Counts the Ways

I've exchanged 3:10 for 5:something. Let's be realistic: if this keeps up I could be that sexy early riser I've always wanted to be. Getting more done before breakfast than you do all fucking day. So don't sweat me.

My self-esteem has been such that the best way to measure my life for several years is by whomever I've chosen to give my undeserved devotion to. And so we have The Ezra Period. The Otis Age. The Gavin Years. The Blink of Sam.

Ask me about a specific day and I'll flick through my mental card catalog (because my head is a library, but the old school kind) and retrieve for you Who I Was Sprung On and What I Was Wearing.

Important facts, both. But tonight they are a shambles and don't amount to much. So I'm all out of memories.

Tonight was supposed to be awesome, in that I had all kinds of plans to leave work at a reasonable hour and with enough time to meet the dude that my therapist is always telling me to look for. Some magical unicorn of a motherfucker, he must be, the way she describes him. Charming and classy and successful. And adoring. And talented. And funny. In awe of me. Creative, witty, dependable, patient, generous, calm and richer than I am. That last isn't so hard as I'm not Rich, I'm only Doing OK. I can't buy a house or anything. Not for lack of cash but because I'm lacking Foresight and the ability to Keep My Goddamn Money In My Pocket.

This magical unicorn of a motherfucker could probably teach me a thing or two about that, as well.

Not that it matters, because instead of putting myself where He might find me I worked until midnight and wrote a bunch of emails and proposals. They are more dependable than unicorns, is the way I justify this behavior.

Oooh. And last weekend I had a boy over. Not Mr. Tattoos from a couple weeks ago. A friend I've had for a while. We watched a suspicious movie on Netflix (okay sidenote: I fucking LOVE the fact that I can just order movies up and play them on my Wii whenever the hell I want to. I feel like a Jetson.) and he brought me an offering that I've outgrown but still found pretty charming and all. Anyway, these aren't the real points. The real point also isn't that we watched the movie like old school southern kids, having about 18 inches between us and no funny business on the couch.

The real point is that when I was hugging him goodbye we kissed and he did This Thing. Picked me all the way up and wrapped my legs around him and kinda held me there. Kissed me again. Leaned back like we had all the time in the world and I was so busy swooning I couldn't bother to think about the fact that I feel like a cow ever since I stopped being a size 2. Time and dumbass judgmental thoughts like that kinda just hung out for a second not mattering cause it's The Angelina Era and I realized in that moment that I can choose whatever the fuck I want cause I'm finally the boss of me.

So go ahead, I'm thinking. Sweep me off my feet. It's my fucking floor and I get to pick when I land again.

The Tattooed One is his own version of adorable, but also a Very Bad Idea. I have a list of reasons why and due to proximity I have to recount them daily to keep me on the straight and narrow.

And miles to go before I sleep, as my vow of chastity remains pretty much unbroken aside from a good deal of necking. I'm waiting on that magical unicorn of a motherfucker, I think.

At least I tell myself that on nights like this when the thought of him has to be enough to get me back to sleep again.

I get every fucking thing I want. Why would this be any different?

Night.