrible about myself, and I guess you might as well know that up front. I figure HEY, if we're gonna be in a relationship we might as well start off on the right foot.
So just to make sure we're clear, let's review: a) you had feelings for me for a while, but weren't sure whether or not you could actually bring yourself to date me, b) you'll leave me as soon as I gain five pounds, and c) I'm a lot more ok with all of that than I really ought to be.
So, to sum up, I probably shouldn't want to be with you, but I do anyway because I'm a junkie and you are my crack.
I would say I'm being too hard on him, except for the whole making out with Teresa right in front of me thing. The other stuff I can write off, but that one ticks me off.
I'm pretty sure our actual conversation, whenever we end up actually having it, will involve a lot less talking and a lot more making out. (What can I say, I play to my strengths.) (Also, I'm a dork, because despite everything written above, I'm totally internally squeeing over the fact that I probably get to kiss him again.)
It's good that he hasn't seen me lately, because I've been stress eating pounds and pounds of cookies for the last week and the level of chipmunk in my cheeks right now is off the charts. I ought to be more careful. I only have about a five pound window to work with before Seth decides I'm undatable all over again.
Huh. That sounds a little bitter when I write it out like that.
Here, let me balance it all out by telling you the other part of it - the part where I've been sitting around doing almost nothing but indulging in every romantic fantasy I've ever had about him and then saying to myself after each one, "Self? That COULD ACTUALLY HAPPEN now." And then with the internal squeeing and carrying on and having to make myself get a grip all over again. My IPOD is stuck on a permanent repeat of the Love Songs playlist.
He came by on Sunday when I didn't show up to church. I stayed at home in my pajamas, preferring to sit in my room and listen to music and PRETEND we were together, instead of actually doing something to make that happen and then having to deal with the consequences. Reality is highly overrated.
I didn't take the chain off the door, just stood there looking out at him through the crack, which he seemed to find somewhat amusing.
"You know I could just walk around to the back, right?"
"It's never locked." He's right. We always forget to lock it. I could probably race him back there though. I could probably get it locked before he got to it if I ran really fast. Luckily he decides not to try it.
"I just wanted to make sure you're o.k. You sick or something?"
I fake cough. "Very sick. Very contagious. You really shouldn't be around me."
He rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I can see you're at death's door. Let me in, I'll make you soup."
"I hate soup."
"Noodles then. I'll make you noodles."
I consider it for a minute, then remember my lack of make-up, messy ponytail and morning breath which is transitioning over to afternoon-morning breath, an almost deadly vapor requiring a good fifteen minute brush-and-floss combo, and I decide not to let him in. "Come back tomorrow."
He looks disappointed, but leaves after making me promise to talk to him THIS WEEK, WITHOUT FAIL.
I watch him go, congratulating myself on being strong enough to resist letting him in when he's wearing a suit and looking like the GQ version of himself. I'm really quite impressed with myself.
There's more to tell but my boss is giving me the evil eye and I need to sign off. Dang these people, expecting me to actually work when I'm on their dime. BOO.