Melodramatic spree

After drowning a cup of coffee, I'm finally ready to post this. It was a late, unadulterated, night of fun, fun, fun, except for a small interlude in the middle.

Deep in the lows of someone whose beloved iPod may have bit the big one, I was persuaded into some party clothes and out to the bars by my brother and his girlfriend. Drinks were drank by most, including me, although looking into my wallet this morning it seems I've spent no money. I suppose it helps when one can monopolize on her brother's good name and can manage the gracious acceptance of a few pints in his honour.

So, about an hour after arriving, I find myself on the patio with my brother, in the distance, I spot someone I think I recognize, my knight in shining disguise's best friend, as I debate whether I should go and say hi or not, he appears, in all his band tee shirt, scruffy bearded knight in shining disguised glory. Before I know it, I've thrust my beer into my brother's hands and I walk towards him without pause.

These are just the kind of moments when pause would have been remarkably useful. And yet, I walked with determination that I scarcely knew I possessed. Looking back, I wish I had taken a moment to think this through, even just a little. Just to ask myself, "why am I going over there?" "Is it to say hello?" "To tell him off?" "What do you intend on saying?" "What tone should I take?" "What kind of message am I sending?" "Do I even want to see him?"

I realized the answer to the last of these questions was no. Unfortunately, with the lack of pause, the question hit me over the head when I was face-to-face with him and with no reasonable method of escape. He looked "surprised." Although I am even less convinced that he was, since my brother's girlfriend told me she saw him. I find it hard to imagine in a bar filled overwhelmingly with my brother's male friends, he hadn't seen us. As he pulled me in for a hug, I wondered when I would finally be able to shake the melodramatic cloud that turns my life into a misshapen Shakespeare play.

But in the midst of my melodramatic spree I didn't crumble. I felt myself dividing into two. Inside I was seething, wishing he would dissipate, to forget he existed. Particularly when confronted with an apology for "not being around these days"; he cloaked it in some excuse or other but feeling quite secure, still enveloped in the sweetness of last Saturday's date with my London Boy, it is barely acknowledged when I dismiss it with "I've been very busy myself."

Still, despite the raging internal conflict going on, outwardly I think I was too friendly, eager even. I found myself saying something and then wishing I could retract it. I felt my guard rising. I needed to rise above this moment. After all, giving him up was one of the best things I've ever done. And yet even though I realized this at the time, I found that I could help but offer him too much of myself.

Really, there is no point in scolding myself, it was an impossible situation to walk away from and that sad fact I had only realized once I was in it. I found myself perfectly unable to escape the juxtaposition of our live:, I, happy, better than ever without him; Him, sad as always, drowning in his own self-pity. Thankfully, after hearing yet another sad tale of woe of his self-imposed unhappy yet never tragic life, I was rescued by brother, whose overwhelming presence has scared away more than a few disingenuous suitors.

I tried to be unaffected, to shove this moment in the back of my head, far enough so that even my wandering dreams couldn't access it, the potential to open old wounds was far to great. Even now I feel detached from it. So a fearless soldier of good times, I did what anyone would do, I walked up to the bar and let one of my brother's friends buy me a double vodka martini with a twist.

Converging voices

I've been bad. I've been deviating from my assertions. Running back and forth into my knight in shining whatever's arms. All the while the voices of, well it seems, everyone have been converging in my head. It's like a dizzying choir chanting a warning I can't help but hear but don't want to believe.

Yesterday, we talk and he mentions his disposition towards depression. In my head I am reminded of something I read in a birthday card from a (male) friend, a quote, that said: "Faith is an aptitude of the spirit. It is, in fact, a talent: you must be born with it" (Chekhov). It seems that this is the critical difference between us. Where in I have faith that things will get better (what some people call optimism), he is utterly devoid of this 'talent.'

I have to let him go. It's not just all these converging voices, it's that I'm starting to lose the grasp on one of the things that make my spirit soar, my faith in love.

More than a feeling

On the eve of Canada Day, seven years ago my knight-in-shining whatever (my high school boyfriend) and I went through a horrible break up. It was heart wrenching because it was the first time someone I ever loved broke my heart. Somehow already knowing what this feels like makes it a bit less devastating. My cheeks haven't entertained tears, my pillows haven't had to sustain the throws of passionate sobs to which they were once accustomed. Yes, I am sad, but I have the confidence in knowing that this time I put everything on the table, including my heart.

Last time I thought our friendship was at least salvageable. This time I know better. I know that he will always mean more to me than I mean to him and that his complacency will only mean that he will let me run to him and I will always hope for something more.

Perhaps as with the cyclical nature of fate's intervention in my life it's finally time to admit that i really wanted him to be more than he was destined to be, and more importantly, more than he wanted to be.

To be frank, despite his talent for acting, I know he'll never end up as the leading man in my life. Even if he does care about me as much as he says, I don't feel like I am excelling in any way when he's a part of my life. Instead I feel like a wilty flower who needs to be tended to and cared for (much like the rose in our favourite, "Petite Prince" allegory). I also feel dull and fragmented. It's almost as if he steals the very essence of me and instead he shines brighter than ever.

I can't live each day with this uncertainty, just hoping for those rare few and far between moments when he says something so unexpectedly sweet it takes my breath away. Isn't that the same as settling? And what's the use in both of us settling for something we don't want?

Even though it's hard to forget your high school sweetheart, I'm been through this too many times before with him. This time I need more than a feeling. Maybe its finally time to leave that passion where it belongs, in the past.

At day's end

"I can never write the beauty of this sunset" I say as my knight in shining whatever drives me home from a day of up and down. I feel like a puppet, on strings, a yo-yo who never knows where she stands with him. Why can't I express the beauty of this sunset? It's because what makes it beautiful is the moment itself; both bittersweet and terribly appropriate for what I have come to realize.

I thought that if i could only get him to watch the fireworks with me, he'd remember how much he used to love me and finally be my boyfriend. But I understand now that he will never be my boyfriend. And it's not just that he declined to watch the fireworks ("I promised I'd go to a barbecue" being his reason). It's that I am finally unsure about how many times I can continue to let my heart break for him.

What a strange day it has been. We started off doing something I wanted to do spending the afternoon downtown, then we did some errands he had to do and then went for bubble tea. Whilst amongst slow moving traffic he commented on why when we are together he can never move forward. I joked that he was stagnate. He corrected me, we are stagnate. Whether he was joking or not I'm not sure, but it stung and still does despite my attempts to make light of it.

I tried to make light of so many things today, including his incessant need to pick on me in a teasing way. I feel like a balloon that has deflated. Realizing his fallacy he apologizes and hugs me in his endearing way but I find it hard to accept it as genuine. I feel exposed and I'm hurt because he knows exactly what he is doing, salting my wounds. I said, "What would you do if you couldn't pick on me?" He couldn't wrap his head around the concept. I clarified, "what if I wasn't in your life?" His reply, "I'd probably just pick on myself."

Still, in his house I'm eager to reconcile and quickly found myself in his arms, "sorry I missed your birthday," he says. And that's all.

In the back of his car my things are littered in a bag (and yet among them, no birthday gift). He passes it to me as we drive in silence. The taste of tears is in my throat. The sunset is beaming all around us gloriously. Earlier he alluded to going to see fireworks tomorrow, I know this is my opportunity to say something if I want it to happen. Instead I breezily slip out of his car and watch the day mercifully disappear.

On fluffery

At first when my knight-in-shining-whatever came back from his European adventure he seemed a bit different. Mostly because he quit using his incessantly irritating catch phrase "good to know." I wrote it off as a whim of worldliness. But now he's doing all kinds of things that are throwing off the balance of my universe.

On Friday he persuaded me to apply for my dream job because "you're wonderful" and "when you get an interview they'll love you." I wrote off this fluffery (in the same conversation he called me a "goddess") until Saturday. He did something he NEVER does, he called "just because I was thinking of you." I had to fight back the urge to say, "really?" and take the edge off with a sarcastic remark like, "well aren't you just so sweet?" Today when I run into him on my way to work he's as handsome as ever and full of his sweet empty compliments. I want to roll my eyes but I find it fruitless to do so when I'm already enveloped in a warm hug of his initiation.

I wish he'd say, "be mine" but instead I settle for "Let's get together, call me."

Good riddance

I'm pissed or at least I was. Now all my problemas are flying in an airplane. "See ya", I want to say but our goodbye was much more complicated then that.

It began with a breezy MSN conversation gone wrong. "I hope I get to see you before you leave," I said. "Depends on our schedules" is the response I get that leaves a stingy lump in my chest. WTF???

For all the energy, concern, assistance I've devoted to him these past few weeks and that's the best I get?

But it wasn't. He drops into work two days before he leaves to say "I wanted to see you and I didn't know if I'd get another chance, I'll call you tomorrow." The girls ask why the boy they detest is kissing my ass.

Sunday comes without a phone call. Until 10.30 p.m. and arranging him to see him is more painful than removing gum from your hair, sans scissors. I arrive. In what seems like an instant he goes from cold and distant to warm and passionately intimate. But isn't that our way?

Tucked within a grasp that won't let go he says "I might miss you." I muster the strength to respond with, "I know you will" - for the thirty times I got up to leave him since I arrived, this time his lips, not his eyes asked me to stay. I concede but only for another five minutes or so.

As we finally move to part he says he'll e-mail. Whether he does or not I'm not sure I'll care too much although it would be a nice surprise. Honestly I think I'm more relieved than anything. At work today I was almost positively giddy over it.

No more problemas for at least two weeks. Yippie!

And breathe

Today was the kind of day where it was too hot to breathe. The air was heavy, the breeze was thick. Despite my best efforts to spend the day melting away by the pool, I was interrupted by a ring at the door. My knight and shining whatever appears out of thick air and asks if I want to run some errands with him for his big trip across the Atlantic.

This little escapade screams boyfriend to me. We went to pick up his tux for his brothers wedding. He looked beyond handsome. We went to Winners to buy clothes, we went to Chapters, he bought me bubble tea. We were closer I think then we've ever been, sharing our day so easily and when he said "lets go home" I could almost picture what that would be. And yet, in a few days we'll have an ocean between us.

What is it with the damn Atlantic. Everytime I start to fall for a boy, that salt water gets in the way. My Italian, my London boy, and now my knight in shining whatever... the same theme, boy and girl skirt the issue of a relationship, boy plans trip to Europe, boy is wonderful to girl, girl helps boy get ready, boy flies away, girl watches his airplane while tanning in this thick heat. Girl struggles to breathe.

Afternoon delight

In my new little dress, I found myself frolicking arm-in-arm with my knight in shining whatever through the sidewalks of Yorkville this afternoon. Okay, so maybe arm-in-arm is a bit of an exaggeration. That kind of sweetness is overwhelming anyway. What I mean to say is that this afternoon my high school ex boyfriend and I went to the movies together.

It was a lovely sunshiny day and thankfully there have been many since winter parted, particularly as his trip to Europe becomes more imminent. Regardless, I was just happy to be in his presence at a foreign and romantic film, about Paris! Yes, I do love Paris. His cheeky attention and playful enthusiasm made me enjoy the witty banter I became enthralled in as we traversed from Bloor back to our suburban oasis.

To an outsider we might have looked like friends, on the subway we might have seemed to look like we were having a fight (no, three pairs of jeans are too many for a two week trip to Europe, two max, etc etc) but between the banter were laughs, looks of contentment and more significantly of understanding. I found myself here, there and everywhere but always, eternally and comfortably me.

Besides, those sweet couples in the subway always leave a sour taste in my mouth, as if that kind of affection overload can be sickening. I'll admit that the highlight of my day was when he turned to me and said he had a great day, he got to see a movie with the most beautiful girl in Toronto. I might have gotten a tad bit melty, for just for a moment and then mid-blush I rolled my eyes.

If you passed us you might have written us off quickly as a nothing pairing, but one of the old ladies in the theatre gave me a somewhat knowing look and I'm going to take this meaningless sign that something has changed between us. I'm finally on the radar, he finally makes plans with me, asks me how my day has been, threatens to beat up my stalker, he even offered to bring me dinner the other night. He's earning his knight in shining whatever title and I'm soaking in these sunshiny rays.

After-all, in less than a week he'll be in another continent and the story of my life will have just a tad more continuity. Until then I can only cross my fingers in hopes of more of these delightful days filled with unexpected attention. Maybe when he returns he'll really be mine. Maybe.

Pitter patter goes my heart

And so despite all my careful words, despite all my supposed armor - my "knight-in-shining whatever-turned-demon" is back in my life, this time as a seemingly humble prince. I know what your thinking, I'm going to get hurt. That may be true. At least that's what my head keeps saying. However, whenever he's in my presence, my head is decidedly absent and instead all my decisions are motivated by my fumbling little heart. Why would I weaken myself to his whims, yet again? Let us begin...

I thought I had cut him out of my life. I thought I could be strong and say no forever. Until he came into my work. His useless meanderings were sad, but I knew deep down that he was trying. I know that means very little, especially considering everything he put me through. Still in his eyes were a deep regret that was reaching out to me asking Norah's relentless question, "it's not too late"? All these things aside, in that moment, the moment when he appeared at my work and thus reappeared in my life, I was made more upset, irrated even, at the sudden and public nature of it.

The following day he askes why I won't be attending an event he's hosting. "I can't" I say, "We are no longer friends." His surprise at something I considered so obvious didn't take me aback. We've had these kinds of misunderstandings before. But honestly, I think it's partially my fault for not airing my grivances. A brief yet painful conversation ensues. He calls. "Can I see you?"

Days go by, and I try not to think about him at all, which is really a futile exercise since I've become utterly consumed by both the furry of our argument and my tempering passion for him. He calls and says he wants to put things right. I consider his offer and in the spirit of forgiveness I open up my mind and my schedule.

For a while it's like everything is fine, except that there is this giant awkward space between us. A wall even where no one dares traverse. It is filled with awkward phrases like "sorry" "didn't mean to" when that space is broken. It's painful to be in this thick dense space.

And then an honest apology spills from his lips. His eyes cloud over with sadness as he says, "I wish you didn't hate me." I feel hazy, weak, as I look into his heavy hazel eyes I know he's being sincer. This time I'm not projecting my feelings onto him. This time he means it. I open my arms and I accept his apology and him back into my life.

Where am I now? Closer than I thought I would be to something real, but I'm still unable to let go of my other suitors because of the fear of admitting what that would make him mean to me. And potentially facing a fear, that he means more to me than I mean to him. And yet, I don't know that. Things have been going very well lately.

Perhaps its's a very poor decision to entrust my body, my heart, my mind to him again. But don't butterflies mean anything? Doesn't the feeling of wholeness when I sink into his arms count for something? I find that I'm lost in moments with him. For all those reasons and so many more, it's wonderful to be around him again.

And so while everyone gets all in a huff over this and the many other poor decisions I've been making these days, let me just say I'm following my own rhythm - mine just happens to be the pitter patter of my heart.

Sinking in the perilous seas of dating

The title of this post is a bit deceiving, the entire weekend wasn't perilous but overall I got the feeling that I was slowing sinking in a ship I had built myself. Which in case (like myself) you've never been in that situation, I imagine to be quite unpleasant. Let me explain what I mean by that and why it's time to bail out the boat and patch it up, jump and swim the raging ocean, or like a good captain go down with the ship.

Friday. I had a perfectly lovely date with my IT guy. Let's call that date 2.0. It was perfect. He continued his gentlemanly behaviour by opening any and all doors in my path and conceding to my every whim and desire. And I re-payed him by cheekily almost beating him in air hockey. The venue, a kind of Chucky Cheese for adults, the overall atmosphere of the date: fun; really fun. Despite our inability to conquer the Jurassic Park game and my inability to shoot hoops (It was a shot in hell, I know) we ended up laughing quite a bit and enjoying each others company. The night ended with the same continuity as the first, with a perfectly sweet kiss at my front door. The thing about this suitor is that he is always leaving me wanting more, to kiss a little longer, to have an arm wrapped around me, less sweet more sultry. But that said, I know if he actually lingered longer at my front door, or knit his hand in mine as we walked to the car I'd feel crowded. How contrary I am!

Saturday rolls around and despite another potential set up, I'm exhausted and cancel. Adding another man to the mix might mix me up to the point of nausea, plus I was mid-contrary-awareness after date 2.0. So I put on my finest and head to work. Mid-afternoon, my confession-inclined, unstable ex appears. He says I don't look happy to see him (I'm not). He's disheveled and his eyes are almost yellow and as uneasy as it makes me I can't help but look into them for a thread of sincerity. He says he misses me, he says he needs me and he knows I still need him. Then he grapples for anything that could bind us together. "What's wrong?" he says. "You look sad," he notes (and I am). I'm sad because it is too late, because when I look into his hazel eyes I no longer melt, I'm no longer weak at the way he looks at me and his desperation and his timing sadden me. As I look into his eyes, I see that in my heart there is nothing there for him. It's clear and it hurts because I want to want him. But I'm done with his uncertainy. I'm done chasing someone who wants me one day but not the next. He leaves the store shaking his head.

Sunday night I have a date with chatty bachelor. I'm not sure if its the barrage of phone calls and messages, or my prevailing mood from the day before, or my comparison to date 2.0 or the date itself, but I really wasn't there. By that I mean, I was there with a slight sniffle but as harsh as it sounds, I think my date was on this date by himself. It feels wrong to say this because I know he put so much thought into planning this date, but he had clear ideas about what would happen. For example, when it came time to order the wine, he asked my opinion for which I suggested a modest but wonderful, red (Beaujolais), he rebuffed with Pinot Noir and despite my lack of persistence, we almost got into a fight over the wine choice. At one point, he told me I was "pulling the France card" which I'm not sure what that means, but I assume it means I was talking about France, which one would do if they were asked about their travels to Europe.

There were points in this date where I found myself biting my tongue (which wasn't nearly as tasty as the chocolate mouse he insisted we order despite the fact that I was too stuffed to finish half my meal). Why would I of all people nibble on my tongue, that doesn't sound like me? Well for two reasons, I suspect. First, it was hard to get a word in, edge wise. The rustic voice and elaborate stories that enchanted me into agree to this date entrapped me within it. Second, I became acutely aware of my experience, my education, my background and not wanting to put on a holier-than-thou performance decided to say mum.

There were parts of this date that were quite lovely, if they hadn't been cast over by a feeling of discomfort. Our walk down Yonge Street would have been romantic if I hadn't been shivering along unnoticed. Our talk in the park would have been romantic if it hadn't been slightly spitting rain. Our conversation would have been engaging if I didn't feel like I was trying to convinced that I like many things that I clearly don't. Some examples: wine from California, camping, sitting on a park bench while it almost rains. I feel terribly now because despite how he tried to convince me to catch on to how romantic the evening was, despite all his good intentions and a poem about a first kiss, all I caught from the night was a death of a cold.

And so with a cloudy head cold, I find myself on a ship I built that is slowly sinking. Do I bail out the water and patch it up? Do I forgo everything and jump? Or like a good captain, do I go down with the ship?

Variation on a theme

I've been blessed with many things throughout my life, one of them is the gift of vivid and sometimes prophetic dreams. These dreams are usually saturated with symbols that even the keenest psychology student (and best friend) cannot decipher. This gift manifested itself in my sleep Sunday morning when a dream of someone not being able to breathe awoke me to the sound of my brother suffering a nearly fatal asthma attack. Luckily, we were able to bring him to the emergency room to receive treatment.

So hours later, exhausted, but prettied up for the bridal shower I was about to attend, a certain ex of mine, who can be identified easily by his half-witted professions of love, messaged me. I relied my terror of a morning to him and the oddity of the dream. As soon as I had sent the message that my brother was hospitalized, he logged off.

Several days and phone calls from concerned friends later, I've heard not a single word from him. I'm not sure I can count the number of times I've sat through his desperate, pleading phone calls. Heard his self-depleted expressions of the hopelessness of life, those who've wronged him, the nonexistence of happiness, his exasperation at being 'lost,' the inconceivable idea that life has value. For all those patient and reassuring times I have in exchange, his silence.

What he did offer me with it was a valuable gift. The realization that I had seen all this before, that this is a variation of a theme: no matter what happens, he is the only thing he cares about. And as if this subtle memory isn't proof enough, he did offer me something more concrete.

Tonight he messaged me. The first thing I write is: "My brother is out of the hospital. He's doing much better. Not that you care. Have a nice night." His response, "I care. I really do. I've just had a really long day. Good night." Now it is my turn to be silent. I hope my silence conveys what I was thinking, "No, not good night, goodbye." From now on, when I count my blessings I'll count his absence in my life twice.

Why I'm out catching pop-flys in left field

The thing I hate most is when people misuse words, particularly words with weight. Those phrases and words that hit you in the bottom of your stomach like your little brother just punched you "as hard as he can" or the words that travel like a fluttering butterfly from your stomach to your mouth, making you giddy. I hate it when people misuse these words because I love those far too rare feelings.

So when a pathetic whiny boy tells me he loves me and then does nothing, says nothing to follow it up, I realize I have a case of misused words on my hands. Instead of grieving and feeling pathetically low about the fact that I have given my heart to someone incapable of understanding what being in love means - I file it away under "past pain" and decide to play the field. Why should I feel badly about our relationship a second time?

Despite words like "I kinda miss you some" when added together do not denote the quantity of cute intended by their user but instead come to mean I miss you a tiny pinch, almost none at all, I push forward, with a new plan for my romantic future in hand. No more tedious phone calls about ex-girlfriends, no more late night rendez-vous, no more pathetic whining and most importantly no more degrading myself by chasing after a boy who doesn't really want me. That was so something I'd do when I was seventeen. Now I'm older and wiser and know that I only want to be with guys who realize they want me and treat me as such.

Thus, I'm playing the field with a double header first date lined up for Saturday and Sunday. I'll let you know how they go. I'm quite excited to finally let go of all the baggage that came with high-school ex and possibly catch something worthwhile. I'm positively giddy.

The insignificant significant other

A week has passed since any conversations of significance have been had. So when one very significant conversation creeped up on me last Thursday, I was taken-aback. The relative consumption of alcohol following said conversation shouldn't come as a surprise either once you have a firm grasp on the content. I'm not sure I do, but here goes:

Being demoted from lover to best friend (especially without warning) comes privy to some very interesting details. Unfortunately for me, these details became quite painful to patiently and encouragingly listen to. In fact, I don't even think they've fully sunken in, I'm still feeling somewhat numb and nonchalant.

How is one supposed to feel after learning that their lover of two months just broke up with his girlfriend barely two months ago? For me the timing seems eerily inconvenient, for him the timing seems too convenient. Of course, who but myself do I have to blame for becoming entangled yet again in another other woman scenario.

It is as if I cannot help but be the other woman, the woman who if the timing were better, or my heart weren't just broken, or if I hadn't just given my heart to someone else, would be perfect. But for now, I'm just fine. Settle-worthy. Not quite, but almost. Transitory.

I am constantly becoming the insignificant significant other. And I don't like it.

I'm not a consolation. And knowing this, and the deep levels of deception conveniently tucked away in my exes pocket, I find that I'm beyond tears. Surely I'm disappointed, but my head swims at my unfortunate choices.

What I am left with is the words of Jeff Buckley, "I think much more than I oughta think, I do things I never should do" and a bottle of empty Lilac wine.

Exposed to the elements

Is it possible to recognize a place I've never been? There was a time I thought so. The familiar settled feeling I got as I traveled through the Italian countryside. However, this time the feeling doesn't come accompanied with the luxury of simply delicious cuisine and the answers to the questions of my ancestry revealed. This time the familiarity is accompanied by something unsettling. The awkward place somewhere between lovers and friends.

How did I arrive at this unlikely place? I guess here I can learn a lesson from nature. Two weeks ago the ground had thawed and I thought it was the beginning of spring. Now I look out my window and see white flurries dancing in the wind. The arrival of love, much like the changing of seasons, seems never fully certain.

What do I do when someone plays with my heart, taunting me with words, teasing me with touch, holding me in their gaze? Inevitably, I lose myself, as anyone given the chance to make things right with their high school sweetheart would. As everything unfolds I realize my grievances now are the same as they were then: a) I feel judged/misunderstood; b) we weren't faithful either in heart or body; c) he's too selfish to concern himself with me; d) we are not a part of each others lives.

And yet, the boy I used to call mon petite prince has enchanted me. With just one fateful meeting, one message, one kiss I've lost my footing. I've been stumbling here for a while. Swaying between holding on and letting go. I felt like I've been letting the past trap my future decisions, weighing what was more heavily against what is. And now I'm weary. So much back and forth, too many ups and downs, I'm exhausted. With the words: "You are a distraction. Distractions are only good for a certain amount of time" the spell was broken.

Luckily, "Dear John"s are somewhat of a specialty of mine. This one went like this:

"And so here I am, in the same place I was seven years ago. But today I've
realized I haven't changed that much. After being told, "you're a distraction...
distractions are only good for so long," the painful feeling of being right has
washed over me. Surprisingly, it doesn't sting; what I am left with is a numbing
headache.

Was there a better way to say that you don't want to be with
me? Surely others have had more tact. I feel like I'm in a place where honesty
doesn't exist, but instead of succumbing to the silence I will just say these
words:

You strung me along and I thought that you wanted to be with me.
Then suddenly, you changed direction. Your words, your behaviour, your absence
were cold and unsettling. Your silence mounted my insecurity. You don't have to
tell me you don't want me, you've shown me.

Can I be your friend? I'm
not sure my friends treat me this way. I'm not sure we have ever been good at
being friends because despite how much you've hurt me I'll always want you to be
that person. The person you don't want to be.

This time I'm not running away, I'm being pushed."

What of a response? The equivalent of guilty evasive. His words were empty, his disposition despondent. I decide to slowly let myself slip away, and disappear as I had done seven years ago. But first, the orchestrated goodbye. That's how I found myself at his show last Thursday, and that's how I found myself greeted by the words, "I love you so much."

The first time he said those words, we were watching Ally McBeal and they were debating whether “sometimes love just isn’t enough.” Seven years ago he turned to me and etched those words on my heart. I’m afraid, this time; his words won’t be enough.

Why blog, why?

Last night I found myself the third wheel at another downtown locale. Actually, this time I dragged my best friend and her boyfriend out, to see my ex-boyfriend's show. Earlier, our non-relationship was described by her as "rocky" as she made alternative back-up plans with another friend, a description that recent developments made me full heartedly agree.

As we joked back and forth about the various trials and tribulations I've experienced in my own search for love, my best friend suggests that I have a lot of great material for a book. Being so non-committal I thought a blog would be the right way to go, so here we are! Her boyfriend, George, agrees but thought my readers may have a problem believing my tales of woe.

Well, reader, I promise all my stories are true and sadly did happen to me. Some will be recent events from the trenches, some will be memories from days gone by, excerpts from letters and sometimes the rare adage of a journal entry.

I think cataloguing the catastrophes in my own dating life will help me sort through where I've been and hopefully give some laughs (and maybe some insights) to those relationships that have been utter disasters. Despite them though, I will keep searching, through all the crazies, the detached, unavailable, mindless men to find that person who fits me.

As a girl who had her very own three story dollhouse with electricity, a girl who loved reading fairy tales before she went to bed each night, I can't help but believe in the myth of love. Besides, I see it everywhere. I know it's just matter of time before I find that person. But in the meantime, we might as well have a couple of laughs at the ones who didn't make the cut.