In the past three days, two people have said something to me about not having written in my blog for a long time, and believe me, it wasn't news. Almost every single day I think about how long it's been since I've written and tell myself I'm going to write, but as you know, the writing never comes. I'll make the same excuses for you that I made for them:
One, I told you during my thirty days o' blogs that I didn't want my blog to become a boy blog, and it just so happens--surprise surprise, people!--that the majority of what I want to write about is boys;
two, also as I mentioned in my thirty days o' blogs, I'm afraid I reveal the wrong things to the wrong people, those people namely being boys;
and three, anything I want to write about that isn't about boys is about people who might maybe possibly read my blog--or absolutely positively do--and that makes writing what I want not the best choice,
but, alas, here I am as a direct result of the you-haven't-updated-your-blog-in-a-really-long-time conversation I had yesterday and the urging to do so despite all of my complaints
and since I'd hate to break up the banality of my droning on and on about boys...
There's this boy--
okay, stop. Wait--
this boy I really like--
no, really, don't--
who I've been seeing for--
for the love of God, stop, Kel, stop!
The truth is, I haven't written a blog because I don't trust myself. Not one little bit.
Another truth is that I've written plenty of posts in my head and even stayed up late typing an entire one last night, but in an uncharacteristic bout of what may have been good sense inspired by conversations I had with Griffin and Keifer and a good friend named Ro, I read and reread and reread again and didn't hit the publish button.
During these separate conversations with Griffin and Keifer and Ro, what each of these people said pretty much came down to this: You know that big ball of radiation we call the sun? I find every excuse underneath it to stop liking someone. As you're all aware, I go out with a lot of guys--an overwhelming, dizzying number, to tell yet another truth--and if we don't count C because he's obviously a different kind of case, since my ex-Glenn and I split up in July of 2014, I've had real interest in maybe five--not counting La Dispute Guy, who I haven't introduced you to yet (readers, meet La Dispute Guy. He's guy number six)--and of those five, it didn't take me long to lose interest in all but one (two if we count BTJ, but remember, I barely liked him at all until he disappeared, and in news you don't know, we started talking again along with a little something more, and I was the one who disappeared that time around, and if you want to count A, I guess we're up to three, but you guys know as bad as I felt when we stopped seeing each other, I couldn't stand how much of a whiny, complainy baby he was).
According to Griffin and Keifer and Ro, finding reasons not to like someone is just my MO. After a date or two, I decide somebody is either too short or too fat or too dumb or too conservative or too quiet or too loud or too into me or not into me enough or has stupid tattoos or ridiculous hair or doesn't kiss right or doesn't have the right smell or has unappealing teeth or a disgustingly big beard and mustache that collects droplets of coffee with cream that makes me want to throw up.
La Dispute Guy is no exception to this rule. In the beginning I started to come up with some complaint--I don't remember what it was, but I'm thinking that his living over a hundred miles away could have been it--when I was talking about him to Ro, and she was like, Just stop! You always do this. You always try to find something wrong. And I actually did. I stopped looking for things that were wrong, and now that I've gotten where I am, I'm not going to discuss it for the same reason I deleted last night's blog, and that's because like the super gay butler says to the super old vampire in need of virginal blood to maintain her illusion of youth in Once Bitten, one of the funniest and most underrated movies of all time, there's more than one way to skin a cat, and finding something wrong with every person I ever meet in my life isn't the only way to self-sabotage.
One, I told you during my thirty days o' blogs that I didn't want my blog to become a boy blog, and it just so happens--surprise surprise, people!--that the majority of what I want to write about is boys;
two, also as I mentioned in my thirty days o' blogs, I'm afraid I reveal the wrong things to the wrong people, those people namely being boys;
and three, anything I want to write about that isn't about boys is about people who might maybe possibly read my blog--or absolutely positively do--and that makes writing what I want not the best choice,
but, alas, here I am as a direct result of the you-haven't-updated-your-blog-in-a-really-long-time conversation I had yesterday and the urging to do so despite all of my complaints
and since I'd hate to break up the banality of my droning on and on about boys...
There's this boy--
okay, stop. Wait--
this boy I really like--
no, really, don't--
who I've been seeing for--
for the love of God, stop, Kel, stop!
The truth is, I haven't written a blog because I don't trust myself. Not one little bit.
Another truth is that I've written plenty of posts in my head and even stayed up late typing an entire one last night, but in an uncharacteristic bout of what may have been good sense inspired by conversations I had with Griffin and Keifer and a good friend named Ro, I read and reread and reread again and didn't hit the publish button.
During these separate conversations with Griffin and Keifer and Ro, what each of these people said pretty much came down to this: You know that big ball of radiation we call the sun? I find every excuse underneath it to stop liking someone. As you're all aware, I go out with a lot of guys--an overwhelming, dizzying number, to tell yet another truth--and if we don't count C because he's obviously a different kind of case, since my ex-Glenn and I split up in July of 2014, I've had real interest in maybe five--not counting La Dispute Guy, who I haven't introduced you to yet (readers, meet La Dispute Guy. He's guy number six)--and of those five, it didn't take me long to lose interest in all but one (two if we count BTJ, but remember, I barely liked him at all until he disappeared, and in news you don't know, we started talking again along with a little something more, and I was the one who disappeared that time around, and if you want to count A, I guess we're up to three, but you guys know as bad as I felt when we stopped seeing each other, I couldn't stand how much of a whiny, complainy baby he was).
According to Griffin and Keifer and Ro, finding reasons not to like someone is just my MO. After a date or two, I decide somebody is either too short or too fat or too dumb or too conservative or too quiet or too loud or too into me or not into me enough or has stupid tattoos or ridiculous hair or doesn't kiss right or doesn't have the right smell or has unappealing teeth or a disgustingly big beard and mustache that collects droplets of coffee with cream that makes me want to throw up.
La Dispute Guy is no exception to this rule. In the beginning I started to come up with some complaint--I don't remember what it was, but I'm thinking that his living over a hundred miles away could have been it--when I was talking about him to Ro, and she was like, Just stop! You always do this. You always try to find something wrong. And I actually did. I stopped looking for things that were wrong, and now that I've gotten where I am, I'm not going to discuss it for the same reason I deleted last night's blog, and that's because like the super gay butler says to the super old vampire in need of virginal blood to maintain her illusion of youth in Once Bitten, one of the funniest and most underrated movies of all time, there's more than one way to skin a cat, and finding something wrong with every person I ever meet in my life isn't the only way to self-sabotage.
