<?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?><?xml-stylesheet href="http://www.blogger.com/styles/atom.css" type="text/css"?><feed xmlns='http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom' xmlns:openSearch='http://a9.com/-/spec/opensearchrss/1.0/' xmlns:georss='http://www.georss.org/georss' xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003</id><updated>2011-04-21T14:27:22.368-06:00</updated><title type='text'>♥ My Super Hopeless Romance ♥</title><subtitle type='html'>Hopeless.  Doomed.  Idiotic.  Nice to Meet Ya.</subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><generator version='7.00' uri='http://www.blogger.com'>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>67</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-7740367583561828086</id><published>2008-12-09T01:32:00.007-07:00</published><updated>2008-12-11T03:51:03.796-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Oh look, I have a blog...</title><content type='html'>Well gee, the poll sure clarified things.  (NOT.)   Fifty-two percent to forty-seven percent.  Not exactly a clear winner there.  But thanks for doing it anyway.  At least now my sister can't keep telling me, "It's SO OBVIOUS Cordy."  Because clearly it's not.  SO THERE.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There's a lot to catch you up on.  I'm going to start posting about it again tomorrow night, I SWEAR.    And just for kicks, comments are open (moderated, but open).&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-7740367583561828086?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/7740367583561828086'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/7740367583561828086'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/12/oh-look-i-have-blog.html' title='Oh look, I have a blog...'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-6209476525680385383</id><published>2008-12-06T01:15:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-12-07T01:55:43.245-07:00</updated><title type='text'>A little favor?</title><content type='html'>I'm so sorry I haven't posted for a bit...   I went out of town for a week -  went to Colorado with my family to visit my grandparents and things have been totally nutty.  Life has just been really crazy.  I promise, promise, promise to give you a real post asap.  There's just so much to tell that it's hard to know where to start.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In the meantime, can I ask you guys a favor?  I made this bet with my sister.  (I told her about the blog, which was a little humiliating.  She thinks I'm totally insane and twelve kinds of lame for having a blog like this.  It's part of the reason I haven't been posting - it makes me all self conscious knowing she's reading it.  But I'm getting over it.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Anyway, I know who &lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;I &lt;/span&gt;want to be with, but after reading everything I've written my sister has her own ideas. She keeps saying stuff like, "You know how you can be so close to something that you almost can't see it anymore? That's you."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;She bet me that if I put up a poll, most of you would agree with her.  I'm not going to tell you who she's siding with.  It might not be who you think it is.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It's not like it matters, it's not going to change what I'm doing or how I feel, but - I kind of want to win the bet.  So - vote away.  (I don't really know if there's anyone still around and reading the blog, I've neglected it for so long that a lot of you have probably stopped checking for updates - but if you are reading and you have a second, could you pop on over and vote?)  Thanks guys.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-6209476525680385383?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/6209476525680385383'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/6209476525680385383'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/12/little-favor.html' title='A little favor?'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-8960359010597934155</id><published>2008-11-25T13:10:00.009-07:00</published><updated>2008-11-25T18:27:47.579-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Last Tuesday</title><content type='html'>Last Tuesday my sister sat me down and read me the riot act.  &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Blah blah blah&lt;/span&gt; emotionally stunted &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;blah blah&lt;/span&gt; just talk to him already &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;blah blah blah&lt;/span&gt; start acting like a grown up &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;blah blah BLAH.   &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;I tried to explain that I'm perfectly capable of having adult conversations about my feelings - just  - not with Seth.  It actually makes perfect sense if you think about it.  I spent years training myself to hide my feelings.  The fact that I failed miserably and everyone this side of the Pacific was totally aware of how I felt is irrelevant  (really, really embarrassing - but irrelevant). My brain is wired to react only one way when Seth's around.  "&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Oh, look, a feeling - hide it, HIDE IT, HIDE&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;IT&lt;/span&gt;!"  I'm not emotionally stunted exactly - just well trained.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;She ignored all of my perfectly good rationalizations, and told me I was getting in the way of my own happiness.   I could apply all the stupid analogies I wanted, but they wouldn't keep me warm at night.  Nice.  (This is why Thanksgiving is going to be SO MUCH FUN.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;That night he caught me on googlechat.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;S:  You can't avoid me forever.&lt;br /&gt;C:  Who says?&lt;br /&gt;S:  If you really wanted me to leave you alone you wouldn't be online.&lt;br /&gt;S:  You miss me, I can tell.&lt;br /&gt;C:  You're so conceited.&lt;br /&gt;C: Maybe I'm chatting with other guys.&lt;br /&gt;C: Maybe I'm having a hot online affair.&lt;br /&gt;S:  Are you?&lt;br /&gt;C: Well.&lt;br /&gt;C:  No.  Not right this minute.&lt;br /&gt;S: I knew it.&lt;br /&gt;S: Get dressed, I'm coming over.&lt;br /&gt;C: It's almost eleven.&lt;br /&gt;S:  Come on, it's practically my birthday.&lt;br /&gt;C:  Your birthday's not till November 30th.&lt;br /&gt;S: It's right around the corner.&lt;br /&gt;C: Maybe another night.&lt;br /&gt;S:  You're replaying it all in your head, aren't you&lt;br /&gt;C: What?&lt;br /&gt;S:  All the times I pretended I didn't know.&lt;br /&gt;S:  All the times I flirted with some random girl.&lt;br /&gt;C: All the times you made out with someone right in front of me.&lt;br /&gt;C: Oops.  Sorry, that just slipped out.&lt;br /&gt;S:  I know you're mad.  I get it.&lt;br /&gt;C:  I'm not mad.  It just feels so complicated.&lt;br /&gt;S: It doesn't need to be.&lt;br /&gt;S: We could start over, square one.&lt;br /&gt;S: Pretend you don't like me.&lt;br /&gt;S:  Pretend I don't like you, or think about you all the time, or want to be with you.&lt;br /&gt;S:  None of that.&lt;br /&gt;S: We'll just hang out, see what happens.&lt;br /&gt;C: That - that could work.&lt;br /&gt;S:  So I'll come over tonight?&lt;br /&gt;C:  Tomorrow.&lt;br /&gt;S:  Right, tomorrow.  8:00.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And he did.  But I'll have to tell you about that later.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-8960359010597934155?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/8960359010597934155'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/8960359010597934155'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/11/last-tuesday.html' title='Last Tuesday'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-3563810891899098322</id><published>2008-11-20T12:44:00.007-07:00</published><updated>2008-11-20T16:36:43.061-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Oh, Chris...</title><content type='html'>I guess I should tell you things with an eye toward chronological order, huh?  (Stupid time, with it's stupid requirement that things be done in order.)  That means I should just get it over with already and write about Chris.  I've been putting it off, because thinking about it makes me unhappy.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Last Friday night I talked to him.   I told him how much I cared about him (because I do), and how sorry I was (because I am), but I felt like I had to give it a chance with Seth or I would always wonder and regret it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It was horrible.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'd give you the play-by-play, but trust me, you don't really want to read it.  He was hurt.  He kept looking out the window and shaking his head with this utterly dejected expression on his face.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We sat there for a long time, only sporadically talking.  After a while he started kidding around, mostly to save face I think.  He was making sort of bitter jokes about how I keep trying to move us back into the friends zone but never manage to actually keep things there, because of the whole can't-resist-him thing.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I think he knows things are different now though - because of Seth.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I got out and stood next to his truck for a minute, trying to think of something to say.    I wanted to say something perfect that would make it all better -  make him smile, let him know how much I care, but still ensure he knew it was over.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So basically I was looking for MAGIC words.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He looked so frustrated.  He said, "I know you've liked him for a long time.  Him finally coming around - it probably feels like a dream come true to you, doesn't it."  It wasn't a question.  He let out a cheerless little half laugh. "That's the part I don't get.  How overlooking you for so long wins him points.  How he makes that work out in his favor."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I didn't know what to say that wouldn't make it worse, so I didn't say anything,  just stood there feeling miserable and cold.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He put the truck into gear and I backed up, assuming we were done.  He took a parting shot though, and made it count.  "Don't you want to be with someone who gets it?  Who doesn't take five years to figure out they want you?  Who meets you and says - &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;HER&lt;/span&gt; -  that's the girl."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It was so heartfelt - for a minute I wanted to get back into the truck and tell him to forget what I'd said earlier, but I just mumbled, "But don't &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;you&lt;/span&gt; want that too?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He rubbed his forehead for a minute, then said, "You're probably right.  See you around, Cordy," and he drove off.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;You know, it would be really great if I could just split myself in half. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Bloody, but great.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-3563810891899098322?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/3563810891899098322'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/3563810891899098322'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/11/oh-chris.html' title='Oh, Chris...'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-6143875651611361847</id><published>2008-11-19T12:00:00.016-07:00</published><updated>2008-11-19T18:43:15.496-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Where did I put those cookies, anyway?</title><content type='html'>I didn't talk to Seth very much last week, because I wasn't really sure what to say.  I'm thinking something like this, but SLIGHTLY more subtle:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;blockquote&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/blockquote&gt;SO ROMANTIC, I know.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Huh.  That sounds a little bitter when I write it out like that.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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. &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"You know I could just walk around to the back, right?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"It's locked."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;"I just wanted to make sure you're o.k.  You sick or something?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I fake cough.  "Very sick.  Very contagious.  You really shouldn't be around me."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He rolls his eyes.  "Yeah, I can see you're at death's door.  Let me in, I'll make you soup."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I hate soup."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Noodles then.  I'll make you noodles."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He looks disappointed, but leaves after making me promise to talk to him THIS WEEK, WITHOUT FAIL.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-6143875651611361847?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/6143875651611361847'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/6143875651611361847'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/11/where-did-i-put-those-cookies-anyway.html' title='Where did I put those cookies, anyway?'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-9046344954364422814</id><published>2008-11-17T10:31:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2008-11-18T02:21:44.403-07:00</updated><title type='text'>My priorities are clearly all messed up...</title><content type='html'>I've been so busy living my life that I haven't had any time to WRITE about it. CRAZY.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm posting tonight, I SWEAR. :)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;PS:  Um.  Did I say tonight?  Um.  Oops.  Clearly, I meant to say Tuesday.  Yeah.  That's it.  Tuesday.  My bad.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-9046344954364422814?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/9046344954364422814'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/9046344954364422814'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/11/my-priorities-are-clearly-all-messed-up.html' title='My priorities are clearly all messed up...'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-2638818810295827820</id><published>2008-11-13T10:41:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-11-13T12:46:50.121-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Oy.</title><content type='html'>It's really hard to have your heart at war with your brain and your need for some modicum  of self-respect. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I think I read his email approximately sixteen hundred times that morning before church. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The abject cruelty of his behavior - the fact that he'd had no problem letting me cry myself to sleep over and over again while he rubbed his relationships with other girls in my face - gave me serious pause. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Like fifteen seconds of pause, but still. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I want this to be the part where I'm strong and stand up for myself, and say, "It's not OK that you treated me like that.  I have serious doubts about your character."  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(Hint:  This is not that part.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It turns out that when you've been overdosing on a crush for years and years, the idea of a relationship with said crush object finally becoming an actual POSSIBILITY totally overwhelms the logical part of your brain with fizzy pink bubbles of carbonated sap.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Because it's what I've wanted for so long, with every part of my heart. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(I mean he basically said I'm the ONE. The ONE!  &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;Come on.  I'm supposed to resist that?  Really?  How?)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(No, seriously - how??!)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I went to church right after getting that email, my mind mostly blown, and I sat with Chris.  Seth came up and sat on the other side of me.  I couldn't even look at him, because I knew if I did I'd  probably have some kind of seizure. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I could feel him looking at me the whole time. I kept a death grip on Chris' hand.  I thought maybe it would give me a little immunity against Seth, who was doing his best to use the power of his magical puppy eyes to break through my force-field of feigned irritation. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It was kinda symbolic - sitting there between the guy I trust, but don't really love, and the guy I love but don't really trust anymore.  Symbolic and also incredibly stressful. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I had Chris take me home after the first hour, claiming to be nauseous (TRUE).  He dropped me off, clueless about what was going on, then went back for his other meetings.  I sat there in the living room totally on edge, waiting for Seth to get there.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He showed up ten minutes later.  I opened the door and he was standing there looking upset but hopeful.  We both stood there for a minute and then flew at each other.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Um...  Wow.  Without a doubt the most amazing, passionate kiss I've ever had in my entire life, ever.  Ever ever ever.  EVER.  In fact, I had to pull myself away after a minute or two because it was getting totally out of hand.  Embarrassingly, I may have whispered &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;holy crap&lt;/span&gt; a couple of times mid-makeout, I can't exactly remember.  (Although it &lt;span style="font-style:italic;"&gt;does&lt;/span&gt; explain why he started laughing.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;After he stopped laughing, there were a few small kisses, then we disentangled.  He started to say something, but I cut him off.  I told him to sit down and be quiet, so I could finally say my piece. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There was a slightly humiliating ten minute period where I was having some kind of vocal chord problem - I kept trying to make words form, but they wouldn't. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'd say, "OK, so - "  and then I'd cry into my hands for a minute, tell him to shut up when he started to say something, calm myself down, and then start the process all over again.  And again.  And again. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But I had to at least try to talk to him, to make him understand that even though I was obviously head over heels for him, I was still really hurt and angry. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Because I DO remember that day at Brighton - when he leaned in like he was going to kiss me, then had second thoughts and retreated.  And I remember how he spent the rest of the day flirting with some random ski bunny he met on the lift, and how awful it made me feel to realize I would never be the kind of girl he wanted.   I remember going home depressed, thinking about how much it hurt, but excusing his behavior because how could I hold it against him when he had no idea?  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Except he did.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;All in all, probably not the best choice of romantic moments to include in his email.  Even if the words near the end made me all swoony.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I wanted to say all of that, but I couldn't get the words out.  He was looking at me like he thought my tears were adorable and sweet, and suddenly I got really mad.  Because pain isn't adorable.  It isn't cute.  It wasn't o.k.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I surprised myself by telling him to leave.  "I think you should go."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He looked as shocked to hear it as I was to have said it.  "What?  Why?!"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I don't know."  Always with the stupid tears. "Maybe I need a few days.  Or maybe I just want to mess with your head until you know what it feels like to hurt the way I did."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He didn't want to go - he wanted to stay and talk it out, but I told him I couldn't do it, not right then. I watched him leave, mopey and hurt, and I had to fight against the raging impulse to call him back inside. "Just kidding!  Ha ha ha ha ha - aren't I hilarious? With the sending you away?  And the acting like I'm mad? Ha! Ha ha ha! So funny!" &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But I didn't.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We've barely talked all week, other than random texts and comments on FB.  We were talking about going to lunch on Monday, but I bailed.  I couldn't do it.   &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Obviously I'm not going to Georgia.  I was so flattered I wasn't thinking straight.  Clearly, I'm not ready for that. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I think I need a romantic detox.  I need to step away from both of them, and let all of the romantic carbonation drain out of my brain so that I can think clearly.   If I have any functioning brain cells left.  I'm a little afraid that thousands of them have died over the last few months, starved for oxygen because the pink ones were pushing them around. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I just wish I'd kissed him a few more times before I sent him on his way.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Because when I'm a spinster, I'll probably need those memories to keep me warm at night.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-2638818810295827820?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/2638818810295827820'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/2638818810295827820'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/11/oy.html' title='Oy.'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-16335203613175737</id><published>2008-11-11T00:10:00.013-07:00</published><updated>2008-11-11T02:14:04.659-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Sunday morning email from Seth</title><content type='html'>Cordy,&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I got your email.  You're right.  I'm a jerk.  I know you don't think I get it, but I do.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don’t have your gift with words, so I’ll just try to say this as simply as I can.  I’m so sorry.  I realized after I left last night how stupid I was being, trying to defend myself against what probably feels to you like a total betrayal.  Because you don' t know how I feel.  All you know are the countless ways I've hurt you.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I know I’ve handled things badly – not just with Teresa, but over and over again, for the last two years.   The only thing I can say in my defense is that I’ve been confused all year long – not knowing how to act, or what to say, or what to feel.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Remember back in February, when we went snowboarding up at Brighton?  The weekend that Dave and Sarah bailed?  It was the best day, and you made some little comment about wanting to marry someone who you could board with, and it hit me like the proverbial ton of bricks.  How was I ever gonna have a life that didn’t include you?  I mean logically I’ve known that forever – that it would have to end at some point – but it hadn’t really hit home.  You looked so cute, with your hair in two braids under your hat, all sunburned and happy and in the best mood, making me laugh so hard I almost fell off the lift, and I felt this huge wave of affection for you.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I almost kissed you.  If I know you at all, you remember it.  But I snapped out of it just in time, remembering all of the reasons why I couldn’t act on random feelings. Because how devastated would you be if I started randomly flirting with you and then didn’t follow through?  I couldn’t act like I’d act with any other girl I was testing the waters with. It was impossible to do anything.  So I did nothing.  Because I wasn’t sure what I felt and I couldn't afford to screw up our friendship.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I put it in the back of my mind, but it seemed to keep happening – all of these random moments where I’d realize all over again that eventually I’d have to say goodbye to you, and I couldn’t picture it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I know when I was dating Teresa I was all over the map – that’s partly because I really did like her, but I was also confused about you.  I couldn’t keep my head on straight for more than ten minutes at a time.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I’m so sorry about that night at your house when I kissed Teresa in front of you.  I don’t know what I was thinking.  There’s no excuse for it.  But that night?  Seeing the look on your face and realizing how it made me feel literally sick inside to know I'd hurt you like that – I knew there was no point even trying to pretend like there would ever be anyone else for me but you.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The last few months, you’ve gotten more and more adorable every day, and it got harder and harder to handle what I was feeling.  Because then it wasn’t just – how can I function without her in my life – but it was also – wanting to be with you so badly it hurt.   Realizing I was in so far over my head that there was no way back out of it.  I would’ve kissed you on Tuesday, but I didn’t want Chris’ sister to walk in on us.  You have NO IDEA how much I regret not doing it anyway.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I came over on Friday, saw you with Chris, and I wanted to kill him – rip him limb from limb.  I can’t handle it.  Now I know how you must’ve felt when you saw me with Teresa, and I hate myself for it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I know you said you didn't want me to contact you for a while - but I wanted you to know the whole story before you decide whether or not you can forgive me.  I’m not asking you to give me a chance, or to stop seeing him.  (Even though I wish you would.  Especially the "stop seeing him" part.)  I know I’m a jerk.  I know how much I’ve hurt you.  If you can’t forgive me, I get it.  I’m not expecting anything. The most I'm hoping for at this point is that you'll still let me be a part of your life as a friend.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I’d rather save the big words for a later date, on the off-chance that you’ll give me another shot someday, so for now, I’ll just end with…&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Love,&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Seth&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-16335203613175737?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/16335203613175737'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/16335203613175737'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/11/sunday-morning-email-from-seth.html' title='Sunday morning email from Seth'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-4637139082240805942</id><published>2008-11-10T14:10:00.011-07:00</published><updated>2008-11-10T21:43:33.170-07:00</updated><title type='text'>In which I finally say some things I needed to say...</title><content type='html'>If there's one thing we do well around here it's efficiently pass along gossip. By Saturday afternoon Lisa, Jordan, Melissa and Seth all knew that I was going to Georgia with Chris.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was hiding in my room avoiding Melissa when Seth showed up, his pride obviously hurt. He paced around my room for a while before getting around to his question. “What I don't understand is what happened between Tuesday night and today."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I didn't even look up from my computer, but acted as though I had no idea what he was talking about. “Tuesday night... Tuesday night... Did something happen on Tuesday night?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Very funny." He didn't sound amused.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I frowned at him. "Oh - TUESDAY. You mean when you almost kissed me and said you’d call me later? THAT Tuesday? I'm so surprised you remember that. Because what happened was Wednesday. And Thursday. And Friday. With no call."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He looked sheepish and started messing with the pictures on my dresser, picking them up and pretending to look at them so that he wouldn't have to look at me. "I was gonna call, but - "&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I had a few days to realize that once again, you were just messing with me.”&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;That got his attention.  He looked almost hurt by the accusation. “No I wasn’t.”&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;“Yeah you were. Just like at the wedding reception. Having a little fun, then pretending like it never happened.”  It was a relief to finally say all of the things I'd been thinking for the last few days.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;“That’s not it at all - ”&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I stared back at him cooly. “Really. Then why didn’t you call me?”&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;“I was busy - "&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;“You were busy. Yeah, well I was busy too. Busy thinking.” I boiled over with frustration. “You know what I think? You don’t want me, but you don’t want anyone else to have me either. So you throw me these little scraps of affection to make sure I never get over you.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He looked shocked that I'd said it out loud. “That’s not true.”&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was on a roll. Almost stuttering because I was so wound up and anxious, but on a roll. "Let me ask you something. How long have you known?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Known what?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"How I felt about you. A few weeks? A few months? What?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I saw him eyeing the door. Probably calculating if it would be faster to sprint or attempt to fly.  He put his hands in his pockets, apparently resigning himself to the conversation. "A while."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"A while. So what does that mean?  Months?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He mumbled something I didn't catch.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"What?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Years," he said it quietly.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Years." How humiliating. "Years. You've known for years. And you never said anything."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Neither did you." He came and sat down next to me. "Besides, what was I supposed to say? I didn't - I didn't feel that way about you. I didn't want to ruin everything. Ruin our whole friendship. I figured you'd get over it if I waited it out."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I sat there silently, thinking of all of those times when he told me about other girls, suddenly realizing he must've known the entire time how much he was hurting me every time he did it. Deciding to cause me pain on purpose, just to subtly drive the point home that he didn't care about me like that.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was so deep in thought that I was startled when he took my hand. "I couldn't deal with the idea of screwing it all up over a passing crush.  It's not like I didn't care about you.  You've been the most important girl in my life for a long time.  I just wasn't attracted to you then."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;Then.&lt;/em&gt; "Are you now?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The question obviously made him nervous. "Yeah."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"So what's the cut off?" I asked him softly.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"What?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I snatched my hand away. "The cut off. In the last four months I lost thirty pounds. So, um, if I gain back five, is that the point where you lose interest? Or ten? Fifteen? I need to know at what point I become totally repulsive to you." The anger was a very good thing, keeping the tears at bay.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I could see him clenching his teeth. "That's not fair. Are you gonna tell me you'd be attracted to me if I weighed fifty pounds more than I do now?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Of COURSE I would." Fifty pounds more, missing limbs, whatever.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"You can't be mad at me for being attracted to girls who are fit. That's totally normal. That doesn't make me a jerk."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I didn't want to listen or be fair. I just wanted to vent. My words tumbled out, one after the other, rapid fire and angry. "Oh - girls who are fit. So I'm probably just on the borderline of acceptable right now, right? Boy, you're really lowering your standards to even be willing to consider me. I guess I should thank you for being so charitable."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He was like a deer in the headlights. I almost felt sorry for him. "Cordy, come on - "&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I'll bet all of this - &lt;em&gt;I'll call you later, I'll call you in a week, I'll call you in a month&lt;/em&gt; - that was actually a STRATEGY, right? You figured you'd wait long enough and I'd eventually lose enough weight to be acceptable girlfriend material. Wouldn't want to embarrass yourself in front of your buddies by dating a fat chick."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"That isn't true." He looked bewildered and lost for words - not sure what he could say that I wouldn't immediately use against him.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;“It is. It’s the truest thing either one of has said to each other in months."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We sat there and stared at each other for a minute before he finally quietly said, "I'm gonna go. But I'm coming back over here tomorrow when you've calmed down a little so that we can actually talk."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Oh, thanks DAD." I started fiddling with my computer, not wanting to look at him. "Although if you want to wait till I'm calm, you might try JANUARY."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The next time I looked up he was gone.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;(He did come back on Sunday, but I'll have to tell you about that later.)&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-4637139082240805942?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/4637139082240805942'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/4637139082240805942'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/11/in-which-i-finally-say-some-things-i.html' title='In which I finally say some things I needed to say...'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-4690910172498044277</id><published>2008-11-08T01:30:00.010-07:00</published><updated>2008-11-09T23:24:24.301-07:00</updated><title type='text'>I wonder if it's warm in Georgia...</title><content type='html'>Sometimes I'll find myself watching a movie or a TV show where the heroine is trying to make a choice between two guys.  I usually end up yelling at the TV like a crazy person, because honestly, if it's that hard to make a choice, it's a pretty safe bet that neither guy is the right one.  After all, there's no reason why the heroine HAS to choose either one of them at all.  It seems so illogical and wrong when I'm watching it on TV, but now that I'm living it, I almost get it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm not one of those people who would be good at being permanently single. I've always known this about myself - faced with the prospect of an entire life spent alone, I would sink into a depression I'm not sure I would ever be able to climb back out of. Maybe I just need a lot of therapy so the prospect of that kind of a life isn't quite so terrifying, I don't know. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Chris came over tonight, more solemn than I've ever seen him.  He wanted to talk, so we left the house and went for a walk.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When we were a good distance away, he took my hands in his, and told me he had things he wanted to say - even though he knew I probably wasn't ready to hear them.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He kissed one of my hands, a gesture that has never lost it's initial charm, made even sweeter by the way he tenderly repeated it, one kiss for each clasped finger.  He told me he wanted me to come with him to Georgia for Thanksgiving, to meet his parents and the rest of his family.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I want them to know who you are."  He paused for a minute, clearing his throat and giving me a lopsided smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.  "If it doesn't work out - if you never feel about me the way I feel about you - they should probably know exactly who it was that broke my heart."  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I studied the ground, trying to think of what to say - how to tell him I wasn't ready to do that yet, when he put a hand under my chin and made me look at him.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I thought about walking away from this, because it's kind of humiliating to wait around and hope you'll decide you want to be with me, but I couldn't do it.  Like it or not, you're what I want. You're who I want."  His eyes were slightly wet, but he didn't seem to notice or care.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I love you." His voice shook a little and I stared up at him in astonishment.  "Don't say anything - I'm not wanting you to say it back, I just needed you to know. I don't want to look back on this and wish I'd told you. I love you and I want to be with you." &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He wiped at his eyes, and that gesture made me cry - even though I wasn't exactly sure why I was crying. Maybe the depth of his feelings touched me so deeply I was overwhelmed.   Maybe it was because it was the first time anyone had ever said they loved me. Maybe because he made me feel so loved that not being able to say it back was breaking my heart a little bit. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Through my tears I managed to say, "OK - I'll go."  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;That one sentence made him so happy, it was almost as though I'd told him I loved him.  "Really?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I nodded again, then started really crying in earnest and he pulled me toward him and let me cry on his shoulder. I closed my eyes and felt him holding me close and kissing the top of my head, and I thought, &lt;em&gt;I could have this every day - all I have to do is choose it&lt;/em&gt;. We stood there for a long time before we walked back.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't know exactly what I feel for him, but I can almost see it - choosing Chris, making the choice to be loved.  I'm sure I would fall head over heels in love with him if I let myself. I adore Seth, but  sometimes Chris touches me in a way Seth doesn't.  I don't know if that means I love Chris or not, but it means &lt;em&gt;something&lt;/em&gt;.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I can see that girl now, the one on the tv screen, and now I can see that choice more clearly. She isn't choosing between the two guys.  She's choosing between the safety of a life with someone who is offering her all of the things she always thought would make her happy, and a life spent chasing after love that might never really happen - where there's a strong possibility she'll end up exactly as she always feared she would - alone. Maybe it's cowardly, but it doesn't feel like such a false choice right now after all.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-4690910172498044277?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/4690910172498044277'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/4690910172498044277'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/11/i-wonder-if-its-warm-in-georgia.html' title='I wonder if it&apos;s warm in Georgia...'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-7791574906588938441</id><published>2008-11-07T14:06:00.008-07:00</published><updated>2008-11-10T21:32:55.121-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Mystery sort of solved...</title><content type='html'>&lt;div&gt;I got a few emails from random people he made his FB friends. Apparently he has a blog listed in his profile. They sent me the URL, but it must be private or something, because every time I try to click on it, my computer shuts off. It's really frustrating. I know a few people got in and read it, but every time I try to open their emails my computer totally dies.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It's like the universe doesn't want me to know what's on his blog.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;WHATEVER, UNIVERSE.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-7791574906588938441?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/7791574906588938441'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/7791574906588938441'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/11/mystery-sort-of-solved.html' title='Mystery sort of solved...'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-5890362817870557147</id><published>2008-11-06T19:29:00.015-07:00</published><updated>2008-11-08T22:31:48.189-07:00</updated><title type='text'>I'm so annoyed right now...</title><content type='html'>I found Seth's Facebook listing a few days ago.  I sent him a Friend request and he hasn't approved me, so when we were texting today I asked him what the deal was.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;C: When are you gonna add me on Facebook?&lt;br /&gt;S: I'm not on Facebook&lt;br /&gt;C: Yes you are&lt;br /&gt;S: No I'm not - probably another Seth&lt;br /&gt;C: Right, because there are so many Seth McCallisters in Salt Lake City&lt;br /&gt;S: Fine, so I'm on Facebook&lt;br /&gt;C: Then why won't you add me?&lt;br /&gt;S: Maybe I have private stuff on there - stuff that's none of your business&lt;br /&gt;C: So I can't see it, but all of your Facebook friends can?!!&lt;br /&gt;S: Don't make such a big deal out of it&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was already kind of irritated about the way he was toying with me the other day, but now I'm mad. (Of course, I'm not sure how outraged I'm really allowed to be, what with the whole, um, secret-blog-devoted-to-obsessing-over-him thing. Hypocrisy is fun.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Still, it's irritating, because now I'm positive that he's hooking up with random Facebook girls. I'm done with him.  I know I say that all the time, but this time I mean it.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-5890362817870557147?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/feeds/5890362817870557147/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=5403162768228130003&amp;postID=5890362817870557147' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/5890362817870557147'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/5890362817870557147'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/11/im-so-annoyed-right-now.html' title='I&apos;m so annoyed right now...'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-1000923798313313918</id><published>2008-11-06T01:10:00.011-07:00</published><updated>2008-11-06T09:42:04.779-07:00</updated><title type='text'>I lied, I AM fickle</title><content type='html'>I don't know how I can feel so much for Chris, then turn around and have it all blown out of the water the minute I see Seth again. Maybe this is what you get after having no options for years and then suddenly having to deal with options - total emotional paralysis. I'm just not used to having a choice in the matter.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;After reading my semi-humiliating IM messages in the light of day (&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;yes, I still have a crush on you - yes, I will continually cast Chris aside in your favor - yes, I apparently have no self-respect whatsoever&lt;/span&gt;), and realizing Seth never called me afterward, I decided that was my answer. The end. Done. Over. Our relationship would have to change.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;NO MORE FRIENDSHIP COOKIES FOR YOU, Seth.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In an effort to handle it all maturely, I resolved to be rude and dismissive the next time I saw him.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He finally showed up at my door on Tuesday night, claiming to want to watch the election results with me, but I wouldn’t let him in. I told him I was busy, and that he should go home.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He laughed at me and came in anyway.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I’m thinking we have boundary issues.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He planted himself on the couch, and ignored all of my efforts to make him leave, so I finally gave up and sat primly on the other side of the couch, arms folded, concentrating on keeping my angry face on. I would not laugh at his jokes. I would not be moved by his attempts to make me smile. I was determined to hold a grudge for at least fifteen consecutive minutes.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When Obama won Ohio Seth suddenly said, “So you wanna talk about it?”&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My mouth opened and closed but no sound came out for a minute. I eventually squeaked out a very feeble “Talk about what?”&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;“Things being in limbo.”&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Remembering that I was supposed to be very angry, I said, “I’m not in limbo. I’m in a very serious relationship right now.”&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He looked amused. “Really. With who?”&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;“With Chris.”&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;“With Chris. So since last week, things have suddenly gotten serious.” He watched me, eyes merry.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;“Yes. We spent Wednesday and Thursday and Saturday night together." Conflicting emotions washed over me. &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Have some self-respect. Let him know you're off the market. OFF THE MARKET. Come on Cordy, he can't just wave his magic crush fingers and make you lose all resolve. Make him work for it. Why do you even want him if he doesn't care enough to make an effort?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;On the other hand...&lt;/span&gt; "But... If there's... If there's something you wanted to tell me... I could - I can still listen. I mean, friends - they listen to each other, so - if you wanted to talk to me..." &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Oh sweet merciful heaven, MAKE IT STOP. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He sat back on the couch, smirking. “I’d better not. Seeing as how you’re in such a serious relationship.”&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Shoot. Shoot. Shoot.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He picked up his keys. “I’m gonna go.” He was obviously waiting for me to protest.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Whatever. Do what you want." I tried for airily dismissive but I think I landed somewhere closer to she-doth-protest-too-much.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He grinned and moved over on the couch next to me, taking the pillow I was hugging protectively out of my hands. “It’s too bad.”&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;“What?” I grabbed for the pillow, but he tossed it on the chair.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He moved closer and put one hand in my hair, gathering it up, then moving it off of my shoulder. “I had all of these things I wanted to tell you, but I wouldn’t want to cross a line.”&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I blinked.  Was I hallucinating, or was he actually making a move?  I could feel my eyes getting wider by the second.   “Lines are important,” I said faintly.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The teasing smile disappeared, replaced by a more tender version, and I saw him swallow, which was strangely touching, because - was he nervous? He leaned in even closer.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We were sitting there looking at each other, and I was sure he was going to kiss me, or at the very least I was going to kiss him, but at the last possible second he swerved left and dropped a kiss on my cheek, and murmured "'Night Cordy."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It took me a minute to catch up, and I mumbled a confused, "OK," instead of good night.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He looked newly amused by my obvious befuddlement.  "OK," he agreed with me, nodding and just barely holding back a laugh as he stood to go.   How embarrassing.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I muttered, “I hate you,” and threw another pillow at him.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;“You don’t hate me.”&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;“I do.”&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;“Right. You hate me, and you’re in a very serious relationship, I keep forgetting.”&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A mental image of Chris flashed into my head, and I was suddenly ready for him to leave. “You know what? I’m tired. Go home.”&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He looked surprised, but for once he obeyed me, and after making me promise to call him the next day, he left.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I sat back down on the couch, feeling discombobulated and happy and confused and guilty, all at the same time, and two days later, I feel exactly the same.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-1000923798313313918?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/1000923798313313918'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/1000923798313313918'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/11/i-lied-i-am-fickle.html' title='I lied, I AM fickle'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-5245470074806880104</id><published>2008-11-04T00:01:00.005-07:00</published><updated>2008-11-04T02:43:34.697-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Last Wednesday night...</title><content type='html'>...I had a terrible migraine.  Horrible.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(Rather than answering each email I've gotten or might get, I will tell you upfront - NO, I do not have a brain tumor.  Why does everyone immediately go there? Is that what you do in non-blog life? Say, "Man, my head hurts -  it MUST BE A BRAIN TUMOR.")&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(OK, wait.  Actually a lot of people DO do that, so never mind.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Still, I was pretty sure this was just a dehydration headache, so instead of getting an MRI, I swallowed a few ibuprofen, drank a ton of water and sat down to wait it out.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Chris came over, doing his usual &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;shtick&lt;/span&gt; - &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;just dropping by, total coincidence that you happen to live here&lt;/span&gt;.  I felt awful when he showed up - my head was pounding, the kind of pressurized pounding where you almost can't think it hurts so much.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He took one look at me and started asking if he could do something, if I wanted a drink, or did I need different medicine because he had some &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;Tylenol&lt;/span&gt; with codeine leftover from his last dentist's appointment, or did I need him to run to the store, or...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I wonder if I looked as bewildered as I felt.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;You know, I used to have this friend, Sarah (married off ages ago) who was tiny and beautiful.  All of the guys in our circle were constantly falling in love with her. If she so much as had indigestion they were racing to volunteer to take her to the hospital, whereas if I had indigestion they'd toss me a bottle of &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;pepto&lt;/span&gt; and wish me luck "working it all out."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It was really hard to be her friend sometimes.  I used to wonder what it would be like, to be put up on that kind of pedestal.   I've just never been that girl.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm mostly OK with that, because, you know - I'm an adult, I can take care of myself.  I don't need a guy - any guy - to take care of me.  I'm perfectly capable.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But that's totally different from wishing someone would &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;want&lt;/span&gt; to, and knowing that it would probably only ever be a wish.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Chris turned off the light in the family room and made me lie down on the couch with a blanket and my head on a pillow on his lap and he sat there and gently stroked my hair while he watched TV.      Lying there, I was almost in tears - so touched by the idea that someone - no -  that &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;he&lt;/span&gt; wanted to take care of me.  ME.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He saw the tears, and asked me what was wrong, but I didn't want to explain, so I told him my head was hurting really badly. He murmured that he was sorry, that he would put the TV on mute and watch with the closed captioning on (because maybe the quiet would help), and as I watched him fiddle with the remote my stomach started flipping - over and over and over again.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Wham.  Butterflies.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Later he tucked me into bed and told me to "feel better," but he looked reluctant to leave.   For a minute it was almost as though I was one of those girls, those girls you take care of, and then he kissed me on the cheek and was gone.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-5245470074806880104?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/5245470074806880104'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/5245470074806880104'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/11/last-wednesday-night.html' title='Last Wednesday night...'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-3791990207725070574</id><published>2008-11-03T14:00:00.008-07:00</published><updated>2008-11-03T16:43:31.653-07:00</updated><title type='text'>It was a quiet weekend.</title><content type='html'>There were plenty of parties but I haven’t been feeling well.I had a terrible cold last week, and then this weekend I was over the cold but still not feeling better – kind of run down and tired. I tried to run on Saturday and Sunday but I felt all winded and migrainey, so I went for a walk instead. I spent the weekend reading and writing and thinking about what I want to do after I graduate (besides the obvious: continuing to obsess over guys like an eleven year old).&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Seth's been busy playing sensitive ex-boyfriend every night, holding Teresa’s hand through the post-break-up aftermath.I guess that’s the downside to liking a sensitive, sweet guy.He keeps on being that way, even when it doesn’t work out to my advantage. It's very annoying.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I’m feeling very “whateverish” about it. If he wants something more than friendship, the ball’s in his court. I'm not gonna throw myself at him or wait around for him anymore. He obviously knows how I feel.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I know this because - well... ...let me direct you over to &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Exhibit A: &lt;/span&gt;Thursday Late Night IM:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;S: Where were you?&lt;br /&gt;C: early voting w/C&lt;br /&gt;S: oh, he merits an abbreviation now?&lt;br /&gt;C: yeah, I guess he does&lt;br /&gt;S: you know it's serious when they get the IM initial&lt;br /&gt;C: yeah, we're practically engaged&lt;br /&gt;C: we both wanted to vote early, that's all&lt;br /&gt;S: that's very civic of you&lt;br /&gt;C: I'm nothing if not civic minded&lt;br /&gt;S: still stringing him along?&lt;br /&gt;C: no&lt;br /&gt;C: he knows where we stand&lt;br /&gt;S: where's that?&lt;br /&gt;C: in limbo, where else?&lt;br /&gt;C: it's my new comfort zone&lt;br /&gt;C: besides, I really like him&lt;br /&gt;S: really?&lt;br /&gt;C: yes, really&lt;br /&gt;S: funny, last month I could've sworn you said you really liked this &lt;em&gt;other&lt;/em&gt; guy&lt;br /&gt;C: I have no recollection of this&lt;br /&gt;S: Sure you do - you told me he was tall and devastatingly handsome&lt;br /&gt;C: I wouldn't say devastatingly&lt;br /&gt;S: hey&lt;br /&gt;C: or even tall actually&lt;br /&gt;S: ouch&lt;br /&gt;S: you're so fickle&lt;br /&gt;C: I’m not fickle&lt;br /&gt;S: I'm old news now&lt;br /&gt;C: I’m NOT fickle&lt;br /&gt;S: so what finally killed off the crush?&lt;br /&gt;C: not dead yet&lt;br /&gt;C: but this is not something I want to talk about via IM&lt;br /&gt;S: Why? I like it, I get actual answers out of you&lt;br /&gt;C: that's only because I'm high on Nyquil right now&lt;br /&gt;C: otherwise you'd get NOTHING&lt;br /&gt;S: I'll have to remember that&lt;br /&gt;S: could come in handy&lt;br /&gt;C: what this is news to you?&lt;br /&gt;C: alcohol loosens inhibitions, EUREKA&lt;br /&gt;S: you probably shouldn't keep Chris in limbo if you don't like him&lt;br /&gt;C: oh, but I do&lt;br /&gt;C: and how much do I love that you're lecturing me about keeping people in limbo&lt;br /&gt;C: I mean seriously&lt;br /&gt;C: THAT's what we should talk about.&lt;br /&gt;S: I’ve gotta go&lt;br /&gt;C: gee, what a surprise.&lt;br /&gt;C: head for the hills&lt;br /&gt;S: it’s not that, T just showed up&lt;br /&gt;S: she's upset, gotta go&lt;br /&gt;C: Sure. Whatever. Good luck with that.&lt;br /&gt;S: I'm serious. Call you later.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And do you think he called me later? No.  No he did not.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Apparently he just wanted to clarify that I was, in fact, still squirming around on the hook. He didn’t come over all weekend and only called me today to ask if I had his IPOD. Loser.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Chris came over though. And that's a whole 'nother story.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-3791990207725070574?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/3791990207725070574'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/3791990207725070574'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/11/it-was-quiet-weekend.html' title='It was a quiet weekend.'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-2288991741254727590</id><published>2008-11-01T23:58:00.003-06:00</published><updated>2008-11-02T02:15:21.174-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Sorry I haven't posted in a while...</title><content type='html'>I've been having roommate drama.  Melissa and I got into another huge fight.  She keeps going on and on about how I'm such a phony, pretending to be something I'm not.  I have no idea what she's talking about.  She's so weird sometimes.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've been having the most vivid dreams lately.  I had this whole embarrassing dream about Seth - that he kissed me and fell head over heels in love with me.  There was even a part where we went to a concert.  It was very detailed and specific.  So strange.  It ended with him telling me he loved me, and I've never in my life been so disappointed to wake up before.   I tried really hard to go back to sleep and get back into the dream, but it didn't work.  I hate it when that happens.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Nothing happened with Seth last Sunday.  He ended up staying in San Diego until Wednesday, and by the time I saw him it was as though we'd never even talked about talking.  We're in limbo.   If I had any idea at all what I wanted to say to him, I would sit him down.  But I don't, so I'm letting it slide.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was talking about it all with my older brother, who is cool despite being married and old, and he told me I was making too big of a deal out of everything.  He said my problem has always been that I take the things Seth says and does too seriously, and that I need to just lighten up and have fun, because I'll be married and dead inside soon enough.   (I'm hoping that last part was a joke.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I want to tell you about what happened with Chris this week but I have to log-off, Melissa is snooping around over here and I don't want her to know I have a blog.  Can you imagine if she found out?  Ugh, what a nightmare.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-2288991741254727590?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/2288991741254727590'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/2288991741254727590'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/11/sorry-i-havent-posted-in-while.html' title='Sorry I haven&apos;t posted in a while...'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-4386793431246119337</id><published>2008-10-26T02:30:00.016-06:00</published><updated>2008-11-02T01:52:37.112-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Today was a good day.  Tomorrow I'm a little more freaked out about.</title><content type='html'>I went hiking with some friends this afternoon, and then tonight we all went to a karaoke place. It was my first time. I always thought it sounded like fun, but was something you probably needed to be drunk for. Turns out you just need to be with a bunch of people who don't give a flying flip if you're any good or not. I couldn't get up the nerve to do it on my own, so I sang a duet with Chris.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Who was there. &lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Because I invited him to come with us.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Yeah. I never claimed to make any sense.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It's just that with Chris there aren't all of these layers of angst, so I feel like I can be myself and have fun. It's kind of a relief.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;With Seth it's all been built up in my head into this massive pile of drama and I almost can't fight through it anymore. I'm so sick to my stomach about tomorrow, and a big part of me is saying, "It shouldn't be this hard."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We were standing outside the house talking after we got back from karaoke (yes, JUST talking) and Chris asked what was going on with "my competition," meaning Seth. I told him it was complicated, and he said, "That's your whole problem right there - it's not supposed to be complicated."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Of course, if Seth were just some random guy it &lt;i&gt;would&lt;/i&gt; be no big deal to be interested and get rejected and move on with life, but he's not. He's Seth - Seth of the history and the angst and the best friendship and it makes the whole idea of talking about it an exercise in abject terror.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I feel like calling in sick to church tomorrow. I won't, but I feel like it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-4386793431246119337?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/4386793431246119337'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/4386793431246119337'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/10/today-was-good-day-tomorrow-im-little.html' title='Today was a good day.  Tomorrow I&apos;m a little more freaked out about.'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-8584211947457316439</id><published>2008-10-24T11:59:00.010-06:00</published><updated>2008-10-30T12:41:08.523-06:00</updated><title type='text'>I didn't go out tonight...</title><content type='html'>I canceled, but not because of Seth. I'm trying not to think about Seth or about what may or may not happen on Sunday because it's turning me into a total head case.  I'm afraid to hope it will be what I hope it will be.    Luckily for me, I have a whole new mess to worry over - which leads me to the reason I canceled tonight.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I guess first you need to know that Chris still comes over every other day or so to "visit his sister."  He's been here a lot, but it hasn't been awkward because he's just so dang relaxed and mellow and cheerful.  We switched over pretty easily into friends territory - or at least that's what I thought.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The problem in the last little bit has been Melissa - if I talk to Chris at all she's impossible to deal with afterward.  Things are bad enough between us, and every time he comes over it's like poking a rabid ferret with a stick.  She starts making all of these hostile thinly veiled comments, then makes life miserable for me the next day.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I understand how she feels (jealousy and a crush - I get it, you know?), but I'm not sure what to do about it.  Stay in my room when he comes over?  Refuse to talk to him?  Ban him from the house? Besides, until last night I was pretty sure it wasn't even an issue. I kept telling her she had nothing to worry about.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Thursday night he came over and had dinner.  Lisa left with Jordan, but Chris decided to stay and watch Juno with us.   Juno is an awesome movie but there's a scene in the first couple of minutes that's kind of risque and Melissa basically lost her mind.  She wouldn't shut up.  She was making comments about the movie, then moved on to making comments about where Chris was sitting on the couch (by me, but come ON), and then she started taking potshots at me.  I think Chris was even more annoyed than I was.  I don't think she understands she's completely blown any chance she ever had, if she ever had one in the first place.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;She crossed the line at one point, and Chris said something kind of cutting to her (saving me the trouble).  She got offended and bailed, so we got to watch the rest of the movie in peace.  I was totally engrossed. It's the kind of movie that has such a sad/happy/romantic/awesome ending - you cry and laugh and smile all in the same two minutes.  I was in tears - not  little delicate tears, but choked back sobs (narrowly avoiding the ugly cry) with tears dripping down my face.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Chris thought it was cute.  I know this because he brushed away a few of the tears on my face and said, "You're so sweet Cord," and then - I don't know what happened.   The movie, plus the line, plus the look on his face...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;You can see where this is going, right?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;One minute he was kind of gently wiping the tears off of my face and the next minute we were kissing.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;After I finally gathered the willpower to stop  (&lt;span&gt;five minutes&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span&gt;later&lt;/span&gt; - that's like three hours in kissing years) I started apologizing, but he wouldn't let me.   He was giving me a very cheshire cat grin, telling me "I'm wearin' you down,  I can tell."  I tried to tell him that wasn't it, that I had a weak moment (well, five minutes worth of weak moments I guess) and I was sorry.   He just smiled and told me to call him next time I was having another weak moment and he'd rush on over to help me out.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;If Melissa finds out, I'm a &lt;span&gt;dead woman&lt;/span&gt;.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Besides feeling bad about leading Chris on, I feel like I cheated on Seth.  I know technically I'm a free agent, but I don't feel like one.  I know I would be really unhappy if I found out Seth was in San Diego macking on some random marketing rep at his conference.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't know why I didn't stop it or pull away or something. I'm starting to realize I'm kind of a pushover.  I'm way too easily charmed.   I don't have lots of experience with dating - one serious boyfriend, a few dates in high school and college and that's about it.  I've always been the chubby girl guys ignored.  Having guys flirt with me and try to kiss me out of the blue is totally uncharted territory.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm so surprised and flattered every time a guy is interested that I can hardly bring myself to turn 'em down.  It's like if you were always picked last in PE and suddenly the cutest boy in class wants you on his team.  Even if you aren't sure you particularly like him, it's hard to say no, because you still have that horrible feeling inside -  say yes or you're gonna end up standing there all alone on the playground for the rest of your life.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;After the fiasco with Chris I wasn't sure I could trust my own judgment, so I called and canceled the date with Eric (marketing rep guy).  My hormones are so out of control right now that if Eric had been even semi-charming we probably would've ended up running off to Vegas for a quickie marriage at the Chapel 'O Love.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(I am SO not opening comments because I just know people will be shaking their heads and clucking their tongues and telling me I'm a harlot who doesn't deserve Seth.  Maybe I am, I don't know.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" &gt;On the bright side I gave myself a blog makeover tonight.  I surfed around the internet and found a free template from &lt;a href="http://www.giselejaquenod.com.ar/blog/"&gt;this lady&lt;/a&gt;.  I love it.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-8584211947457316439?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/8584211947457316439'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/8584211947457316439'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/10/i-didnt-go-out-tonight.html' title='I didn&apos;t go out tonight...'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-7113360989958160917</id><published>2008-10-23T10:30:00.003-06:00</published><updated>2008-10-30T12:41:52.263-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Last night</title><content type='html'>I can't even talk about what is going through my head right now.  It's too jumbled.  I'm a basket case basically.   This is the chat we had last night.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;C:  hey&lt;br /&gt;S:  what, your busy schedule clear up?&lt;br /&gt;C:  I'm really sorry&lt;br /&gt;C: I was upset&lt;br /&gt;S:  It's ok, I'm not mad&lt;br /&gt;C:  I was worried&lt;br /&gt;C:  you aren't answering your phone&lt;br /&gt;S:  yeah, sorry, its dead&lt;br /&gt;C:  can I come over?&lt;br /&gt;S:  actually I'm packing&lt;br /&gt;S:  going to San Diego till Saturday night&lt;br /&gt;S:  biz/pleasure&lt;br /&gt;S:  but I want to talk to you&lt;br /&gt;S:  a lot&lt;br /&gt;C:  me too&lt;br /&gt;S:  I get in late Saturday&lt;br /&gt;S:  how bout we hang after church Sunday&lt;br /&gt;S:  catch a ride there, I'll take you home later&lt;br /&gt;C:  ok&lt;br /&gt;S:  I've gotta go, still finishing a presentation for tomorrow&lt;br /&gt;C:  ok, be safe&lt;br /&gt;S:  I will, see you Sunday&lt;br /&gt;C:  see you&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;HE WANTS TO TALK TO ME A LOT.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't know why I put that in caps, it just seems important.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I talked to my sister for a little while last night but I was bouncing off the walls and she got irritated with me.  This morning she sent this to me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;blockquote&gt;Cord, you sounded like you were on crack last night.  You have got to get a grip. Please print this out and put it on your fridge or something.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;ol&gt;&lt;li&gt;First of all, calm down.  He didn't ask you to be the mother of his children, he just broke up with his girlfriend.  Perspective please.&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;R-E-L-A-X. From what I saw, he obviously has feelings for you. Great. So the next step is not marriage and children it's DATING. Hopefully he will ask you out, you will go out, and you will see if you guys click like that. Expecting anything else is premature. Period. &lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;Seth is great, you know I love him, but he is not Prince William. He's Seth. Frankly, he would be damn lucky to have you. (&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Note:  I deleted about a paragraph of my sister saying nice things about me.  She's my sister, of course she thinks that.&lt;/span&gt;) You're a catch Cordy, so stop acting like he'd be doing you this big favor by falling in love with you.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;OK, listen because this is important: You are going to have to stop hiding your feelings or he is never going to be able to figure you out. I know you live in mortal fear of being rejected, but it is not the worst thing that could happen. The worst thing would be for the two of you to actually have feelings for each other, but then have nothing happen because you are so impossible to read. I know you think he must know, he has to know, he's always known, but I know how you can be with him. You want so badly for him not to know because you don't want it to be awkward, and you don't want him to be able to reject you and leave you, so you hide everything. And you, my dear, are an excellent actress. Everything's a joke. Nothing is serious. You have to knock it off.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;I saw you with Chris - you were WAY more flirtatious than you are with Seth. That's normal because you're used to hiding your feelings around Seth, but you are going to have to figure out how to take the wall back down and show him the actual tender hearted little self you have in there.&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;Calm down.  I just thought I'd throw this one in there again.  CALM DOWN.  Go get a massage or something.  Better yet, come watch my kids.  They'll wear you down, trust me.&lt;/li&gt;&lt;/ol&gt;&lt;/blockquote&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I think she may have a point.  Six actually.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Freak.  When is it Sunday again?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-7113360989958160917?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/7113360989958160917'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/7113360989958160917'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/10/last-night.html' title='Last night'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-2986642777299840082</id><published>2008-10-22T19:05:00.006-06:00</published><updated>2008-10-30T12:40:38.868-06:00</updated><title type='text'>I am literally shaking right now</title><content type='html'>Melissa just asked me if I'm happy now, and I asked her what she was talking about and she told me that Seth and Teresa broke up on Monday.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;THEY BROKE UP.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;ON MONDAY.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;RIGHT AFTER SHE GOT BACK INTO TOWN.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-2986642777299840082?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/2986642777299840082'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/2986642777299840082'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/10/i-am-literally-shaking-right-now.html' title='I am literally shaking right now'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-3530847756247112354</id><published>2008-10-22T14:55:00.004-06:00</published><updated>2008-10-30T12:39:42.825-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Never get on googlechat at work when you are depressed and mad and tired</title><content type='html'>S: Why didn't you call me back last night&lt;br /&gt;C: I was busy&lt;br /&gt;S: With your super top secret plans&lt;br /&gt;C: Just busy&lt;br /&gt;S: I need to talk to you&lt;br /&gt;C: Maybe next month&lt;br /&gt;S: Are you avoiding me?&lt;br /&gt;C: No, I'm just very busy right now&lt;br /&gt;S: Be serious&lt;br /&gt;C: I am being serious&lt;br /&gt;S: Are you mad?&lt;br /&gt;C: No&lt;br /&gt;C: but I'm unavailable&lt;br /&gt;C: occupied with other things&lt;br /&gt;C: penciled out for the next fourteen days or so&lt;br /&gt;S: What are you talking about?&lt;br /&gt;C: Nothing. My social life is getting really hectic that's all&lt;br /&gt;C: I might be able to squeeze you in in November&lt;br /&gt;C: I'll let you know&lt;br /&gt;S: Stop messing around&lt;br /&gt;C: I'm not&lt;br /&gt;S: Then you're mad at me&lt;br /&gt;C: why would I be mad&lt;br /&gt;S: we need to talk&lt;br /&gt;C: how unfortunate&lt;br /&gt;C: maybe we can talk some other time&lt;br /&gt;C: sometime when I'm not so busy&lt;br /&gt;C: maybe two weeks from Friday&lt;br /&gt;C: I'll let you know&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And then I signed out.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So I guess he wants to talk. Unfortunately, now that he wants to talk, I'm totally afraid to talk to him. I don't want to know what he has to say. I've decided I'd rather be in limbo forever. Because I can guess what he is going to say. Something along the lines of: I'm sorry about what happened, I don't know why it happened other than you were there and I was bored and missing my girlfriend. I'd rather not hear it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I went to lunch with a bunch of people from work and this marketing rep that comes by our office a couple of times a month was there. He wants to take me to dinner on Friday. He's cute and mildly interesting so I said yes. Its not like I have anything better to do, other than avoid Seth.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It makes me mad that dating is so much easier now. I know that's stupid, but it's true. It makes me kind of contemptuous of the guys who suddenly think I'm interesting. I get all bitter on behalf of the chubbier version of myself. I can't imagine what it's like for girls who are actually really fit and pretty. They must have scorn for &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;everyone&lt;/span&gt;.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-3530847756247112354?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/3530847756247112354'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/3530847756247112354'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/10/never-get-on-googlechat-at-work-when.html' title='Never get on googlechat at work when you are depressed and mad and tired'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-9189434786998094289</id><published>2008-10-22T00:10:00.002-06:00</published><updated>2008-10-30T12:39:23.902-06:00</updated><title type='text'>I'm so cheesed off...</title><content type='html'>&lt;div&gt;I'm feeling really bummed out right now.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Tonight, instead of being mysterious and captivating, I went to the dry cleaners, then to my sister's to drop something off, then went running.  It was all very glamorous.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was wrong, he didn't come over, which is probably for the best, given my fantastic mood.   He called at 9:30, but I ignored him.  I didn't answer his texts either.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't feel like playing games.  I'm sick of games.  I'm sick of all of it.   I think having that moment on Saturday, and then the stress of having to act like it didn't even happen - like a NEAR-KISS didn't even happen - I'm just sick of it.  It did happen, and he shouldn't be able to pretend it didn't.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I can see if he didn't want to talk about it for a day or so because he needed to figure out what to say or what to think about it, but to just pretend it didn't happen?  Forever? Like we live in some alternate universe where he can wipe my memory banks and never mention it again?  What sane person does that?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Oh, that's right - he does, and I go along with it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't even want to talk to him right now.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Who am I kidding, I'm not even capable of talking to him about it if I wanted to.  I'd never say what I wanted to say before the urge to make stupid jokes and run away overloaded my brain circuitry.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But if I were to &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;write a pretend imaginary angry email&lt;/span&gt;, this is probably what it would say:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;---------------------------&lt;br /&gt;Seth,&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't know what kind of game you think you're playing with my head, but I'm sick of it. You practically kissed me on Saturday. You know it and I know it.   Are we just supposed to pretend that didn't happen?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I thought, silly me, that we would eventually talk about it.  But you keep acting like everything is perfectly normal. NEARLY KISSING ME IS NOT NORMAL. THAT IS NOT NORMAL. THAT IS NOT WHAT WE DO. If that is what we do, then I did not get the memo.  If that is what we do, &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;please advise at your earliest freaking opportunity&lt;/span&gt;, because I am getting &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;severely ripped off &lt;/span&gt;kissing-wise.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When you didn't mention it on Sunday, I figured it was because you needed to sort it out in your head first or something. When you didn't mention it on Monday, I figured you were still thinking it over. Tonight I realized you think I should suck it up and ignore what happened.  Tonight I realized you're a huge jerk.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There is a limit to how far you can push me and that's pretty much it. You say all of these things about how I'm so important to you, and how you love me&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;, but you treat me like my heart is totally disposable.  I hate you right now, you know that? Hate.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm sick of it.  BURN IN SATAN'S LAIR.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Cordy&lt;br /&gt;-------------------------------------&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What do you think - a tad strong at the end there?  too much?  not enough?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;frack&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-9189434786998094289?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/9189434786998094289'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/9189434786998094289'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/10/im-so-cheesed-off.html' title='I&apos;m so cheesed off...'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-5465978907459966658</id><published>2008-10-21T12:17:00.018-06:00</published><updated>2008-10-30T12:38:49.856-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Last night, on the phone...</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;Seth calls at 10:00 -  Teresa is already gone.  Iiiiiiiinteresting.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He grills me for a while about what I'm doing tomorrow, but I refuse to tell him.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I'm a woman of many mysteries."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Since when?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"It's this new thing I'm trying. Being mysterious and captivating. I saw it on a perfume box, thought it sounded like a good idea." I stretch out on my bed. There used to be lots of times I would fall asleep talking to him, but not as much anymore.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I can hear him throwing that stupid racquetball at the ceiling as he tells me that the last thing I will ever be is mysterious. "You're an open book Cord." He tells me he saw me talking to Chris on Sunday and asks if we're seeing each other again.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A little part of me is excited that he was paying attention. Totally ignoring me and yet watching me when I wasn't looking. &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;YES. Junior high is awesome.&lt;/span&gt; I tell him all about how Chris decided he's ok with being friends and going out sometimes, but that we don't have any specific plans for tomorrow.  He asks if it'll be awkward - being friends with Chris when he's still into me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I try not to groan, because does he even realize what he's just said? "I guess he's not anymore. Apparently I'm very easy to get over."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I kinda doubt that."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I take a moment for an internal awwwwwww, which he interrupts with an exasperated noise. "I can't believe you won't tell me."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"See? Mysterious and captivating."&lt;br /&gt;---------------------------------------------&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm half convinced that he's gonna show up here tonight to see what I'm doing. He'll just happen to need to drop something off or something, mark my words. He can't stand not knowing everything, all the time.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm tempted to call Chris or some other random guy to come over. I'm kind of insanely tempted to teach Seth a lesson. I want him to be jealous and scared to lose me and I want him to break up with Teresa. That's it. That's all I want. That one teeny, tiny thing. (Although technically I guess that's three things. Whatever.)&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-5465978907459966658?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/5465978907459966658'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/5465978907459966658'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/10/last-night-on-phone.html' title='Last night, on the phone...'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-6802951408887080869</id><published>2008-10-20T10:17:00.019-06:00</published><updated>2008-10-30T12:38:28.288-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Being patient is lame and stupid and impossible and I hate it</title><content type='html'>C: You wanna do something later&lt;br /&gt;S: No T's back - coming over tonight&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(2 hour silence while I swear and slam things around my desk and generally abuse the people in my office)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;S: Tuesday?&lt;br /&gt;C: No, I have plans&lt;br /&gt;S: With?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I didn't answer.  &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;LET HIM WONDER.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;Now I just need to get some plans.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;FRACK.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't want to be patient.  I'm sick of being patient.   Things are finally happening.  I've been patient for three years, and I'm &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;sick of it&lt;/span&gt;.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;If I just sit here and be patient I'll be thirty before he ever gets around to doing anything about it.   Why am I letting him be in control anyway?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ugh.  Patience is for losers.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I think it's time for a party at my house.   Forget patience, it's time to play random mind games  to try to make him jealous.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(Notice comments aren't open on this post, that's because &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;I already know&lt;/span&gt; I'm being ridiculous.  I probably won't do anything stupid.  Probably.)&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-6802951408887080869?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/6802951408887080869'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/6802951408887080869'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/10/being-patient-is-lame-and-stupid-and.html' title='Being patient is lame and stupid and impossible and I hate it'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-8184685579398582036</id><published>2008-10-19T23:18:00.011-06:00</published><updated>2008-10-30T12:38:16.313-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Something happened...</title><content type='html'>Sometimes I think if it was just me and him, locked in a room somewhere for a good three days, it would happen. Maybe it would happen with &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;anyone&lt;/span&gt; under those circumstances, I don't know.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Because sometimes there are moments. I think back on them later and I think - how can that possibly be a figment of my imagination? But apparently it was, apparently all of these little moments are, because they happen, they get into my heart, then pass me by, and it's like nothing that happens ever impacts the whole overarching theme of our relationship. Like I'm not supposed to let all of those little moments add up and get into my head. I'm just supposed to enjoy the moment and let it go and never think of it again.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't know how to do that. Lots of people, including my sister Kelly, tell me I should just stop being his friend, stop subjecting myself to what she calls "his bullshit." (Sorry, she's not a word mincer, that one.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Last week when I was feeling so alone about it, and getting way too dependent on my good friends Ben and Jerry, I went over to her house and cried on her shoulder for a good hour. She thinks he wants me, but he wants me &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;later&lt;/span&gt;, when he's done sowing his oats or whatever, and that I shouldn't put up with it. I should be having fun, playing the field like him, and when he sees that I'm having a little too much fun, then he'll come running, probably with a ring. (Sorry, but I &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;love her theory&lt;/span&gt;. Any theory that ends with me and Seth and a ring, I like - even if it means he's being kind of a jerk right now. I don't necessarily buy it, but I like hearing it anyway. It's loads less depressing than my alternative theory - that he's just not that into me.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But I can't take her advice. I try, but my heart isn't in it, because I don't &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;want&lt;/span&gt; to play the field. I want to have a whole bunch of moments, just like the one that happened Saturday night, and string them together and make them into something I can hold onto.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;On Saturday night we went to the reception together and it was so much fun. A lot of my family was there, obviously, and they were all harassing him. (They've known him forever so they're allowed to do that.) My dad kept saying things like, "Fish or cut bait young man, fish or cut bait," which was a little bit hilarious and embarrassing at the same time. Luckily Seth is used to my dad, so he thought it was funny.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My sister Beth's husband Jeff, who is creepy and gross and loud and annoying, practically forced Seth at gunpoint to say that I looked pretty, which was awkward in about twelve different ways.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Jeff was elbowing Seth like the pervert he is, saying underneath all of my baby fat who knew there was that kind of a body and saying, "She's lookin' pretty hot these days, right Seth?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Keep in mind I'm&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; right there&lt;/span&gt;, feeling totally uncomfortable that my brother-in-law is calling me hot and like LEERING at me. Gross.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I could tell Seth was uncomfortable, but he said "She's &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;always&lt;/span&gt; been pretty."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Jeff said, "Good thing she didn't look that good when I married in or I would have had second thoughts about marrying her sister."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Cue Seth and I staring at him in horrified silence. Poor Beth. She married a total douchebag perv, I'm serious. Ugh.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;For a while we were talking to Kelly and her husband, and Kelly passed Seth her baby (eight months old and chubby and adorable), and I'm such a stupid, typical &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;girl&lt;/span&gt; because watching him hold her and play with her - if there was &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;any&lt;/span&gt; progress made toward getting over him in the last couple of months it was &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;totally wiped away&lt;/span&gt; in that five minute period.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Later on they were doing the first dance thing, and I didn't know why at the time, but the song they chose for their first dance was that new Carrie Underwood song, "Just a Dream." They started playing it and Seth was like, "Um.... Isn't this song about the guy dying right after they get married?" And it totally IS! It was so weird. So then we both were kind of quietly cracking up about my cousin's high expectations for her marriage, and we couldn't stop laughing.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(I found out later that my cousin and her fiancee didn't HAVE a song, so she'd just told the DJ to pick something romantic sounding and country, and that was what he chose. She was &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;mortified&lt;/span&gt;.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;On the next song everyone started dancing, and we were gonna dance but the song turned out to be "Somebody Knows You Now," which is about a woman who &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;leaves her husband&lt;/span&gt;, so then we were both cracking up all over again. Either the DJ was totally clueless or he was her ex-boyfriend, I don't know. Seth started making jokes about what songs they'd play at their anniversary party. It wasn't romantic, but it was really funny, and we were having such a good time.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;They started playing that Jason Mraz song, "I'm Yours" (sorry, this isn't supposed to be about the songs, they're just totally relevant to what happened), and Seth was all, "FINALLY - not country and not about a tragic break-up, come dance with me," so we did.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It was a really hard song to dance to. It's almost like jamaican or something. We kept tripping over each other and not being able to get the rhythm right and we were &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;still&lt;/span&gt; laughing. He was smiling down at me with his whole face, his very happiest Seth smile - the one that reaches all the way up to his eyes, and I blurted out, "I adore you, you know that, right?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The expression on his face totally changed and this is the part where my internal dialogue got stuck on &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;ohmygosh ohmygosh ohmygosh ohmygosh, &lt;/span&gt;because he suddenly pulled me closer. Way closer. Like serious pre-makeout closer. He started all tentatively looking into my eyes and stroking my hand and at first I was so scared to look at him and not-quite-believing-it-was-happening that I couldn't even sustain eye contact. When I finally managed to look up at him, my heart racing about a thousand miles a minute (I'm seriously lucky I didn't have some kind of attack), we totally achieved eye-lock. He was giving me the softest look - I can't even describe it except to say that it was only through sheer force of will that I didn't pass out.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He murmured my name like he was gonna ask me something and I said "yeah?" all faintly and eloquently, but then he never got around to saying anything else because he was doing that fair-warning-I'm-totally-going-to-kiss-you thing where he kept looking at my lips and sort of incrementally inching his head closer to mine.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I almost started hyperventilating. I think I was probably staring up at him like some kind of grade-schooler with a crush. (Actually I &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;know&lt;/span&gt; I was because my sister told me I was. She said I looked like I was terrified and about to throw up. Charming. &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;But she also said he looked drugged, so I guess it doesn't matter that I looked nauseous.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Then a faster song came on, that song Love is a Beautiful Thing by Phil Vassar, which I normally love because it's so happy and cheerful, but it lightened the mood and it was like coming out of a fog or something and we stopped dancing. I totally hate Phil Vassar now. Jerk.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've (obviously) been thinking about this ever since. I can't even write coherently about it. I know this is all disjointed and nutty but I'm excited and upset and sick to my stomach because - &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;I didn't imagine it. Proof. I have proof.&lt;/span&gt; Outside &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;non-imaginary&lt;/span&gt; confirmation from &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;multiple sources&lt;/span&gt;. Proof that he feels &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;something&lt;/span&gt; for me, even if it was just passing attraction - because he was looking at me like - like he was longing to kiss me right there in front of everyone. Longing. There was longing.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;OH MY GOSH THERE WAS LONGING.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm not crazy. That's a huge relief. I'm not imagining this. I'm not crazy. He cares about me. Why he has a girlfriend, I don't know, but one thing at a time I guess.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I know I'm getting carried away. I can't help it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He kept his distance for the rest of the night, and when he dropped me off he didn't even walk me to the door and he practically burned rubber peeling out.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Today at church he completely ignored me, but I couldn't even muster up a tiny little bit of irritation.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't know what's going on in his head, but I almost don't care because the thing that is totally undeniable about it is that &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;something&lt;/span&gt; is going on in his head. &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Something&lt;/span&gt; is happening. Something is happening! SOMETHING IS HAPPENING!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Now I just have to - not screw it all up somehow. Knowing me, that'll be a trick.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;OK, so - just this once - COMMENTS ARE OPEN. (If there's anyone even still reading after stopping and starting and accidentally going private and going unprivate and - well, you get the idea. I figure I'm so happy right now, even if people tell me I'm dumb or clueless or imaginary, it can't even come close to hurting my feelings. :)&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-8184685579398582036?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/feeds/8184685579398582036/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=5403162768228130003&amp;postID=8184685579398582036' title='113 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/8184685579398582036'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/8184685579398582036'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/10/something-happened.html' title='Something happened...'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>113</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-549670459792646315</id><published>2008-10-17T23:59:00.004-06:00</published><updated>2008-10-18T17:48:44.459-06:00</updated><title type='text'>I obviously have nothing better to do, and...</title><content type='html'>...Teresa's out of town till Sunday night, so we're hanging out this weekend, and on Saturday night he's taking me to my cousin's wedding reception.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We're lying on his bed and he's conned me into reviewing some stuff he wrote for his eternally in progress thesis.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I have my little red pen out and I'm circling things like there and their, and your and you're. He hates to write and it shows. He's asked me to help him, but he isn't taking it seriously at all, he's just lying on his back throwing a raquetball up at the ceiling.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I honestly don't think he's ever gonna graduate.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Too bad about you and the cowboy. I thought you two crazy kids were gonna make it work."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I didn't know you were such a big Chris fan."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I'm not, but - think about it - his math skills plus your writing skills. Your kids would've almost been androids." &lt;em&gt;(Sorry, inside joke - he has this theory that all really smart people are actually robots.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I laugh, and he gives me a very wry, very Seth smile, then rolls over and elbows me. "You o.k.?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Fine."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"You can be upset, it's o.k. You're allowed to be human." He leans over and whispers in my ear, "You're not &lt;em&gt;actually&lt;/em&gt; an android. YET."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I want to laugh because he &lt;span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"&gt;thinks I have no feelings&lt;/span&gt;. Come &lt;span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"&gt;on&lt;/span&gt;. "Sorry to disappoint you - I'm just not that upset right this sec." I chew on the pen cap for a minute, then mutter, "Besides, you've seen me cry enough lately."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I suddenly realize that was the perfect opener for a conversation I don't want to have. Unfortunately he sees the opening and takes it. "Yeah, about that - "&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But I don't want to talk about this, any of it, not when he has a girlfriend, and not when I'm so confused, so I tell him its late (even though its not) and I need to get home, that maybe Teresa can help him review the rest of it, which earns me an eye roll and a "thanks a LOT," and a few minutes later, I go.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Bawk-bawk-bawk.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;BAWK.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-549670459792646315?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/549670459792646315'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/549670459792646315'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/10/i-obviously-have-nothing-better-to-do.html' title='I obviously have nothing better to do, and...'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-787265371444867030</id><published>2008-10-16T22:09:00.009-06:00</published><updated>2008-10-17T20:29:05.852-06:00</updated><title type='text'>How to chicken out...</title><content type='html'>1) Realize your best friend is in a relationship that makes him at least a little bit happy&lt;br /&gt;2) Realize you should probably respect that&lt;br /&gt;3) Realize if/when they break up, which to you seems totally inevitable, &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;then&lt;/span&gt; you can tell him&lt;br /&gt;4) Realize if you &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;do&lt;/span&gt; tell him and they &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;don't&lt;/span&gt; break up, it will be even more awkward, because then (at least to his wife) you'll forever be that chick who made a play for her husband right before they got engaged and she'll totally rip up your Christmas card every year&lt;br /&gt;5) Realize you were never really going to say anything more in the first place anyway because a) you already more or less told him and b) you're a big chicken&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;------------------&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Talking to Chris was pretty awful, partly because I felt like a jerk, and partly because he said a lot of really sweet things that made me have a &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;lot&lt;/span&gt; of second thoughts (too late).&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I think his pride was hurt more than anything else.  I think he thought I was just playing hard to get all of those times I told him I wasn't ready to be serious, and realizing that &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;I actually wasn't ready to be serious&lt;/span&gt; was a surprise.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When I told Chris that I DID like him, and couldn't we still be friends and hang out and see what happens, he looked at me with this kind of frustrated expression and said, "Why, because that's working so well for you with Seth?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Point taken.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I must've apologized something like twenty times.  Near the end there he told me I didn't have anything to be sorry for, and he drawled out, "But I&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; AM&lt;/span&gt; awfully sorry you're so resistant to my fairly obvious charms."   Maybe you had to be there, but honestly, with the accent?  Very cute.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We left things on good terms.   If we see each other at church or at an activity or at a party he'll probably be friendly.  It'll be easy for him because he undoubtedly already has twenty girls lining up to go out with him.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It wasn't really the conversation itself that sucked - it was how I felt afterward.  I'm having serious misgivings about having told him the truth.  I know it was probably the honorable thing to do or whatever - why play games - but do guys &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;really&lt;/span&gt; need to have the whole truth, all the time?  What happened to hedging your bets?  I feel so conflicted.  I think I'm gonna be regretting this a lot longer than he is. I'm a lot worried this is my first step on the road to the whole seventeen cats plus me thing.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I can't stop eating either.  I'm just so stressed and there is NO-ONE to talk to.  Melissa's ticked, I can't tell Seth a lot of it, Kristen's married...  I need to quit eating so much or I'm gonna be back in my tens, and I really don't want that - not after working so freaking hard.   I wanted to be in a six by Halloween, but that's not gonna happen now.  I suck.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-787265371444867030?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/787265371444867030'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/787265371444867030'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/10/how-to-chicken-out.html' title='How to chicken out...'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-4531213919551207023</id><published>2008-10-14T01:05:00.002-06:00</published><updated>2008-10-16T10:20:45.598-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Wow.  That  sucked.</title><content type='html'>I think he was expecting/hoping I was gonna deny the Seth thing.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I told him the whole truth - yes, I like him, but also yes, I have feelings for Seth, and yes, I'm trying to get over it.   (I didn't say it like that, but that was basically the &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;gist&lt;/span&gt;.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Then I asked him if he wanted to maybe be friends and go out once in a while.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He doesn't.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Gee, this whole Project Honesty thing is off to such a great freaking start, I can't tell you how excited I am to move on to Phase Two.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-4531213919551207023?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/4531213919551207023'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/4531213919551207023'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/10/wow-that-sucked.html' title='Wow.  That  sucked.'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-4737879372402305961</id><published>2008-10-13T20:10:00.004-06:00</published><updated>2008-10-16T10:20:51.866-06:00</updated><title type='text'>I know I keep saying I'm tired of this...</title><content type='html'>But I'm really tired of this.  I don't want to spend the next however long hurting over this.  I don't want to hurt anyone else either.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Someone sent me an email and it was just what I needed to hear.   The only way out of this whole convoluted mess is to just be honest.  With everyone.  With Chris.  With Seth.  And I guess with myself too.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;That's really the thing - in the past I haven't wanted to hear what Seth would say if I really talked to him about it.  It was easier and safer to live with my pocketful of imaginary hopes.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm tired of wasting my life waiting for something to happen.  I need to hear the truth.  I think I already know what the truth is, but I need to hear it from him so that I can cry over it for a couple trillion years and then hopefully start to move on.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I know if I never tell him, I'll look back on this in ten years and I'll regret that I never made sure he knew the whole truth.  That Tinkerbell, never-say-die little part of my heart that still thinks &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;maybe, maybe&lt;/span&gt; will always wonder.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm supposed to talk to Chris after his class tonight and I'm just gonna be honest, then maybe in a few days (weeks?), after I get up the nerve, I'm gonna talk to Seth.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So that's the plan.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Cross your fingers that I don't chicken out.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-4737879372402305961?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/4737879372402305961'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/4737879372402305961'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/10/i-know-i-keep-saying-im-tired-of-this.html' title='I know I keep saying I&apos;m tired of this...'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-3135256124204207166</id><published>2008-10-13T13:19:00.008-06:00</published><updated>2008-10-16T10:20:58.709-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Chris wants to talk</title><content type='html'>He texted me: "We should talk - don't want to leave things this way."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My stomach just dropped like an elevator.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'll admit there is a small evil part of me that wants to fix things with Chris just to tick Melissa off.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But there's a bigger part that wants to fix things just because I feel awful.  I think I made a huge mistake.   I wish I'd given him a different answer when he asked me if I was into Seth.  "No way, that was just a lame crush - &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;I'm totally over it&lt;/span&gt;."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="color: rgb(153, 51, 153);font-size:85%;" &gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="color: rgb(153, 51, 153);font-size:85%;" &gt;I really don't want to end up alone. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-3135256124204207166?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/3135256124204207166'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/3135256124204207166'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/10/chris-wants-to-talk.html' title='Chris wants to talk'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-754756425358799692</id><published>2008-10-13T13:18:00.005-06:00</published><updated>2008-10-16T10:21:05.263-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Weak link</title><content type='html'>You know what?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;That post was making me feel nauseous, like I threw up all over my blog, so I just deleted it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Here's all you need to know:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Melissa admitted she likes Chris. (Yeah, it all makes sense now, right?) She met him first, she got to know him (and Lisa), she invited him to &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;Sundance&lt;/span&gt;, and she was less than thrilled when we started dating. She's been mad about that for a while now. She and Teresa have apparently been bonding over what a horrible, horrible person I am and she accused me of interfering in Seth and Teresa's relationship.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;She wants me away from Chris, so she started talking all kinds of nonsense about how Seth is probably interested in me now because I've lost weight, which is RIDICULOUS, because if Seth liked me, he &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;wouldn't be dating Teresa&lt;/span&gt;.    The end.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;If Seth liked me, he would &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;tell me.&lt;/span&gt;  He already knows how I feel, more or less.  He would do something about it if he wanted to.  And he hasn't. Because he &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;doesn't&lt;/span&gt;.  It's not that complicated, even though sometimes I try to pretend it is.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It makes me so mad that she's trying to mess with my head and make me think otherwise, just because of Chris - &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;who doesn't even like her.  &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt;So much for her &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;new found&lt;/span&gt; loyalty to Teresa.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;She had to be all nasty about it though, saying that if Seth and I ever do get together, he'll just drop me as soon as I gain weight again - which she's sure is inevitable. Real nice.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Lisa was mad at me because I hurt her brother, more or less. She disappeared half-way through the fight, tired of all the drama.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Basically, we're not talking to each other right now - any of us.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I swear, if there could be &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;one day &lt;/span&gt;without some kind of massive emotional upheaval, it would be a freaking miracle. I hate girls and their drama. They're so vicious.  This is exactly why my best friend is a &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;guy&lt;/span&gt;.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;At the same time I keep thinking of that &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;demotivators&lt;/span&gt; poster, the one that says something like "Dysfunction: the common link in all of your failed relationships is you."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Maybe they have a point.&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-754756425358799692?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/754756425358799692'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/754756425358799692'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/10/weak-link.html' title='Weak link'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-1687439377601945591</id><published>2008-10-12T23:54:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2008-10-16T23:40:50.096-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Shoot...</title><content type='html'>On Friday I went out with Chris.   Tonight I got dumped, had a huge fight with Melissa and finally got a clue.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It was kind of a busy weekend.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Chris took me to La Caille on Friday, this really fancy and romantic French restaurant in Sandy. I was all, "Chris, I know you're broke, let's just go to IHOP," but he had reservations and was really insistent about wanting to take me, so I shut up and tried to be gracious. I got home kind of early because I was really full and sleepy. (It was probably the most food I've eaten at one time in two months.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I spent the morning figuring out my classes for next semester, (took a semester off because I was broke - now I'm trying to finish - 15 credits left) then went to the gym (it sucked), then went to my parent's house. When I came home Lisa and Melissa were planning a game night with Jordan and Dave, and Lisa had already asked Chris to come over.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Fast forward a few hours and we were all sitting around playing The Office board game. I was cheating because I wanted it to go faster. I wasn't really in the mood. I wasn't being a brat, but I was being kind of quiet. Chris kept asking what was wrong, and I kept telling him "nothing," and then he'd ask again, and then I'd say "nothing" AGAIN. It got kind of annoying.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was trying not to show my irritation. Even though I was annoyed, I still felt a lot of empathy for him, because I totally get it - the wanting everything to be perfect thing, the hoping if you make it perfect enough the other person is gonna want you back thing. The only problem is that trying too hard makes it so much worse.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It seems strange that he should like me so much. Maybe we always want what we can't ever really have. He told me on Friday night that he thought I was "so beautiful." Nobody's said anything like that to me for a WHILE, other than maybe my mom and random old people. Later on I was saying something sort of self deprecating and he said, "I think you're pretty much perfect."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I almost cried, because I didn't want him to feel that way. I didn't want him to like me so much. I didn't want to hurt him. Unfortunately, I think he thought I was weepy eyed because I was touched by the compliment.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Anyway, we were all sitting around playing when knock knock knock - guess who's at the door. Melissa answered it and Seth was standing there in long &lt;span&gt;shorts&lt;/span&gt; (um, HELLO, 40 degrees out) and a t-shirt and ruffled hair, all sleepy looking like he just woke up - the way I love him best. He was like, "Sorry, I didn't know you guys were having a thing."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I told him to come in and warm up but he said he had to go. He obviously felt pretty awkward.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;OK, I have to tell you this next part in detail or you won't get it. Sorry if it's boring, but - you have to understand what a JERK Melissa was being. (And then later maybe you'll understand &lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;why &lt;/span&gt;she was being such a jerk.)&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;After Seth left Chris said, "Does he always drop by like that?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Melissa muttered, "Constantly."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I kind of shot her a dirty look, then rolled the dice and moved my guy.  "We hang out a lot."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"You and him and Melissa," he clarified.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Melissa snorted.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"You and him," he said, and this time it wasn't a question.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"We've been friends for a long time. We're like brother and sister. Your turn." I was suddenly very enthusiastic about the game. I thought we should all concentrate on the game and &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;stop talking.   STOP TALKING IMMEDIATELY.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Melissa made another noise under her breath and I glared at her.  "WHAT?!"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;She looked at Chris.  "You ever watch 90210?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He shook his head.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"There's this couple, Ethan and Naomi, and there's this whole thing about how they exist inside of an impenetrable bubble and no matter how anyone tries, they can't ever really get inside of it. Trying to get involved with either of them is a total waste of time." She looked at me pointedly.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I start sputtering.  "That's ridiculous - he has a girlfriend and we're not a couple Melissa."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"You might as well be."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Chris looked at me in confusion.  "You used to date?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"No," I said irritably.  "Never.  We're friends, and that's all we've &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;ever&lt;/span&gt; been."  I was ready to &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;kill&lt;/span&gt; Melissa.  Everyone else in the room looked varying shades of uncomfortable yet fascinated, except Lisa, who looked worried.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Melissa wasn't done yet.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I'm telling you this because you're a nice guy and you don't deserve this. Run for the hills. It's not gonna happen. Cordy - "&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"MELISSA!"  I tried to interrupt but she talked over me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Cordy has a record of blowing off each and every guy who's ever been interested in her, because she's totally infatuated with Seth."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I stared at her. What was she DOING?! Seriously, WHAT WAS SHE DOING? The total shock and anger I felt in that moment, UGH. I can't even tell you.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Chris was working his jaw and he looked at me, flushed.  "Can we talk?" He glanced over at Melissa, then back at me.  "Outside?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I nodded, and he got up and stalked out of the room.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I glared at Melissa, so angry I was speechless. I'm not one of those people who gets articulate and says the exact right words when I'm mad, I'm more the kind who just gets apoplectic with rage and unable to express themselves coherently. I pointed at her, said, "we are &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;so&lt;/span&gt; gonna talk about this later," and she SMIRKED at me. I thought I was gonna have an aneurysm right there in the living room, but I just threw my hands up in the air and followed Chris out.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It was freaking freezing outside.  Chris looked at me.  "Was that true?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I started rubbing my forehead and jabbering, not looking at him. "No, we never dated, he has a girlfriend, we're just good friends - you can ask him, he'll tell you - we hang out because we're friends and we get along really well and we grew up together and - "&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He interrupted me, his voice deadly quiet.  "So are you into him or what?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The question deflated me.  How could I answer that?  I bit my lip and looked up at him and he could see it on my face.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He shook his head.  "I feel like a *!$@#  idiot."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Chris - "&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I guess I can't say you didn't warn me." He picked up his keys, not looking at me, but getting that resolute no-way-will-I-get-upset look guys get when they're getting upset. "I''ll see you around."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I wanted to go after him, to tell him not to be ridiculous, that I didn't like Seth at all, I liked HIM - except it wouldn't have been true. And it was inevitable, the ending badly thing. Maybe it was better this way - rip off the band-aid and get it over with.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But I felt awful. I knew how he had to have felt. It was like I was Seth and Chris was me. I hate being responsible for that. I felt and feel horrible.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I stood out there shivering in the cold for a minute, feeling like the world's biggest jerk, then went inside, ready to absolutely murder Melissa.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;I'm gonna have to tell you the rest tomorrow night, I'm too tired right now.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-1687439377601945591?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/1687439377601945591'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/1687439377601945591'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/10/shoot.html' title='Shoot...'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-804256421574430550</id><published>2008-10-10T11:05:00.002-06:00</published><updated>2008-10-16T10:24:00.043-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Who needs logic anyway...</title><content type='html'>&lt;p&gt;Chris showed up last night, checking to see if I was still mad and if we were on for tonight. I wasn't, and we were. He won points by telling me that he doesn't think I'm dumb, would never think that, because he thinks I'm "incredibly clever." Except with his accent it sounded like "clevah."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;I told him about my cousin's wedding reception next week and asked him if he wanted to come with me. He said he couldn't because he had other plans. WITH A GIRL.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;I must've looked surprised, because he said, "You kept insisting we should see other people, keep it casual."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Gosh, I'm such a hypocrite. I wanted things to be all casual and non-serious and light, but I was really, REALLY annoyed that he had a date. "Oh. That's cool then. No problem."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;"Funny, you don't look all that thrilled."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Oh, I am. I'm thrilled for you. Have a great time. In fact, if you want to go out with her tomorrow too, be my guest."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It was ridiculous. It was like I could hear the words coming out of my mouth, but I had no idea where they were coming from.&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt; &lt;p&gt;"Well whaddaya know." He was watching me with this knowing amusement that was really annoying. "Somebody's jealous."&lt;/p&gt;"I'm not jealous."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;p&gt;"You are. Little Miss Let's-Take-It-Slow, No-Exclusivity, Don't-Fence-Me-In-Jones is jealous." He was totally loving it, you should have seen him grinning at me. I kind of wanted to smack him.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;"I'm not."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Except I was, a little. Maybe I was doing that horrible thing where I don't want him, but I don't want anyone else to have him either. (Except I might want him a &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;little&lt;/span&gt; bit. I don't know.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;He put a hand under my chin and made me look at him. "You know, if you want me to call it off, I can do that."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;So then we had this whole conversation about how I wasn't ready to be exclusive, even though, yeah, I was a little jealous. It was funny, he said, "So you want a casual, non-exclusive non-relationship, but one where I don't actually date anyone else."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Dang him, trying to be all logical about it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I sort of rolled my eyes and told him, NO, - but then I said that I didn't want to start anything serious right then - because I didn't want to end up hurting him a few weeks down the road.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He gave me that JJ&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;*&lt;/span&gt; grin, head tilted to the side. "You won't. You're totally gonna fall in love with me, trust me."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;OK, so it was pretty cute. There might have been kissing after that, I can't remember. It's hazy.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm so confused though.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Maybe I should borrow a clue from Chris and try to be logical, for once. So here are the facts:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;1) I love Seth&lt;br /&gt;2) Seth doesn't love me&lt;br /&gt;3) I like Chris enough to be jealous&lt;br /&gt;4) Chris really likes me a lot, or at least he says he does&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So the logical thing to do here is:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;a) stop obsessing over Seth&lt;br /&gt;b) keep dating Chris&lt;br /&gt;c) move on with my life&lt;br /&gt;d) a, b, and c&lt;br /&gt;e) Continue hopelessly wishing Seth loved me, stay frozen in place in my life, and end up a crazy spinster lady with 17 cats&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Obviously E, right?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;OBVIOUSLY.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;* HELLO, Joshua Jackson, we've already been over this, remember?&lt;/span&gt; : )&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-804256421574430550?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/804256421574430550'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/804256421574430550'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/10/huh.html' title='Who needs logic anyway...'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-1461323829481881237</id><published>2008-10-09T01:01:00.003-06:00</published><updated>2008-10-16T10:24:17.606-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Sparks</title><content type='html'>The thing that’s so hard about having him know how I feel about him is that there &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;isn&lt;/span&gt;’t any place to hide.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When I talk about Chris to Seth, he plays along, but I can tell he’s wondering why I’m pretending. He’s thinking - &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;why are you even saying this? We both know who you really love. &lt;/span&gt;But he &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;doesn&lt;/span&gt;’t call me on it. I think he understands - how I almost need Chris as a barrier, a way to show him – &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;look, I’m not really so in love with you...   see, I’m not really as desperate as you might think.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I feel like we can’t be affectionate now, not the way we used to be, when he would hug me for no reason, or pull me close to him on the couch when we were watching a movie. Now there’s this invisible barrier of intention - &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;if I do this, it'll make her feel this, so I’d better not do it&lt;/span&gt;.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Tonight we were talking in the backyard on the ancient, dusty patio couch and at one point he reached over and gently tucked my hair behind my ear, saying, “There, now I can see you.”&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My heart started racing (because my heart still has not received the memo about how I'm supposed to be getting over him) and there was this moment where I looked up at him and he must have realized, &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;oh crap, that’s where the line is. &lt;/span&gt;He gave me an apologetic look that made me feel awful, because I don’t want his empathy, I just want him to love me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It must have shown on my face, the kind of heartbreak I felt in that moment, because he shook his head and then silently mouthed “sorry.” He looked so sad, which made me feel even worse, because it just drove it home – he doesn't love me, not the way I want.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A few seconds later I told him I was tired, and he nodded and almost started to hug me, &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;friggin&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;stopped himself&lt;/span&gt; (ouch), said goodbye, and left. I stayed out there for a while, blinking back tears, wishing he &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"&gt;didn&lt;/span&gt;’t know, wishing I’d &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;never, never, never&lt;/span&gt; had a jealous breakdown, and wishing things were different.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sometimes I write stories about how I wish it could be. I should probably burn them, but I’&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"&gt;ve&lt;/span&gt; read them so many times that they almost feel real to me. It would be like burning little pieces of my heart, and I can almost already feel them, singed and blackened, little sparks of heartfelt paper floating away in the wind.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-1461323829481881237?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/1461323829481881237'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/1461323829481881237'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/10/sparks-not-good-kind.html' title='Sparks'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-4580942480441580556</id><published>2008-10-08T12:55:00.002-06:00</published><updated>2008-10-16T10:25:04.576-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Maybe annoying runs in the family</title><content type='html'>Lisa sat me down last night and gave me a talking to about my hair.  She thinks I'm not styling it right.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was kind of laughing, and she was all, "Cordy, this is &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;serious&lt;/span&gt;.  I gave you this awesome haircut and you're pulling it up in a ponytail everyday.  And I can tell when you wear it down you're not even blow drying it with a round brush."  Since I don't have a round brush I just kind of blinked at her, trying to think of how to respond, when she threw in the kicker. "You could be really pretty if you just tried."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Um.  Thank you?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;She's making me go buy new brushes with her today after work and then she wants to give me a hair lesson.   I'm going to try my best not to kill her.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(Don't get me wrong, I really want her to teach me and I appreciate it but I can't help feeling kind of insulted.  I guess I've been feeling so good about the whole weight loss thing that I haven't been obsessing over my hair every other minute.  MY BAD.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm not all that enthusiastic about her brother right now either.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Last night a bunch of us watched the debate together and the room was evenly split down party lines.  I'm voting for one guy, Chris is voting for the other.  No big deal, but he was being really obnoxious and patronizing.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He thought I had no idea what I was talking about.  "Cordy, you're adorable but I'm not sure you really understand economic policy."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Um...  What?!   "Did you just call me dumb?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"What?  No, I - "&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"You did.  You just called me dumb."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I didn't - "&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I may not understand very much about mathematical physics, but I'm not dumb."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I don't think you are."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I minored in poly sci AND I took two economics classes.   I'll bet I know more about Barack's economic policy than you do.   I mean - who's his senior economic advisor, I'll bet you don't even know."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He grinned at me.  "Goolsbee."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Infuriating.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Cordy, relax."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ooooooh.       "You know what?  I don't want to talk to you right now."   And I stomped off to my room and called Seth and talked to him for an hour.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(I'm so dumb.  I wanted to make Chris mad, so I called Seth but since he has no idea how I feel about Seth, or even any idea that I called him, it was sort of a pointless exercise - other than the whole talking to Seth thing, which is always good.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When Chris came to my door to say goodbye, I whispered "I'm on the phone," and waved, and he left.  He was really annoyed, I could tell.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;GOOD.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;(On the plus side, it made it super easy to hold the line on anymore making out.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-4580942480441580556?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/4580942480441580556'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/4580942480441580556'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/10/maybe-annoying-runs-in-family.html' title='Maybe annoying runs in the family'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-612838092515434277</id><published>2008-10-08T01:01:00.002-06:00</published><updated>2008-10-16T10:26:07.987-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Seth, on the phone...</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;(&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;He loves to tease me. I won't even pretend I don't like it.&lt;/span&gt;)&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"So where's the big date?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"It's not a big date, it's just dinner and a movie."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Chuck-a-Rama? I hear they have cowboy food there."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"He isn't a cowboy. He's from Georgia. He's never even ridden a horse."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Lone Star Steakhouse? They let you throw peanuts on the floor there, so he'd probably feel right at home, like he's right back on the peanut farm."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"He's not a peanut farmer, he's a math genius."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"You're wrong. Everyone in Georgia lives on a peanut farm. I learned that on Dateline."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"You learned that on Dateline."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Yes."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"..."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Wait - I bet it's not Lone Star - he seems too cheap for that. Maybe Sizzler. It's Sizzler, right?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I ignore him. "Anyway - "&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I think we should double. In fact, I'm gonna call Chris and run it by him."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"NO. NO WAY. That is NOT happening."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Come on. Where's your sense of adventure?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"How is that an adventure exactly?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"A double dating adventure. Two couples, one table. SO MUCH COULD HAPPEN."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"So basically an adventure in things being really really awkward."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Exactly. Think of the possibilities."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Yeah, I am. I'm still thinking NO."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm so happy we were able to have a normal, non-awkward phoneversation. I think the fact that I'm seeing someone makes it all a little less uncomfortable.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Oh - and I feel like I should say this for the record - &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;it's NOT SIZZLER.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;:)&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-612838092515434277?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/612838092515434277'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/612838092515434277'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/10/seth-on-phone.html' title='Seth, on the phone...'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-1884322391902536253</id><published>2008-10-07T09:20:00.002-06:00</published><updated>2008-10-16T10:26:17.963-06:00</updated><title type='text'>OK, lets assess...</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" &gt;Seth&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;: OK, granted, not in love with me, but at least we're still friends, and things are only &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;moderately&lt;/span&gt; weird.  I was so scared he was going to avoid me forever.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Our chat last night made me feel a lot more cheerful about the whole thing.  Took it out of the realm of despair and back into - ok, maybe this is not such a big deal.  If he'd been all serious and OH MY GOSH WHAT DO WE DO NOW about it, I'm not sure how I would have handled it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm kind of scared to actually talk to him in person though.  My plan is to avoid face-to-face interaction for as long as possible.  I think it's gonna be awkward.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Chris:&lt;/span&gt; At long last, you get to hear how the dry spell ended:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;After we drove back from Tuacahn I dropped him off (he drove back with me) and walked him up to his porch (he insisted ;&gt;)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;so&lt;/span&gt; dumb about what to do in those situations.  We were standing there and I suddenly got all nervous and &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;wasn&lt;/span&gt;’t sure where to look or what to do or how long to stand there or anything, and I was considering running back to the car when he said, “C’mere,” and he gave me a hug, then when I kind of pulled away he just leaned in and kissed me before I could even have a chance to make an idiot of myself. It was kind of awesome.  And that’s all I’m gonna say about that because I do have SOME boundaries.  Not a lot, but some.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I need to put the brakes on the Chris thing, but it's hard because he's out-of-my-league cute (there is something fundamentally untrustworthy about a guy in his looks range being interested in me, you know?) and he's really fun to flirt with.  Plus he laughs at all of my jokes.  (That goes a long way.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When I'm not around him I always intend to slow things down - and then when I'm with him I kind of forget about all of my good intentions and somehow end up promising to go out with him again.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't want to use him as a way to get over Seth though. That would officially make me a huge jerk, wouldn't it? I think it would. So no more kissing until I figure it out.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Who am I kidding. I'm not that strong.  (I'm kind of turning into a kissing slut I think.  I just want more kissing, all the time.)  But no way will we be exclusive.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;Last night he came over after his class and we were all sitting around talking and he pulled out Lisa's guitar and started playing it and sort of quietly singing along.  (Did I mention he has a really awesome voice?)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Come on, like I'm supposed to resist &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;that&lt;/span&gt;. I have resolve, but not &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;that&lt;/span&gt; much. I mean, singing and playing the guitar all while giving me his best JJ* smile?  What's next - he has a chocolate plantation?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We're going out on Friday.  Give me strength.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(It's so weird to be going out on actual dates again.  Like &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;bizzaro&lt;/span&gt; land weird.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Weight:&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;Drum roll&lt;/span&gt;..... Last night I fit into Melissa's size eight jeans (Yes, I know, vanity sizing, whatever, I don't want to hear it. SIZE EIGHT JEANS.)  And they weren't even tight.  I had to do my happy dance.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;By the way, running totally sucks. People keep saying that eventually you start to love it, but don't believe them. It sucks and I hate it. It's really effective though. Somehow I went down a size (more or less) in sixteen days, even though I didn't lose that many actual pounds.  I'm not sure what the deal is.  I thought a size was ten pounds, but I only lost about seven.  Still, whatever, I'll take it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was thinking about running a 5K. (Why does everyone who starts running immediately start thinking about races?)  I don't know why I want to do it.  I'm slow and it doesn't really sound all that fun.  It kind of sounds like a lot of work.  But it seems like the next thing to do - plus it makes you sound cool "I'm running a 5k next weekend."&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Very cool.  :)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" &gt;* Joshua Jackson, duh&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-1884322391902536253?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/1884322391902536253'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/1884322391902536253'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/10/ok-lets-assess.html' title='OK, lets assess...'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-575650113671619454</id><published>2008-10-06T22:00:00.002-06:00</published><updated>2008-10-16T10:26:28.735-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Google Chat</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;I wasn't sure if I should really post this whole thing or not.  It's really long.  I HAD to post it though, because to ME it's proof of his total awesomeness.   I edited it a little - don't think you need to know our real names or google ids, plus IM abbreviations are totally from the devil.  &lt;/span&gt;;&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;S: Caught you&lt;p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;C:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;Yeah, sorry&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S: You didn’t call me back, loser&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;C: I didn’t know what to say&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;Then let me talk&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S: You can just listen&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S: Or yes/no answers&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S: Or we can IM&lt;/p&gt;      &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;C: IM...  less embarrassing&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S: Why embarrassed?&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;C:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;Don’t do that&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;What?&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;C: Pretend you don't know&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S:&lt;span style=""&gt; &lt;/span&gt;don’t be embarrassed&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S: we'll figure it out&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;You still there? &lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;C:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;Did you already know?&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;C:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;Be honest, I need to know&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;I didn’t&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S:&lt;span style=""&gt; &lt;/span&gt;Sometimes I wondered&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S:&lt;span style=""&gt; &lt;/span&gt;There'd be a moment or something but you’d always start joking around two seconds later and talking about the cowboy or Aaron or whoever was hanging around you that month&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S: you know you and your defensive stand-up comedy&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;You aren’t all that easy to read&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S:&lt;span style=""&gt; &lt;/span&gt;I’d talk about T and you’d get irritable, but I thought it was because you didn’t like her&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;C: no comment&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S:&lt;span style=""&gt; &lt;/span&gt;I wasn’t sure&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;Sometimes I thought maybe - like at the park - you were quiet and red&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S:&lt;span style=""&gt; &lt;/span&gt;then you started dating the cowboy&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;C:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;He isn’t a cowboy&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;C: and we’ve only been on one official date&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;Yeah, tell him that – I think he thinks its more serious than you do&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;C: So what now&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;C:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;It’s gonna be weird&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;C:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;you feel sorry for me&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;Why would I?&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;C:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;you know, 'cuz of my very great love for you&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;C:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;(that was a joke)&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S:&lt;span style=""&gt; &lt;/span&gt;don’t do that&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;C:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;What?&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S:&lt;span style=""&gt; &lt;/span&gt;hide behind your humor shield&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S:&lt;span style=""&gt; &lt;/span&gt;can I ask a question?&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;C:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;yeah&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S:&lt;span style=""&gt; &lt;/span&gt;how serious are we talking?&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S: hello...&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S: where'd you go...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;C:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;I plead the fifth&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;C:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;A crush, ok?&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;that’s all I’m gonna say.&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;C: Crushes are no big deal&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;C:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;We all have crushes, right?&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;right&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;I used to have a crush on you&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;C:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;don’t do that&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;what?&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;C:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;LIE TO TRY TO MAKE ME FEEL BETTER&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;C:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;jerk&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;I’m not, I’m serious&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;back when we started hanging out again right after my mish&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;C:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;oh, right, the post-mission every-girl-looks-great desperation&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;stop - &lt;span style=""&gt; &lt;/span&gt;you were dating that total tool, Crenshaw, and we started hanging out&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S: don’t know what you saw in him&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;C: he was funny&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;C:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;and he had a nice car&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S: shallow&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;C:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;totally&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S:&lt;span style=""&gt; &lt;/span&gt;see, we both had a crush.  All it means is you need to get out more - you know when I start looking like a prize you've got bigger problems&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;C:&lt;span style=""&gt; You're such a liar&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style=""&gt;C:&lt;/span&gt; Well at least now you know I don’t wanna see you making out with your girlfriend, right?&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;Don’t need the visual&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S:&lt;span style=""&gt; &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style=""&gt; &lt;/span&gt;I feel like the biggest ahole about that&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;- I don’t even know how it happened&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;C:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;I do, 'cuz I was there.   It involved straddling.  STRADDLING.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;right&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S:&lt;span style=""&gt; &lt;/span&gt;sorry&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;C:  I guess once the girl is literally CLIMBING ON TOP OF YOU in public, the least you can do is kiss her for her efforts, right?  So I'll give you that one.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S:&lt;span style=""&gt; w&lt;/span&gt;on’t happen again&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S:  talk about embarrassed&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S:&lt;span style=""&gt; &lt;/span&gt;don’t even know how long that whole thing’s gonna last&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;C:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;DON'T DO THAT&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;C:  DON'T say that for my benefit&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;C:  Maybe you think that's kind, but it's not, it just makes me get all irrational&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S:&lt;span style=""&gt; &lt;/span&gt;No, I don't mean THAT.&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;Not related to this whole thing at all, but...&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S:&lt;span style=""&gt;   &lt;/span&gt;She didn’t even know if Sarah Palin was a Republican or Democrat.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;C: I'm biting my tongue.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S:  I suddenly realized she’s NINETEEN&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;She makes me feel old and tired&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;C:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;You ARE old and tired&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;Is this weird?&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;C:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;What&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;Talking about her?&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;C:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;no, this is more like normal&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;C:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;Although honestly, unless you’re breaking up with her, I don’t really want to hear about her&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;C: I can do without the whole – she’s so awesome – speech&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;yeah, I can see that&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;You know I love you right?&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;Cordy&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;hello...&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;C:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;yeah, I know&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;C:&lt;span style=""&gt; &lt;/span&gt;ease up on that kind of talk though, k?&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;I know what you mean, but it’s too confusing&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S: right&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;but I do&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S:&lt;span style=""&gt; I &lt;/span&gt;always will&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;cordy….&lt;span style=""&gt; &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S:  Hello…..&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;C:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;you’re killing me here, you know that?&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;sorry&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;So I can’t say that anymore&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;I don’t know where the line is&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;You’re gonna have to train me&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S: hit me if I do something stupid&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;C: glad to&lt;span style=""&gt;  - though personally i&lt;/span&gt;t would help me if you would start acting like a raging ahole&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;C:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;that would help me out &lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S:  THAT'S something I can do&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;C:&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;I’m gonna go&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S:  we ok?&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;C:  yeah&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S:  promise&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;C:&lt;span style=""&gt; &lt;/span&gt;talk to you later&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;S:  promise&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;C:  yeah, I promise&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Even when he's letting me down gently he's SO TOTALLY WONDERFUL.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;I'm never gonna get over this.  (Gosh, I type that so frequently I should just use the acronym  - INGGOT)&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;(How dumb is it that I keep reading this over and over again!   Somebody smack me please, I think I need it.)&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-575650113671619454?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/575650113671619454'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/575650113671619454'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/10/chat.html' title='Google Chat'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-2921427619610462510</id><published>2008-10-05T19:56:00.002-06:00</published><updated>2008-10-16T10:27:03.671-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Why it hurts...</title><content type='html'>What a mess. I’m so sick of crying. I’ll warn you in advance - this is waaay long. I’m not really so good at editing myself when I’m upset.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;After that last post, almost everyone who emailed me said, “Cordy, this guy is a JERK. RUN. RUN FAR AWAY.”  Which kind of breaks my heart, because I hate the thought of everyone out there thinking he’s a jerk.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It almost makes me want to delete the blog, because I’ve given you the wrong impression.  You've only gotten to hear what I've been in the mood to tell you.  Sometimes when I post I write it like it's a book, and sometimes I'm more in the summarizing/impatient type mood, and sometimes I like to pretend I’m a screenwriter and just tell you what people said.   So it's not really all that accurate or complete.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I want you to know that he's not a jerk. He did a stupid, thoughtless thing, but even good people do stupid, thoughtless things in the heat of the moment.  He’s one of the best people I know.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Let me tell you a couple of things about who Seth is, so maybe you'll get why I fell in love with him in the first place.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;ul&gt;&lt;li&gt;He was there for me when my grandpa died, waiting for me outside of the hospital and holding my hand at the funeral.&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;Way back when, when I broke up with my last jerk of a boyfriend, he let me vent and rant and rave without ever saying “I told you so,” (because he’d seriously, seriously told me so).&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;He taught me how to snowboard and how to shoot.&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;When I had to put my dog down a few months ago he had his arm around me the whole time and comforted me when I cried, even though he hates dogs.&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;We’ve talked for hours and hours and hours and hours – about everything and anything. &lt;/li&gt;&lt;/ul&gt;I could tell you a million little stories like that, but they all boil down to this: He wouldn’t hurt me on purpose.  He's a good guy.  He's a good MAN.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He’s just not that into me. That’s it.  That's the whole thing. And it sucks because he’s my best friend, but it doesn't mean that he's a jerk, or that he doesn't care. I &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;know&lt;/span&gt; he cares.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What you guys don’t know is how sick he looked on Thursday – how truly stricken he looked when he saw me crying. He looked like he’d been sucker-punched.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Late this morning he came over. I’d been kind of waiting for it, trying to figure out what to say. I didn’t want to get into a lot of detail, but I didn’t want to lie either. I'm tired of hiding it. On the other hand, I didn’t want a big dramatic friendship ending scene, either.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When he showed up he looked kind of tired and upset and worried, and as soon as I opened the door he launched into this whole thing about how he was really sorry for being such an ass (his word, not mine - sorry for the language).&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(It was awkward because Lisa was there watching and she doesn’t know ANY of this stuff.  I’m not sure how much I want her to know because of her brother. I could tell she was thinking, “What is THIS about?”)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We went out on the front porch and he gave me a huge hug, the hold-you-tight rock-back-and-forth kind. He eventually let me go and said, “So are we gonna talk about this?”&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I kind of shrugged, with my stomach lurching all over the place.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He said, “I get that I was a jack-ass, I get it, I swear. I’m so sorry,” and went on in that vein for a &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;while&lt;/span&gt;.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I didn’t know what to say back. I just sat there trying to think of something to say and willing myself &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;not to cry, not to cry, not to cry&lt;/span&gt;. I was mostly successful at keeping the tears out of my eyes. Mostly.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So he tried again, sitting down next to me on the glider and giving me the gentle eyes. “Cordy - what’s going on?”&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I think we sat there in total dead silence for a good five minutes, and I finally super &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;super&lt;/span&gt; quietly mumbled, “I don’t know. It was weird. It kind of hurt to see. I guess I don’t like seeing you kiss other girls, that’s all.”&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;“&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Other&lt;/span&gt; girls?”&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I didn’t look up for a long time. When I finally did, all scared and tentative, he was staring at me like I was from another planet.  Like I’d grown another head. A really, really, really ugly head.  He looked stunned and upset - almost angry with me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I suddenly really wanted off the porch, and through my tears I told him in a kind of speed mumble not to worry about it anymore, we were cool, and I didn’t really feel like talking, and I was tired from getting in so late and then I went inside. I didn’t even give him a chance to say anything. I went and sat in my room, feeling like I was having a heart attack. I don’t even know how long he sat outside for, I was afraid to look.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But since then he hasn’t called me, or texted me or emailed me or anything.  I don’t know if he:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;ul&gt;&lt;li&gt;Genuinely never knew and was putting the puzzle together and was kind of in shock&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;Always knew and was stunned that I was finally admitting it&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;Always suspected but never had confirmation and was totally shocked that I finally got up the nerve to say something&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/li&gt;&lt;/ul&gt;Either way, it doesn’t bode well. The look on his face was not, “OH MY GOSH SHE LIKES ME ALL MY DREAMS ARE COMING TRUE.” It was more, “Oh hell. This is totally gonna ruin our friendship and I have no idea what to say.”&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I think more than any potential relationship or whatever, I’m mourning the loss of our friendship, because it’s obvious it’s going to change no matter what happens after this.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I feel like my heart is breaking.  It's such a cliche, I know, but - it just hurts so much right now.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I’ll have to tell you all about Saturday later. I’m too bummed out tonight.  (I can summarize it like this: it was fun, I think Chris genuinely likes me, he kissed me, and he’s great. But if I got involved with him right now, it would be a total rebound, so I’m not sure I’m gonna go out with him again. We'll see what happens.)&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-2921427619610462510?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/2921427619610462510'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/2921427619610462510'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/10/why-it-hurts.html' title='Why it hurts...'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-988960434888735537</id><published>2008-10-03T07:43:00.002-06:00</published><updated>2008-10-16T10:27:17.305-06:00</updated><title type='text'>I don't want to talk to him...</title><content type='html'>...so I'm not.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I guess he didn't know, so I guess I didn't really have anything to be mad about.  But it still hurt, and then add the embarrassment over how I started crying like a six year old because of the kissing thing, and not knowing how to explain why I was crying, and the realization that this is all sort of coming to a head and something is gonna have to change in our friendship and I probably won't like how it works out -  it's all too much.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He texted me twice last night and once this morning and sent me an email last night that I posted and then deleted, along with some other spur of the second posts I put up because I was totally freaking out.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;His email and texts basically said he's sorry for being tacky and, ugh, making out with her in front of me and Melissa, but he doesn't understand why I was SO upset - specifically why I was crying.  He was kind of hung up on the crying thing.  He wants to talk.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But I don't.  Because I have no idea what to say.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I just know he's gonna show up at my work to try to get me to go to lunch with him and I can't take that, so I called in sick to work and I'm going to my grandma's house today in Cedar, then I'm gonna meet Chris and the others in St. George tomorrow at lunch time.   Hopefully Lisa won't be mad that I'm not helping her finish moving in.  I won't be online this weekend at all.   Have a good one you guys.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-988960434888735537?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/988960434888735537'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/988960434888735537'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/10/i-dont-want-to-talk-to-him.html' title='I don&apos;t want to talk to him...'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-5060642660622473958</id><published>2008-10-03T00:24:00.002-06:00</published><updated>2008-10-16T10:27:48.074-06:00</updated><title type='text'>I'm guessing...</title><content type='html'>that was probably not what most people meant when they encouraged me via email to just go ahead and tell him how I feel and get it over with, one way or the other, so I'd know once and for all.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;frick&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" &gt;I'm so embarrassed. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-5060642660622473958?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/5060642660622473958'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/5060642660622473958'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/10/im-guessing.html' title='I&apos;m guessing...'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-8136363056075486812</id><published>2008-10-02T23:42:00.003-06:00</published><updated>2008-10-26T08:15:00.987-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Speaking of screaming...</title><content type='html'>I'm so mad right now.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Hurt and mad. Mad and hurt. They're the same thing almost, aren't they?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Seth drops by all the time. It's just the way we are - if there isn't anything else to do, we hang out. He'll drop by here, I'll drop by there. It's kind of assumed we'll unexpectedly show up at least twice a week.&lt;span style="font-size:+0;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;What is &lt;i&gt;not&lt;/i&gt; assumed is that we'll bring a &lt;i&gt;date&lt;/i&gt; with us when we are dropping by out of the blue.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm sorry, but don't bring your girlfriend over here to hang out! Just don't! Date her, whatever, but don't drop by with her in tow. I'm sorry if she's not interesting enough for you to want to hang out with her solo when you&lt;span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"&gt; just started dating&lt;/span&gt;, but that's &lt;i&gt;your&lt;/i&gt; problem, not mine.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And once you’re here, you can surely find some other spot to mack on each other than on my couch, right?&lt;?xml:namespace prefix = o /&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt; &lt;p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:12;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;Seriously, we’re watching the debate, and they start making out.&lt;span style="font-size:+0;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;My jaw dropped and I looked over at Melissa, like - am I in the Twilight Zone? &lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;I told them to knock it off, and they did, but seemed perplexed by my outburst.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;Like this is a surprise?&lt;span style="font-size:+0;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;That it’s rude to get it on in someone’s living room, when the other people are watching TV?&lt;span style="font-size:+0;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;She was all, “What’s your problem?”&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;I think the shock of having to actually &lt;span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"&gt;watch them make out&lt;/span&gt;, combined with the feeling that I was about to vomit, combined with the feeling that I was going to kill her, made me totally snap, and I told them "You know what? I think you should probably leave and get a room." &lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;Seth kind of laughed, but I stood up and walked over to the door and flung it open and said, “I’m serious.&lt;span style="font-size:+0;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;Go.”&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;He stood up, but he was all, “Settle down, Cord.”&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;&lt;span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold"&gt;OH NO HE DIDN’T&lt;/span&gt;.&lt;span style="font-size:+0;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;“Get out.”&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;He patted me on the shoulder.&lt;span style="font-size:+0;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;“Look, I’m sorry.&lt;span style="font-size:+0;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;I guess that was pretty rude of us.” And then he &lt;span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"&gt;winked&lt;/span&gt; at me, like we were both in on the same joke.&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;Holy freak.&lt;span style="font-size:+0;"&gt; He doesn't &lt;/span&gt;understand why I'm upset that he's making out with a girl &lt;span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"&gt;who is not me&lt;/span&gt; in my living room, &lt;span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"&gt;right in front of me&lt;/span&gt;? He doesn't know how much that feels like someone just knifed me in the gut? &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;How &lt;span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"&gt;stupid&lt;/span&gt; do you have to be? &lt;span style="font-size:+0;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;How &lt;span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"&gt;totally clueless&lt;/span&gt;?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;Apparently, I am the best feelings hider in the freaking universe, because THE BOY HAS NO CLUE.&lt;span style="font-size:+0;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;He doesn’t get it at &lt;span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"&gt;all&lt;/span&gt;. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;I completely lost my mind. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;“Get out, get out, GET OUT!"&lt;span style="font-size:+0;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:+0;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;He was flabbergasted. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;I guess I don't blame him - I probably looked slightly unhinged. I think he's seen me scream at someone exactly one time in the entire time we've known each other, and I had tears in my eyes, because I am an IDIOT. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;His mouth was hanging open, I'm not even kidding. “Cordy – “&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;“&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;Get out, Seth. Now.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;” &lt;span style="font-size:+0;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;He stared at me for a minute then finally left, and she sauntered out after him, and I slammed the door as soon as her butt crossed the threshold.&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;Melissa was understandably sitting there staring at me like I’d lost my mind, then she mumbled, “I don’t even want to know how you’re gonna explain &lt;span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"&gt;that&lt;/span&gt; one to him tomorrow.”&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;I don’t think I am.&lt;span style="font-size:+0;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;I don’t think I’m gonna try.&lt;span style="font-size:+0;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;He can wonder.&lt;span style="font-size:+0;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;Let him wonder.&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;Ugh.&lt;span style="font-size:+0;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;UGH.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;This is probably full of bad writing and boring parts and bad verb tenses and typos and all of that stuff that I usually try to clean up, and I'm sorry, but I don't even care right now. I'm sitting here weeping at the keyboard.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:12;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;I’m so done with feeling like this.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:12;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:180%;"&gt;I’M SO DONE WITH FEELING LIKE THIS&lt;/span&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-8136363056075486812?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/8136363056075486812'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/8136363056075486812'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/10/speaking-of-screaming.html' title='Speaking of screaming...'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-6431421058910522871</id><published>2008-10-02T10:02:00.003-06:00</published><updated>2008-10-26T08:15:14.107-06:00</updated><title type='text'>I scream, you scream, we all scream...</title><content type='html'>Last night Chris, Jordan and Lisa brought a bunch of her stuff over. They're bringing it in stages, since we can't do it all on Saturday (because of Tuacahn).&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;After we took it all downstairs, Chris twisted my arm a little and we went to get Cold Stone for everyone, except instead of going to the closest Cold Stone he drove to the one in Draper. He said he wanted it to qualify as an actual spur-of-the-moment outing/date, and not errand-running - driving further away would make it more official. He was clearly kidding around, but I wasn't sure why he was making the distinction, so I asked him why it mattered.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"You strike me as one of those don't-kiss-on-the-first-date girls, so it would really work for me if Tuacahn is our &lt;span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"&gt;second&lt;/span&gt; date," he said with a huge grin and a wink.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When I started laughing he reached over and grabbed my hand and gave it a squeeze. It surprised me. I almost swallowed my tic-tac.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He's so straightforward, I don't know what to do with myself.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I know it was just an errand, despite his attempts to convince me otherwise, but it was fun. Surprisingly fun.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We brought slightly melty ice cream inside to everyone, and then he had to leave. Before he got back in his car he kissed my hand, all southernly like. That's probably just something he always does to charm girls. (It worked.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm still a little confused about why he's into me, but I'm gonna stop analyzing it. I'm gonna have fun. Because it is fun. I think I've kind of lost sight of that lately- dating is supposed to be fun. Romance is supposed to be fun - not hopeless and dramatic and awful.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What a concept.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And hey, the dry spell might be ending soon.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;:)&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-6431421058910522871?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/6431421058910522871'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/6431421058910522871'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/09/ok-so-that-was-weird.html' title='I scream, you scream, we all scream...'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-8854831957989241483</id><published>2008-10-01T10:53:00.003-06:00</published><updated>2008-10-26T08:15:25.489-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Seth's Mom</title><content type='html'>When I drop by the party Seth's outside playing football with his brothers. His mom and I talk in the formal living room, where I give her a present, which she opens and effusively loves, more out of fondness for me than any real interest in the gift. &lt;span style="font-size:+0;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;We talk about my hair for a minute (she likes it) and work for a while, then she surprises me. &lt;p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;?xml:namespace prefix = o /&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;“How are you handling all this?”&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;“All what?”&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;She gives me the look, the mom look.&lt;span style="font-size:+0;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;“Seth and Teresa.”&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;GAH. We don’t talk about this stuff, ever.&lt;span style="font-size:+0;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;I know she knows, because she’s a woman and she’s not blind, but we don’t actually say it out loud. &lt;span style="font-size:+0;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;I stutter my way through some gibberish about how I’m glad he’s happy, and if he’s happy I’m happy, and Teresa seems nice enough, and she watches me with skeptical eyes.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;“Cordy.&lt;span style="font-size:+0;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;Honey, come on.”&lt;span style="font-size:+0;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;“What?!”&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;She puts her hand on my shoulder.&lt;span style="font-size:+0;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;“I know you think you can’t tell him, but I think you can.&lt;span style="font-size:+0;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;I think you should.&lt;span style="font-size:+0;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;”&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;I feel a little frozen and I'm freaking out a little. I CANNOT go there with her.&lt;span style="font-size:+0;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;What if she decides to tell Seth what we talked about?&lt;span style="font-size:+0;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;Crap, what if she tells him what she just said to me?&lt;span style="font-size:+0;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;What if she tells him what she’s guessed? &lt;span style="font-size:+0;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;What if she’s &lt;i&gt;already&lt;/i&gt; told him what she’s guessed? Frack.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;I concentrate on my fingers and start rambling on about how I’m not really sure what she means, Seth is my best friend, and we’re just such good friends, friends-friends-friends, and – &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;She interrupts me. "I think Seth cares more than he realizes he cares. He's just a little dense. Sometimes men need a good hard shove in the right direction. Do you know what I mean?"&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;I blink at her.&lt;span style="font-size:+0;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;Huh?&lt;span style="font-size:+0;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;As if – as if he’d care what I feel, other than in a pitying awkward way.&lt;span style="font-size:+0;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;As if I had any power over Seth at all. She clearly doesn't get it - her son's total lack of any romantic interest in me. Her affection for me is skewing her read on the situation.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;Why is she saying this stuff to &lt;span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"&gt;me&lt;/span&gt; anyway, instead of to her son?&lt;span style="font-size:+0;"&gt; Oh, right. Because Seth would be &lt;span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"&gt;so mad&lt;/span&gt; if he knew she was meddling in his love life. Defcon 5 level mad.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;Not that I want her saying any of this to Seth.&lt;span style="font-size:+0;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;GAH.&lt;span style="font-size:+0;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;“Kay – I – I don’t know what you think you know, but &lt;span style="font-size:+0;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;–“&lt;span style="font-size:+0;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;“I think if you don’t say something soon, this thing with Teresa might get a lot more serious than it really needs to be.”&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;I have no idea what to say.&lt;span style="font-size:+0;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;My eyes are probably &lt;span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"&gt;THIS BIG&lt;/span&gt; right now, and my face is warm. Not only am I having a hard time dealing with the fact that we’re talking about this, but Seth could walk in here at any second.&lt;span style="font-size:+0;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;“I’m seeing someone,” I blurt out, which isn’t &lt;i&gt;exactly&lt;/i&gt; true, but I feel cornered and I really need to make her stop talking.&lt;span style="font-size:+0;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;She opens her mouth, then closes it again. “Oh.”&lt;span style="font-size:+0;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;I look at my watch.&lt;span style="font-size:+0;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;It’s &lt;?xml:namespace prefix = st1 /&gt;&lt;st1:time hour="9" minute="30"&gt;9:30&lt;/st1:time&gt;.&lt;span style="font-size:+0;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;“Actually, I’m late.&lt;span style="font-size:+0;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;I need to go.”&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;“You’re going out now?”&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;I try to smile at her.&lt;span style="font-size:+0;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;“You know how it is when you first start seeing someone. You wanna get together whenever you can.”&lt;span style="font-size:+0;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;I give her a quick hug. “Tell Seth I said hi, o.k.?”&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;I escape.&lt;span style="font-size:+0;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;I’m shaking.&lt;span style="font-size:+0;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;Please Lord, do NOT let her have a similar conversation with Seth.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;Please.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:+0;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-8854831957989241483?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/8854831957989241483'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/8854831957989241483'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/10/seths-mom.html' title='Seth&apos;s Mom'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-5925641879365782202</id><published>2008-10-01T00:52:00.002-06:00</published><updated>2008-10-16T10:28:45.405-06:00</updated><title type='text'>So I went over there on Monday night...</title><content type='html'>Yeah, I know. &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;I know.&lt;/span&gt; I figure it's not his mom's fault that he's clueless, right? His mom really loves me, (and I really love her) and she was tickled when I showed up at the door (that was her exact word - tickled). She opened my present, then sat me down in the living room, where we had a conversation that kind of threw me for a loop. I'm still processing it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've been trying to post about it all day, but I keep erasing what I've written. I'll try again in the morning.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-5925641879365782202?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/5925641879365782202'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/5925641879365782202'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/09/so-i-went-over-there-on-monday-night.html' title='So I went over there on Monday night...'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-2269355160258523145</id><published>2008-09-29T19:33:00.002-06:00</published><updated>2008-10-16T10:29:05.562-06:00</updated><title type='text'>How to keep your best friend firmly on the hook</title><content type='html'>&lt;ol&gt;&lt;li&gt;Call her and tell her you missed her over the weekend and ask her to come to your mom's birthday party that night&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;When she lies and says she's busy, because she's trying to do that whole distance thing again, beg her to meet you for lunch instead&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;When she meets you for lunch, because she is not made of &lt;em&gt;steel&lt;/em&gt;, suggest getting Quiznos and going to Sugarhouse Park&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;At the park, sit by the stream and throw leaves at her and tell her that she looks really pretty and that you were wrong about the whole haircut thing. Say all of this while giving her one of your patented sweet/sincere smiles - the ones that are so freaking confusing they make her feel shaky.&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;Pretend to be interested and supportive while she rants about her boss&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;When she needs to leave to get back to the office, make her promise to come to the party. Use the sad face if she says no. The sad face always gets her.&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;When she still says no, and says that now she really, really needs to go, put an arm around her and ask her what's wrong. Tell her you can tell something's bothering her, because she's been distant for the past couple of weeks. &lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;When she stumbles over her words and doesn't give you a firm answer, don't say anything at all. Just give her the sensitive clueless best-friend eyes, the ones that will make her totally powerless to resist you, even though you're not technically doing a thing to encourage her. Make sure to maintain eye contact long enough that she starts turning assorted shades of red and mumbling about "really really really having to get back to the office."&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;While you walk back to your cars, start rambling on about your girlfriend, and tell her that if you end up marrying your girlfriend, it would be awesome if she would be the best man. Because how funny would &lt;em&gt;that&lt;/em&gt; be. &lt;/li&gt;&lt;/ol&gt;&lt;p&gt;On second thought, that last one? You probably should skip that one. Because even if you think that's a hilarious idea, it'll probably make her cry all the way back to the office. &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;FRACK.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Ya know, sometimes I think he's just screwing with me. &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;(I'm going to Tuacahn with Chris, Lisa and Jordan (her fiancee) on Saturday to see Les Mis. He called and invited me tonight. I wish I even cared.)&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-2269355160258523145?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/2269355160258523145'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/2269355160258523145'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/09/how-to-keep-your-best-friend-firmly-on.html' title='How to keep your best friend firmly on the hook'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-5378478788455976388</id><published>2008-09-28T22:32:00.002-06:00</published><updated>2008-10-16T10:29:15.894-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Everything you never wanted to know about my hair</title><content type='html'>&lt;ul&gt;&lt;li&gt;After Lisa finished my hair and make-up we all sat around staring at me in the mirror for a while. Mel kept saying, "Cordy, you look so pretty," and I was just staring at myself because, for once, I actually &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;felt&lt;/span&gt; pretty. I never thought I could look like that. My hair was all soft and shiny and highlighty and behaving itself. I felt like an actual real girl, for once. I'm so dumb - I actually teared up and cried a little. I feel so grateful to Lisa right now, I don't think she quite gets it. I've never really felt pretty before.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;She shaped my eyebrows, which I didn’t realize I needed, because I’ve always plucked them and I thought I was doing an o.k. job – but as it turns out - eyebrow shaping makes a gigantic difference.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;Chris told me I was “the cutest thing ever” (which I know, gag, but it sounds &lt;em&gt;so&lt;/em&gt; much better in a southern accent, trust me on this) and he sat next to me in church and we flirted up a storm. I guess the hair was making me feel sort of not myself and capable of flirting.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Wow&lt;/span&gt;, can he ever sing. One of the hymns was A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief, and I'm not kidding, I was swooning, he has such a good voice. What &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;is&lt;/span&gt; it about a guy who can sing?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;Seth did a triple-take when he saw me and every time we made eye contact that day he looked really startled. That, more than anything, made my day. We never got a chance to talk though – Teresa was all over him today, in super territorial girlfriend mode.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/li&gt;&lt;/ul&gt;Chris and Lisa came over after church and hung out with us for a while. He talked me into making cookies with him. It was fun. OK, it was more than fun. It was really, &lt;em&gt;really&lt;/em&gt; fun.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He told me I looked like Amber from the Hairspray movie, and after I got over being all flattered and bashful and all "No I don't," (because really, I don't) I was all, "she has awful hair in that movie," and he was like, "well, not how she has it in the movie, obviously, how she used to look," and I was trying to figure out when/where/how/who, but then the important point of it all dawned on me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"You've seen Hairspray?" I asked him.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Of course."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Because get this, he loves musicals. &lt;em&gt;He loves musicals.&lt;/em&gt; (Seth, &lt;em&gt;who&lt;/em&gt;, again?)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The accent just kills me. Every time he asked me to pass him something he said "Darlin" with it – “Darlin, pass the sugar,” “Darlin, hand me that stick a butter,” and I’m sorry, but it was totally adorable.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;His sister finally started laughing and told him to stop – “Chris, you’re not from the Okies.” Then she told me that he always exaggerates the southern thing when he’s trying to impress a girl.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He didn’t even deny it, just started cracking eggs and said, “Now I’m fixin’ to beat the eggs in” and he gave me a big grin, which, come on, only made him a little &lt;em&gt;more&lt;/em&gt; adorable.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It was kind of an awesome day. I think I'm excited about it mostly because things like this never happen to me. Sometimes, once in a blue moon, guys will flirt with me, but they don't usually follow me home : )&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm not taking Chris seriously or anything, because I &lt;em&gt;know&lt;/em&gt; he's just a total flirt, but - it was still a really fun day. Maybe there &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;is&lt;/span&gt; life after Seth.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Hopefully he meant Brittany Snow like this:&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;(I WISH I looked like that, I'm so sure)&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_5ASPaAyH2k0/SOBiQjpVbKI/AAAAAAAAABg/3FmuPBJBmvc/s1600-h/bs.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251305202100038818" style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer;" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_5ASPaAyH2k0/SOBiQjpVbKI/AAAAAAAAABg/3FmuPBJBmvc/s400/bs.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;And not like this:&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_5ASPaAyH2k0/SOBiQhWuOmI/AAAAAAAAABo/qpUUs4wLWl4/s1600-h/bsh.jpeg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251305201485101666" style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer;" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_5ASPaAyH2k0/SOBiQhWuOmI/AAAAAAAAABo/qpUUs4wLWl4/s400/bsh.jpeg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;: )&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-5378478788455976388?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/5378478788455976388'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/5378478788455976388'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/09/all-you-need-to-know-about-my-hair.html' title='Everything you never wanted to know about my hair'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_5ASPaAyH2k0/SOBiQjpVbKI/AAAAAAAAABg/3FmuPBJBmvc/s72-c/bs.jpg' height='72' width='72'/></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-813913670900125173</id><published>2008-09-28T09:13:00.002-06:00</published><updated>2008-10-16T10:29:29.636-06:00</updated><title type='text'>So the date...</title><content type='html'>It was fun.  He's a nice guy, cute in an awkward way, which was kind of endearing actually.  But he kept namedropping people in our industry and it was kind of annoying.  I'm sure I did a lot of annoying things too though.  I'm trying not to be too judgy about it.  First dates are always awkward.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When it was over, he got out of the car and walked me up to the door and we sat on the porch for a few minutes (we have a huuuuuuuge front porch) and sort of talked and I could just tell he was working up to giving me a kiss goodnight.  I'd kind of wanted that to happen, just because it would be the end of the dry spell, but all of a sudden I just couldn’t do it.&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;My stomach fell all the way to the floor, and I knew if he tried I’d probably throw up or something.&lt;span style=""&gt;  S&lt;/span&gt;o I made up an excuse and went inside.  I think he was pretty surprised.&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;I feel like a jerk.&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;I don't think we'll go out again.&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;Running/walking is turning out to be good for my body, but not that great for my psychological fitness.&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;I listen to music when I run and I end up telling myself all of these fairy tales about what will happen when I lose weight.&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;I’ve half convinced myself that when I’m skinny Seth will fall in love with me.&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt; &lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;Which is dumb on so many levels.&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;#1 – I’m not skinny (YET) #2 – Even if I WAS skinny, who says he’d fall in love with me anyway?&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;But my brain just keeps going there.&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt; &lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;But even if both of those things happened, I don’t even know what I’d think about that.&lt;span style=""&gt;  W&lt;/span&gt;hat if I get skinny and he DOES suddenly have feelings for me?&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;Doesn’t that just mean he’s kind of shallow then?&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style=""&gt;&lt;/span&gt;I don’t blame anyone for being attracted to a certain type, or wanting to be with someone who values fitness, or any of that - you're attracted to who you're attracted to, but…&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;I don’t know.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;And what if I get skinny, and we get together and then I gain weight?&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;Will he fall back out of love with me?&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;Wouldn’t that mean he doesn’t really even like me at all, just my (imaginary) body?&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style=""&gt;What if we fell in love, got married, and I gained weight?  Would he fall OUT of love with me?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style=""&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;span style=""&gt;I have a lot of questions about what will happen when he imaginarily falls in love with me, don't I.  I know, I know - I'm DUMB.  I guess I will try to worry about it if it ACTUALLY HAPPENS.  What a concept.  And I know it probably won't, I just - I'm spending too much time in my head, I think.  I need to get a running partner so that I'm not spending an hour every day obsessing.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt; &lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;I didn’t always love him, you know?&lt;span style=""&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;Once upon a time he was just a friend, just this guy who made me laugh and who hung out with us a lot, and I was dating someone else and having fun and didn’t feel like my heart was cracking all over the place.&lt;span style=""&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;Lisa’s coming over in a little while to cut my hair before church and measure her room (she moves in next weekend).  &lt;span style=""&gt;She insisted that we do it today.  TODAY. &lt;/span&gt;I was like, really, we can wait, not a big thing, but she thought it would be fun to do my hair THEN go to church and show everyone.  Apparently she thinks my hair is kind of awful and that the big unveiling will be dramatic and then all the girls in the ward will want her to cut their hair too.  She said she needs to drum up new clients.  &lt;span style=""&gt;I probably should be offended that I'm the dramatic hair victim she's chosen to make over, but she's probably right.  My hair's been the same since senior year. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;I’m kind of nervous because if I hate how she cuts it or fixes it, I’m stuck wearing it that way to church and for the rest of the day.&lt;span style=""&gt; Wish me luck.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-813913670900125173?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/813913670900125173'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/813913670900125173'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/09/so-date.html' title='So the date...'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-8223496320154413427</id><published>2008-09-27T15:16:00.002-06:00</published><updated>2008-10-16T10:30:52.256-06:00</updated><title type='text'>I have a date tonight...</title><content type='html'>...with a guy from work. He's smart and sort of funny, but there's no there there. No chem and he's one of those former LDS who I can just tell is gonna try to rescue me from mormonism. I don't even know why I'm going out with him. Just to have something to do other than hang out at the house.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;OK, yeah, I do know. I haven't kissed anyone in a year. A &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;year&lt;/span&gt;. Whatever, judge me, I don't care. Go a freakin year without being kissed, your dating standards might get lower too.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was at a friend's house last night with a bunch of people and this girl I know from church asked me how I was handling the break-up, and I just blinked at her, like "what?" Turns out that people thought Seth and I were DATING. How sad is that?! Very very sad.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I wonder if that's part of why I've had like zero and a half dates in the last year. I don't see how anyone could think that. I guess we're kind of touchy feely with each other but not &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;couply&lt;/span&gt; touchy feely. I know we're together a lot but its pretty obvious he doesn't like me like &lt;em&gt;that&lt;/em&gt;.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Seth wanted me to come over and help him organize his closet today. I guess he thinks I'm his mom or something. I passed. And then sat around being bored and missing him and wishing I hadn't passed. Then I went running, so &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;go&lt;/span&gt; me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sometimes I think I should just tell him. But I know that would lead straight to the end of our friendship.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A few people put me on their blogrolls, I was so excited. I have to set one up. Maybe tonight - I guess it depends on how bad the date is :)&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-8223496320154413427?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/8223496320154413427'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/8223496320154413427'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/09/i-have-date-tonight.html' title='I have a date tonight...'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-644539911580286267</id><published>2008-09-25T22:18:00.002-06:00</published><updated>2008-10-16T10:31:07.070-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Awww.....</title><content type='html'>OK, I know I already posted today, but I've gotta post this, even though I know it's probably lame that I'm all photographic memory about it. I figure if by some miracle it works out (yeah right), then I'll have all these sweet moments recorded for our grandchildren to read or whatever.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Yeah, that's it. It's not that I'm &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;obsessing&lt;/span&gt; or anything.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We were talking on the phone (he called &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;twice&lt;/span&gt; tonight, YES) and I said, “You should come over Saturday, maybe Lisa'll give us a two-for-one."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He said, “You're letting her cut your hair?”&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;“Yeah. She wants to cut it into a bob."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Is that short?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Yeah, kind of chin length - "&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;“DON'T CUT IT!” Whaddaya know. He was all interrupty and urgent about it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Why not?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Just don't."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I didn't realize you had an opinion."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I don't think you should cut it."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Why?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I don't know." He was quiet for a minute. "It's really pretty. Do what you want but most guys'll probably like it better long."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;That led to a conversation about whether or not I'd actually &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;not&lt;/span&gt; cut my hair just because certain guys might like it better long. I pretended like I'd never do something like that, but honestly?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm not cutting it now.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Whatever, I never claimed to be enlightened.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;He thinks my hair is pretty.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Really pretty.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sorry for having a moment about something as dumb as that, but we don't ever talk about that stuff, so it was one for the record books. I thought it was so cute how he interrupted me, all DON'T CUT IT!! Almost like it mattered to him how I looked.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Maybe you had to be there, but, to me, it was really sweet.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-644539911580286267?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/644539911580286267'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/644539911580286267'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/09/awww.html' title='Awww.....'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-6329538929376681265</id><published>2008-09-25T19:54:00.003-06:00</published><updated>2008-10-26T08:17:53.546-06:00</updated><title type='text'>The joy is just getting sucked right out of our friendship</title><content type='html'>I don't know if it's Seth's fault or mine. There's an awkwardness there that wasn't there before. I don't even know if he senses it. We'll be talking on the phone and he'll say something about Teresa, wanting to talk about her and I can't seem to make myself play it cool. Instead of saying something strange I listen silently, trying to be supportive, but inside thinking, "Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow. Pulleeeeeeeeaze shut up."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I think he thinks that means I don't like her. But I don't have an opinion of her at all, really. Other than - evil girl who is taking away the love of my freaking life. Other than that, I'm practically neutral. (Yeah, that is sarcasm.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sometimes I think I should just tell him. &lt;span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"&gt;Listen, you idiot, I'm in love with you, so could we please NOT talk about how much you like your new girlfriend?&lt;/span&gt; Sometimes I think he knows already, except then how cruel would it be for him to know and then still constantly tell me about her? If he knows, and he's talking about her anyway, then he's a jerk, right? And I know he's not a jerk, so I guess that means he doesn't know.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But how could he &lt;span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"&gt;not&lt;/span&gt; know? I'm not that good of an actress.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't know. It's so confusing.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I think I'm gonna start going to my home ward. It would be easier that way. I don't want to see them all back-scratching arms around each other at church. My heart needs time to get used to that particular mental picture.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Frack.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He wants to do something with me on Saturday, but I don't know. Why bother.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I think I'm gonna let Lisa cut my hair.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Someday I'm gonna open up comments, and you're all gonna spank me, I know.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-6329538929376681265?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/6329538929376681265'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/6329538929376681265'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/08/seth-came-over-last-night-but-i-wasnt.html' title='The joy is just getting sucked right out of our friendship'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-6434198482031638122</id><published>2008-09-24T12:12:00.003-06:00</published><updated>2008-10-26T08:20:05.270-06:00</updated><title type='text'>OK, fine, you already know I'm a boy crazy loser, so I guess I'll post this anyway...</title><content type='html'>Chris is really cute - brown hair, brown eyes, tall, studly. He's got the accent too. He's a &lt;span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"&gt;charmer&lt;/span&gt;. He flirted with me all weekend. I'm not taking it seriously - he's that type - total player, love 'em and leave 'em, charm you because I can type. It's still fun though.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He's in grad school (for some kind of advanced Math), and he's dirt poor, so he sponges off Lisa whenever he can for meals. He made sure we knew he'd be around a lot. Random cute guy hanging out with us - not a bad side benefit to having Lisa live here.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Seth hasn't called me at all this week. I'm trying not to think about it. Chris is a good distraction, even if he's nothing but a huge flirt.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"&gt;Yes, I realize this is Joshua Jackson. It's not like I can post an actual picture of Chris. Because then, just my luck, someone would find my blog, and see the picture, and realize who I really am, and then everyone would know about my loserdom, including Seth. (That was my long-winded way of telling you that this is who Chris kind of reminds me &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"&gt;of. )&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_5ASPaAyH2k0/SOB5JIytmrI/AAAAAAAAABw/0WvnKW1hi_U/s1600-h/josh.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251330363399969458" style="MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_5ASPaAyH2k0/SOB5JIytmrI/AAAAAAAAABw/0WvnKW1hi_U/s400/josh.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-6434198482031638122?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/6434198482031638122'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/6434198482031638122'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/08/ok-whatever-you-already-know-im-boy.html' title='OK, fine, you already know I&apos;m a boy crazy loser, so I guess I&apos;ll post this anyway...'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_5ASPaAyH2k0/SOB5JIytmrI/AAAAAAAAABw/0WvnKW1hi_U/s72-c/josh.jpg' height='72' width='72'/></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-3138802087489564629</id><published>2008-09-22T19:55:00.003-06:00</published><updated>2008-10-26T08:20:23.846-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Now that I'm done feeling sorry for myself, I should tell you...</title><content type='html'>It was a fun weekend, in spite of his not bothering to show up to the party. Friday sucked, but Saturday was fun.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I met Lisa (the soon to be roomie), who is very cool. I was a little worried at first. She's really cute and skinny, with cute clothes and cute hair, and even a cute southern accent (she's from Georgia), and maybe this is awful, but it's hard to live with a girl like that sometimes, when you're so not all of those things. But she's engaged, and somehow that makes it all better.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;She really wants to cut my hair. She was horrified when I told her I usually go to Supercuts. She scolded me for a good half-hour and counseled me on the appropriate cut for my face, and the benefits of lowlights, and - it made my head hurt after a while.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_5ASPaAyH2k0/SNv9Am1f9RI/AAAAAAAAAAM/oSrVB0ryfmE/s1600-h/sd.jpg"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_5ASPaAyH2k0/SNv9eEYYu9I/AAAAAAAAAAU/CbPAgrarcEY/s1600-h/sundanceinautumn.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250068483644373970" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_5ASPaAyH2k0/SNv9eEYYu9I/AAAAAAAAAAU/CbPAgrarcEY/s400/sundanceinautumn.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;On Saturday a bunch of us drove to Sundance to have a picnic and hike around. The colors are turning now, it's so pretty. (I took this picture off the internet cuz I didn't have my camera with me, but it was a lot like that.) Mel even brought up a birthday pie. It was me, Melissa, Lisa, Dave, Rob, and Lisa's brother Chris. Her brother is really cute, but obviously a total player. That's all I'm gonna say about him right now.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I ran on Friday, but not yesterday, because we hiked ALL OVER the mountain, and then I had a party at my parents. I'm going tomorrow though, for sure. I fit into my size ten jeans now, which should not make me as happy as it does, but it does! YESSSSSS!!!!!!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-3138802087489564629?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/3138802087489564629'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/3138802087489564629'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/08/now-that-im-done-feeling-sorry-for.html' title='Now that I&apos;m done feeling sorry for myself, I should tell you...'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_5ASPaAyH2k0/SNv9eEYYu9I/AAAAAAAAAAU/CbPAgrarcEY/s72-c/sundanceinautumn.jpg' height='72' width='72'/></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-753728029480563615</id><published>2008-09-21T22:15:00.003-06:00</published><updated>2008-10-26T08:18:34.780-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Seth made me a birthday cake...</title><content type='html'>He brought it over this afternoon, but I wasn't there.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When I got home I saw the goofy little homemade cake on the porch and read his note, and all was forgiven.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The note said, "Happy Birthday from your jerky, inconsiderate, insensitive, forgetful, and very sorry friend. Love, Seth."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I stared at the word "love" for a while and felt forgiveness washing over me. I'm so &lt;em&gt;dumb&lt;/em&gt;. It wasn't the apology, or the fact that forgetting wasn't that big of a deal - it was his totally innocent use of the word "love."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Yes, I'm pathetic.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-753728029480563615?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/753728029480563615'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/753728029480563615'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/08/seth-made-me-birthday-cake.html' title='Seth made me a birthday cake...'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-6512510168105219534</id><published>2008-09-20T01:17:00.003-06:00</published><updated>2008-10-26T08:18:22.833-06:00</updated><title type='text'>"Are you mad at me?"</title><content type='html'>"No." I wonder if he can hear me pouting.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Good. Happy birthday!"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Belated."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"One minute past. How was the party?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Fine."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"You're mad."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"..."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I'm really sorry."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"You know what? Whatever. It's not a big deal."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I just - got busy with Teresa."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I don't need details, thanks."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I'm really sorry, I'm a jerk."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Yeah, you kind of are."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And I hung up on him. GO ME.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He didn't show up to my party, and we kept waiting for him to show up, and he kept on - not showing up. It was pathetic. I feel dropped and discarded, which I guess is the natural order of things, but still. It was my &lt;em&gt;birthday&lt;/em&gt;. Ouch.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I think I'm kind of done.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-6512510168105219534?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/6512510168105219534'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/6512510168105219534'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/08/are-you-mad-at-me.html' title='&quot;Are you mad at me?&quot;'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-3635473045664169327</id><published>2008-09-16T16:10:00.003-06:00</published><updated>2008-10-26T08:13:25.545-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Maybe it's better that we barely see each other these days...</title><content type='html'>...makes it easier to move on. He left me a message last night wondering what I was up to but I didn't call him back, because I was feeling childish. Maybe I should stay childish, I might get over him faster that way.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We're getting a new roommate next month. Her name's Lisa. She's a cosmetologist. I don't know what to think about that. I'm intimidated by girls who are really girly. I haven't met her yet. Melissa knows her from high school and says she's low drama. I hope she's right. She &lt;em&gt;must&lt;/em&gt; be low maintenance if she agreed to take the room in the basement, because it's not exactly the nicest room in the house. It's kind of creepy, actually.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We lost our last roommate in May when Kristen got married, and we desperately need someone to help pay the mortgage. Kristen was so great, I loved her. Sorry, did that sound like she died or something? It almost feels like it. Whenever someone gets married they disappear completely. I'm happy for her and everything, but I miss her.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We're all hanging out on Friday. It's my birthday. Lisa's coming, so I'll get to meet her. Seth is even ditching Teresa for one night to come. Miracles still happen! (I'm trying to be normal and understanding and going-on-with-mylife-ish, but I miss him.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I ran a mile last night. I know that probably sounds so pathetic, but for me it was big, because it's been a loooooong time since I could run a mile. I walked two miles and ran one mile. My twelves are so so so baggy, yippee!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-3635473045664169327?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/3635473045664169327'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/3635473045664169327'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/09/maybe-its-better-that-were-not-really.html' title='Maybe it&apos;s better that we barely see each other these days...'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-7972580664607478307</id><published>2008-09-10T13:11:00.003-06:00</published><updated>2008-10-26T08:18:07.729-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Believe it or not, I have a life outside of my pathetic obsession with Seth, it's just boring to talk about</title><content type='html'>I work in publishing. Part of my job is to sit and read manuscripts. Getting paid to read is kind of awesome, even though some of the stuff we have to read is awful.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The pay is total crap, but I consider it a paid internship. Hopefully I'll make money later when I'm a big-time agent or editor. I have to finish school first anyway.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've gone running seven times in the last two weeks. I'm doing that couch to 5K thing, and so it's more like walking/shuffling/walking/shuffling, but still. I'm actually starting to lose weight, miracle. I'm still a size twelve, so it's probably mostly water, but it still feels good.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A bunch of us are going to Vegas for the weekend. Melissa's sister lives there, so we're going to crash at her house. It'll be good to get away from here for a weekend.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-7972580664607478307?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/7972580664607478307'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/7972580664607478307'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/08/believe-it-or-not-i-have-life-outside.html' title='Believe it or not, I have a life outside of my pathetic obsession with Seth, it&apos;s just boring to talk about'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-19089150330671460</id><published>2008-09-05T09:15:00.003-06:00</published><updated>2008-10-26T08:13:04.480-06:00</updated><title type='text'>It shouldn't matter, but it does</title><content type='html'>They're together all the time now. They went out on Saturday, got together on Sunday, did something on Wednesday, and have a date tonight. So I guess he likes her. DUH. I'm Captain Obvious. (Or whatever a female Captain would be. I guess still a Captain, right?)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Last night Seth went with me to pick out a new mountain bike (an early b-day present from my Dad) and we had a conversation that almost made me melt into a little puddle on the concrete floor.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I said, "I guess we're gonna have to stop hanging out so much now that you're going out with Teresa."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He looked surprised. "Why?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"She's not gonna like sharing you with me."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He said, "She'll have to learn to live with it."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"We'll have to pull the plug someday. Once you get married your wife won't feel like sharing you with me either."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"She'll have to."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I snorted (so feminine!) and he grabbed my elbow and made me look at him. He was giving me this look that made my toes curl, I'm not kidding.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I'm serious. You're part of my life. You're always gonna be part of my life."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;See? &lt;span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"&gt;Melting&lt;/span&gt;, right? I know he didn't mean it the way I wanted him to mean it, but I was blushing anyway.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I totally spazzed out and started babbling on about bike treads and the moment was gone, but little moments like that are part of the reason I will never get over him.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-19089150330671460?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/19089150330671460'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/19089150330671460'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/08/it-shouldnt-matter-but-it-does.html' title='It shouldn&apos;t matter, but it does'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-5595152649034566887</id><published>2008-09-03T12:28:00.002-06:00</published><updated>2008-10-16T10:33:45.563-06:00</updated><title type='text'>We went to the lake last night...</title><content type='html'>Just the two of us. He called me at work, asked if I could ditch out early because he felt like going out on the lake, so I did, and we took off and went.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;His dad has a boat, and we spend a lot of time on the different resevoirs in the summers, water-skiing, but yesterday we took the boat out and just floated around and ate Subway and talked until it got twilighty and then we went home. It was so great.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He anchored the boat and we put the bench seat down so that it was like a bed and were lying there looking up at the sky, which was, not to sound corny, totally picture perfect blue. We laughed and talked and laughed and talked. It was a perfect, perfect day, except for the part where he started telling me about how much he likes Teresa.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I hate my life. &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;I hate my life! &lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-5595152649034566887?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/5595152649034566887'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/5595152649034566887'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/09/we-went-to-lake-last-night.html' title='We went to the lake last night...'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-934789887734579901</id><published>2008-08-30T13:27:00.003-06:00</published><updated>2008-10-26T08:16:03.974-06:00</updated><title type='text'>I went running four days this week</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_5ASPaAyH2k0/SNv-bbx9HLI/AAAAAAAAAAk/5FO1iHjo0SE/s1600-h/runningwoman.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250069537897651378" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_5ASPaAyH2k0/SNv-bbx9HLI/AAAAAAAAAAk/5FO1iHjo0SE/s400/runningwoman.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;(That's not me in the pic, in case you're wondering.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm not sure what motivated me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Oh, wait, maybe it's the fact that Seth has a date with flippin' Teresa tonight.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I cried for an hour last Tuesday, realizing that it's never gonna happen. I already know that, but I can't seem to get my stupid heart to accept it. Then I realized how pathetic I was being, and said, you know what? Screw it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm not gonna waste the rest of my life pining over him. &lt;span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"&gt;I'm not.&lt;/span&gt; I'm going to get myself back in shape, focus on what's good in my life, do things I enjoy, and build a life thats not focused on him, or any guy.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-934789887734579901?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/934789887734579901'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/934789887734579901'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/08/i-went-running-four-days-this-week.html' title='I went running four days this week'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_5ASPaAyH2k0/SNv-bbx9HLI/AAAAAAAAAAk/5FO1iHjo0SE/s72-c/runningwoman.jpg' height='72' width='72'/></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-6017576061836673137</id><published>2008-08-27T12:51:00.003-06:00</published><updated>2008-10-26T08:20:48.065-06:00</updated><title type='text'>DUMB DUMB DUMB DUMB DUMB</title><content type='html'>Sometimes we’ll be talking late at night and he’ll look at me a certain way, and I’ll almost think he’s debating it in his mind, whether or not to give it a shot with me. But then the moment always passes.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;If I'm honest with myself, I know I wouldn’t want that anyway.I don’t want him to have to think it over. I don’t want him to settle for me, just because we get along so well.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I want him to fall totally head over heels in love with me. Is that too much to ask?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But it's not gonna happen. &lt;span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"&gt;It's not gonna happen.&lt;/span&gt; Why can't I &lt;span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"&gt;get&lt;/span&gt; that and move on?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've got to stop hanging out with him so much. Torturing myself like this is pointless.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-6017576061836673137?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/6017576061836673137'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/6017576061836673137'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/07/my-life-sucks.html' title='DUMB DUMB DUMB DUMB DUMB'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-2761153363365426914</id><published>2008-08-24T22:10:00.003-06:00</published><updated>2008-10-26T08:21:01.419-06:00</updated><title type='text'>After I make him a truly awesome sandwich...</title><content type='html'>"I love you, you know that?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Cue me, freezing. "Huh?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"You're like the sister I never had."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"You have a sister."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Well yeah, but she sucks."&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-2761153363365426914?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/2761153363365426914'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/2761153363365426914'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/07/after-i-make-him-truly-awesome-sandwich.html' title='After I make him a truly awesome sandwich...'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-5641053703557779555</id><published>2008-08-23T13:01:00.004-06:00</published><updated>2008-11-05T23:39:50.278-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Totally great party last night</title><content type='html'>Except for that whole part where Seth completely ignored me for three hours because he was busy flirting with this new girl who's been hanging out with us, Teresa, who is annoying and shrill and idiotic.   She's skinny and decent looking though, and I guess that's all it takes.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Do I sound bitter? Do I? That would make sense, since I am.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It was painful to watch. Not that I was watching. Because I wasn't. I was busy having a life and talking to other people.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Or at least I should have been.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My stomach hurts today.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Which I guess is good, because I'm never eating again. &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Never&lt;/span&gt;.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-5641053703557779555?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/5641053703557779555'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/5641053703557779555'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/07/we-went-to-stadium-of-fire-last-night.html' title='Totally great party last night'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-6323619769972556038</id><published>2008-08-17T12:49:00.003-06:00</published><updated>2008-10-26T08:16:30.697-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Why I Can't Resist Him</title><content type='html'>"Sing me a song," he says.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"No, that's embarrassing."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Come on. Just one. Do the one from Les Mis where that girl dies."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"No, we're in the middle of the street, I'm not singing."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I'll be the guy."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"You're tone deaf."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Yeah, but I can make the sad face." He grins at me. "You know you love the sad face."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And so I do it - act out part of a musical on a Wednesday night in front of his parent's house.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm a nerd. But so is he, kind of.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;If by nerd you mean the most &lt;span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"&gt;incredibly awesome nerd ever&lt;/span&gt;.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-6323619769972556038?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/6323619769972556038'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/6323619769972556038'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/07/why-i-cant-resist.html' title='Why I Can&apos;t Resist Him'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-3818561351139116615</id><published>2008-08-13T12:07:00.004-06:00</published><updated>2008-10-26T08:13:43.316-06:00</updated><title type='text'>He kissed me once, but it was one of those heightened drama situations...</title><content type='html'>...and he took it back later. I don't know if you can really do that - take back the imprint you've made on someone else's heart, but it's impossible for me to be angry about it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;His little brother was in a car accident. I went to the hospital with Mel and Dave. The girl Seth was kinda sorta dating was already there in the waiting room. We waited around in the lobby and when he finally came down he told us that it looked like his brother would be o.k.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;His eyes were so bloodshot. He looked awful. It was the first time I'd seen him look weak. He told everyone they should go, that it would be a long time before they knew anything else. He kissed his girlfriend of the week goodbye and she left. Dave and Mel and I started to go, but he grabbed my hand and asked me to stay for a minute. (As though he needed to ask.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He pulled me down the hall into some random corridor and he told me with tears in his eyes that it was all his fault, he was supposed to get the brakes changed and he hadn’t. (And of course that had nothing to do with the accident, some guy ran a stop sign, that's all, but he wasn't thinking rationally. I guess if he'd been thinking rationally, the rest of it never would have happened.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I hugged him and kept telling him it was going to be alright, and just like in the movies he started kissing my forehead, and then my cheek, and then everything got turned upside down because suddenly he was kissing me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Is it horrible that it was the best couple of minutes of my life? It was the most romantic, dramatic thing that had ever happened to me. The guy I was totally in love with needed &lt;span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"&gt;me&lt;/span&gt; to be there with him, nobody but me, and having it all end in a hot make-out session? Total dream come true.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;After a few minutes he stopped, and he looked shocked by what he'd done, and he said, "Oh hell Cordy, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to do that."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Can a heart shatter? Because mine felt like it did. I burst into tears, like he needed to deal with &lt;span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"&gt;my&lt;/span&gt; drama right at that particular moment.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He kept telling me he was sorry, that he was just upset, he hadn't meant it, and he wasn't sure why he'd done it, but he was so, so sorry. After a second I tried to pull it together and I left.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;His brother turned out to be o.k., more or less - a concussion and a broken arm and some bumps and bruises and one severe gash that they'd been worried about that night, but that was healing well.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Over the next few days, Seth kept telling me over and over again how sorry he was - in notes and phone calls and conversations where he kept telling me he hadn't meant it, and he was so sorry for crossing that line. "We're just friends," he kept reminding me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Yes, I know. &lt;span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"&gt;I know.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;That was two years ago, and that was the only time he ever kissed me, but I can still feel exactly how it felt.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-3818561351139116615?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/3818561351139116615'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/3818561351139116615'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/07/he-kissed-me-once-but-it-was-one-of.html' title='He kissed me once, but it was one of those heightened drama situations...'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-5206700007994237139</id><published>2008-08-09T08:15:00.004-06:00</published><updated>2008-11-05T23:38:36.290-07:00</updated><title type='text'>We hung out last night...</title><content type='html'>He didn't have a date, and I didn't have a date (big surprise) and the group didn't get together, so the two of us walked around and around my neighborhood, talking and laughing and talking. For five hours.&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; Five.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm really doing well at this whole creating separation thing, aren't I?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It's not my fault though -  it's his. He's completely impossible to resist - funny, and kind, and smart, and awesome.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He's steady too - the kind of guy you call when you need a sofa moved, or you have a flat tire and forgot your jack, or get locked out of your house at 2 in the morning.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The thing is, if you walked into a party, you wouldn't pick him out as the cutest guy there. It's only after you know him for a while that you fall in love with him. Half the girls I know are or have been in love with him at one time or another. Eventually they all give up though, because clearly he's not ready to be serious with anyone.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;That's not to say that he isn't cute. He is. He’s sort of tall (but not really tall - gee, that makes it so clear, doesn't it?) and lean but muscular, and he’s got kind of wavy light brown hair and these inquisitive hazel eyes that slay me, I’m not even kidding.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I love him. It's not a crush. I LOVE HIM.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;ACK.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-5206700007994237139?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/5206700007994237139'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/5206700007994237139'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/07/so-we-hung-out-again-last-night.html' title='We hung out last night...'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5403162768228130003.post-2777394989954344028</id><published>2008-08-07T18:48:00.007-06:00</published><updated>2008-11-06T19:18:22.380-07:00</updated><title type='text'>I'm in love with my best friend...</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="TEXT-DECORATION: underline"&gt;&lt;span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;...and it's a totally hopeless, unrequited case.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This blog exists because I need a place where I can talk about it - vent, cry and be totally unrealistic. (My friends are sick of hearing about it - they wanted me to move on approximately 700 years ago, but I just couldn't do it. My friend Melissa bought me that book, "&lt;span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"&gt;He's just not that into you&lt;/span&gt;," and I was like, Mel, he's not into me at &lt;em&gt;all&lt;/em&gt;, I'm not delusional.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I know I probably shouldn't wallow, but I can't help it. Sometimes I just have to talk about all of the stupid little things that happen that make me think there might be hope, even though logically I know there's no hope. I know it. &lt;span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"&gt;I know it. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Logically, I know if he had any romantic interest in me at all, I'd already know. He's not subtle or shy. He dates a lot. A &lt;em&gt;lot&lt;/em&gt;. But on the other days of the week, when he isn't going out with a random supermodel type? He's with me. (He might date the models, but he can't live without me. That's something, but probably not enough.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Now and then I'll try to create a little distance, try to regain my footing a little, but he always notices, and he doesn't understand. He says he misses me. He asks me what's wrong and comes over and wants to have long quiet talks about what's going on in my head. Because he has no idea.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It's not like I'm a total ogre. I'm 23. I'm blonde and I have green eyes. I'm a size twelve, which really isn't that fat, but apparently it's fat enough to ensure that nobody will ever think of me as anything other than a sidekick.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;If I were fit, I think I'd be sort of cute. This one time I lost a bunch of weight and got down to a size six and half the guys at church fell in love with me, I'm not even kidding. It was the most exciting week of my life. Then I ate a sandwich and was right back into a twelve.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(OK, so maybe that happened over a period of months, but it felt like one day they were all interested, and the next day, zap, it was all gone.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;His name's Seth and he's 26. He's smart, and sweet, and steady, and he looks at me with those huge hazel eyes and I think, I will never get over you, never.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Someday he's going to get married and my heart will be totally broken, but on the other hand it will probably be the best thing that could happen, because I think that's the only way I'll ever get over it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;That's my story. Comments are always going to be closed, because I know everyone will want to say - come on, snap out of it - but I already&lt;span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"&gt; know&lt;/span&gt; I should. I know that. But here on the blog I'm going to write the truth of it, the totality of all of my totally pathetic, hopeless feelings. If you promise not to judge me too harshly for failing to have a backbone, feel free to follow along.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5403162768228130003-2777394989954344028?l=mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/2777394989954344028'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5403162768228130003/posts/default/2777394989954344028'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://mysuperhopelessromance.blogspot.com/2008/09/im-in-love-with-my-best-friend.html' title='I&apos;m in love with my best friend...'/><author><name>Cordy</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/09667104892382891629</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry></feed>
