The truth is.  I’m hard on guys.  on boys.  on the fellas.  I get that.  I’m judgey wudgey was a bear.  And court is in session.  But it’s not about being angry.  Or bitter.  Or resentful.  Bitchy or spiteful.  It’s about self-protection.  Self-preservation.  Hands over chest over heart and back away.  Must.  Not.  Get.  Hurt.  Must.  Never.  Be.  Humiliated.  Must.  Never.  Look.  Stupid.  In a way that matters.  Must.  Be.  Made.  Of.  Tin (Steel).

Detour.

Well folks.  This is kind of like the northern lights.  Or a groundhog sighting.  Or Santa.  This glimpse into the vulnerable me, does not come around very often.  rarely.  barely ever.  even less in real life. even less for boys.  virtually never for boys.  So take some photos.  Remember this moment.  As that few and far between where I open up a tiny bit.  Just a smidge.  For just a moment.  And then snap close.

Back on Track.

I have this flaw.  It’s not fatal.  Though calling it a fatal flaw would be more poetic.  And frankly if this was literature you could almost call it my tragic flaw.  Because depending on how you see things.  It leads to my demise.  Or perhaps it serves a purpose and protects me.  Hands over chest over heart and back away.

The thing is.  I am very sensitive.  I have no idea if this comes as a surprise or not.  I am very quick to get my back up.  I am extremely quick to feel jilted.  I am tender to being wronged (even in the illusory sense).  I am sensitive to being played.

But I won’t play Bitter Betty.  I won’t act Angry Angie or Embarrassed Emily.  I won’t be Heated Heather or Scorned Susan.  I will aim for Nonchalant Nancy but I’m guessing I often come off as Dysfunctional Diane, Confusing Caitlin or Passive Aggressive Pamela-Ann.  The thing is though.  If I’m hurt.  I won’t tell you.  I won’t tell anyone.  And I don’t just mean my heart.  Because with dating.  That’s often not involved yet.  It’s often about pride.  Image.  Saving face.  Rep.  Self-esteem?

So I put up walls.  I tell the bouncer not to let anyone in.  I cut and run.  I cut and run.  I.  Cut.  And.  Run.  Nobody puts baby in the corner.  Nobody makes a fool of me.  Though I’m pretty sure my definition of fool is a little skewed.  Or perhaps it’s totally on the ball.  Maybe it’s the most perfectly calibrated compass in the world.  Who knows?  Oh…You do?  Oh…You’d like to weigh in on whether or not I’m being a total spazz or if I’m right on the money to cut and run?  Have at ‘er.

Intelligence Officer.
We had a good time.  A really good time.  In fact there were a few times.  That were good.  And though I can’t say for certain.  I would gather he thought so too.  But honestly, who the fuck knows.  No contact comes.  My pride is hurt.  3 weeks later.  I initiate contact.  I know…I know.  I’m a loser.  I’m a fool.  But my rationale is that since it’s booty call territory.  That it’s acceptable.  Turns out it was okay to make contact as he is clearly pleased.  Until I realize WHY he hasn’t made contact in the 3 weeks.  Locale.  Lack thereof.  And that is where I revert back to me.  The old me.  Too quick to be jilted.  Or right on point.  You decide.  Perhaps this has nothing to do with how awesome I am.  How amazing of a lay.  How hot.  How beautiful.  How magnetic.  It’s simple logistics.  He doesn’t pursue.  Because there’s no place to pursue.  But my back is up.  Walls are up.  Bouncer on alert.  Cut and Run.  Fucking cut and run.  And it doesn’t really matter anyways because my options for locale won’t open up till September and that’s when dating/boys/etc. cease so the point is moot.  Except of course to feel like a dupe.  Kick self.  Know better next time.  But I want your opinion, readers.

Here’s how I see it.  Boy thinks I’m hot/good lay/awesome/sexy/any of the above.  Boy makes shit happen.  Boy finds place to bang.  If boy doesn’t procure place.  Boy does not think I’m hot/good lay/awesome/any of the above.  To me it’s pretty simple.  Am I right?

Next Scenario.

Twitter Guy.
We go on one date.  We have good chemistry.  There’s frisky business.  It’s been 4 weeks.  Moderate amount of contact.  Some contact gives an indication he’d like to hang out again.  Other contact is clearly saying it’s a no go.  All of it indicates he had a good time on the date.  All of it stems from a level of busy-ness I can’t seem to comprehend.  I’m actually starting to think that perhaps that random commenter guy was right and Twitter Guy is married.  Or perhaps I was like the pre-date jerk (to him) (to be clear I know I’m way more awesome than a wank lol).  Just something to get out of your system before pursuing the real goods.  Aka another lady.  So here is where I become me. Quick to be jilted. Or right on point. You decide.  He talks about being busy, and reasons and other bullshit).  Perhaps I should take him at his word.  But my back is up. Walls are up. Bouncer on alert. Cut and Run. Fucking cut and run. And I mean none of it really matters because I’m not emotionally invested.  Except of course I feel like a dupe. Kick self. Know better next time. But I want your opinion, readers.

Here’s how I see it…..Delete.

Okay so I deleted any questions I had because as of yesterday afternoon…I finally know the exact fucking situation.  And I was right.  About everything.  In my gut.  From the start.  The irony of getting this information at like the exact fucking moment I’m opening up just a tiny bit is…well…fucking ironic.  Explanation to come in tomorrow’s post.