I am not having sex with the guy you broke up with
February 11, 2008 | 11:59 pm | Uncategorized | Family | 1
It was a long, strange weekend. The fact I have only been sleeping about five hours a night does not help. This weekend had the potential to be either extremely awesome or extremely disastrous and it ended up somewhere in between, so that it is now 11:31 p.m. Monday night and I still do not feel as though I’ve mentally recovered.
The good part was Saturday, driving the four hours to north Dallas to see my little sister for the first time since I’ve been back in Western civilization. During my time away she has apparently morphed into a true-blue adult (instead of a kid 8 years younger than me) to whom I can now easily relate and who shares my extremely cultivated taste in movies. She just got back from a trip to New York which makes me insanely jealous, since I’ve never been there. I also, for the first time, had a full-blown, awesome conversation with her hot-ass Hispanic Adonis and I must now find some way of convincing them to drive to Houston on their motorcycle over Spring Break, or maybe this summer, when we all can hang out on a Matagorda County beach.
The trip to Dallas was to celebrate some familial birthdays, including my father’s, which is actually on Valentine’s Day. Plans Sunday, however, meant that I had to drive back to Houston on the same day and I didn’t end up getting home until 2 a.m.
The bad part happened exactly an hour later, when I was rudely awakened from my much-needed slumber by a phone call. Somebody with mental issues and an extreme lack of maturity is attempting to pull me into her own self-perpetuated drama and I’m not having it. In addition to having my sleep disturbed I was also forced to spend the better part of the next day trying to figure out exactly how I came to be dragged into this whole stupid mess and what I can do about it. The upside, if there is one, is that I now have a new Most Hated Person in Houston, a role that was previously occupied by a former paramour. (Look at me, throwing that word around so generously. An old huckleberry friend just doesn’t have the same ring, does it?)
Only one person is allowed to interrupt my R.E.M. and for only one reason at that, and he’s currently 100 miles offshore.
Thankfully, Sunday I was able to exercise away my confusion and aggression and I no longer want to lurk in a certain someone’s regular bar and write nasty things about them on the bathroom wall. Several rounds of fermented libation purchased by my favorite patron made everything better. Also, watching Amy Winehouse perform on the Grammys, because I love that hot mess more than anyone else in popular music today.
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That’s the best blog post title ever, by the way. I’m stealing it. I’m putting it on things that have nothing to do with sex or ex-boyfriends (two things I rarely have).