Monday, December 31, 2012

The Twelve Days of a Guy Friend Christmas: Day 6.

It's a really beautiful, delicate, fancy, silky scarf. I absolutely love it, and that's the truth.

Guy Friend is mad at me again, most likely because I've been critiquing his gifts this whole time. He's insulted that I would even imagine that he re-gifted anything he's given me, when he hasn't. When I picked up the phone last night, he said, "Hi, it's Dr. [Guy Friend's last name]." I thought that oddly formal, and he called from within the confines of Camp Guy, sounding extremely downtrodden.

It was weird because he asked me at 8:40pm if I was still awake. I said yes, I was. He wouldn't call me until over an hour later, during which, for whatever reason, he felt compelled, unprompted, to read a few blog entries from home.

He either was weary of all the family shenanigans or just totally emotionally beaten down by my mouthiness and ill-appreciation as of late. The conversation didn't go well at all, and was brief. I did a lot of sedate "Ok, yeah, alright's" & he tried to explain further why he would never come to see my band play at church, to which I owe no one except my best friends an explanation, and it's not because of the Pope (entirely, though Catholicism has something to do with it).  He said he would call me back today (New Year's Eve), though I'm not sure why he'd bother when all I imagine is me once again stringing along another long response of agreeable and accepting "Ok's" because I don't have handy a petition signed by my legion of fans and loved ones who all think that he is a few leaves short of a clover.

Woke up at 6:30, unable to get back to sleep. That priest hole I mentioned in a previous blog? Yeah, I'll be hiding in there. Kate told me not to despair. A little late for that. Ok, hello Major Depressive Episode via the Entrance of Total Rejection. It's been literal days (a week, maybe?) since I felt so awful that I self-increased my Zoloft dose up by another 50 mg.

The best advice I could give any woman at this point is to never, ever let yourself become so vulnerable that a guy knows exactly how much you love him. The tailspin isn't worth the bullshit. I have to remember that I'm neither of my 2 best girlfriends, one local and one far away, who are both knockouts who sparkle, dazzle and rock. I'm far too nuts, complicated, and me-like, which historically, eventually sends everyone fleeing.

Nonplussed, even about joining a gym with Luke as my workout buddy, this is pretty much how I feel:

After toying with another memoir title, "Sorry, I Must Have Dozed Off Again," I think the new working title is "History Repeats Itself." 

Well, fuck.

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