I Do What Boys Like

Have you seen that predictive text epitaph meme? If you haven't, here it is.

Well, being the lover of predictive text that I am, a few days ago when a friend of mine posted it, I was like, Ooh! That looks fun! and although I didn't post the results, I did figure my epitaph out.

Here lies Kelly. She was really nice to him.

Here lies Kelly. She was really nice to him.

Here lies Kelly. She was really nice to him[!]

All I have to say is, does my phone really know me that well?

I know this is supposed to be funny and stuff, but that epitaph really does sum up my entire life.

Take tonight, for example.

In the long tradition of my baking things for boys that I like/covet/love, I just finished baking not one, but two desserts for La Dispute Guy who I'm going to see tomorrow for the first time in almost a month (it's a crazily long time, I know, but he lives over a hundred miles away, don't forget, and the last time he was in town, I was in North Dakota), two because I want him to try something with pumpkin, which he says he doesn't like, because I feel like he just hasn't had the right pumpkin thing, but just in case he really doesn't like pumpkin dessert, I made him another one, and, oh my god, could I be any more into this guy who wants to be casual and I never even see? I'm obviously insane.

And off topic. Let me go back.

You know what? Let's forget the epitaph for a minute and go back to that long tradition. Let's take a quick look at my past.

When I was 24 and married for a year, I made my ex-Glenn those chocolate-mousse filled chocolate bags that led to my being in hysterics and my mom and Erin eating mousse out of the garbage can. I also used to want to make him his favorite food, chicken parmesan, on special occasions, but he refused to let me cook it--because apparently I made it too wet. Fucking weirdo eats cereal without milk and doesn't like sauce. I promise the problem wasn't my cooking--and until about ten years into our marriage when he blindsided me with the admission that he hated the way I made eggs, I happily used to make him those. (You know, there was so much wrong with my marriage that I can't say for sure, but I'm pretty sure his not wanting me to cook anything for him ever contributed in some way to its demise).

I've baked for C twice, cookies from scratch nearly ten years ago when he got some really bad news and vegan brownies during The Summer of C when he complained that because he was lactose intolerant, he'd pretty much given up on dessert. I also once made my specialty, spaghetti and meatballs, for him and his friends (I've done this for stupid Louie who never wrote me back as well).

I even made brownies for one of G's guitarists, who I used to really, really want.

Baking and cooking, of course, aren't the only way I've been nice to boys, and no, I'm not talking about that. I've just always had a horrible weakness for boys my entire life, and when I'm really into one, there's pretty much nothing I won't do, which sort of makes sense, but even if I'm not really into one, even if I just think a boy is cute, I do things for him too, I just can't say no even when I know I should and that, readers, is why I can't stop thinking about that predictive text.

Do I think that predictive textitaph was sort of supernatural and really had insight? Of course not. Okay, probably not. I mean, it's not very likely. But I do feel like, whether it's been my being nice to a boy, my coveting a boy, my talking about a boy, or my thinking about a boy, boys have been my entire life.

I remember when I was 23 telling Erin I wanted to write a memoir called Rocks in My Shoe with each chapter being about a different boy and her telling me that as a feminist she had a problem with my telling my life through the lens of my relationships with boys.

As a feminist, I know she's right.

I just like cute boys too much to care. 

If the Streets Don't Kill Him, I Will

*Name has not been changed to protect the innocent because there isn't one

About four weeks ago when Kiwi asked me if his friend Jordan* could stay at our house, I said yes right away. Although I didn't know the details, I did know that someone who was a good enough friend of Kiwi's for me to know some details about his life--he was a SoundCloud rapper, he'd been looking for a job for months and couldn't find one, he owed someone I know very well $50 for taking a class for him in order to graduate--needed help.

In the few days between Ki's asking and Jordan's showing up, I found out that Jordan got kicked out of his house after graduation for reasons Kiwi didn't know but that a stepdad was involved and that he had lived with at least two friends' families since. Red flags maybe should have gone up or at least appeared--for instance, I might have wondered why this kid's parents kicked him out, why he kept having to leave everybody's house, or why he couldn't find a job--but they didn't. Lover of strays that I am, I just wanted to help.

Jordan "moved in" on August 26. I was out somewhere, I don't remember where, but I do remember that when I went to put my clothes in the washing machine it was absolutely stuffed to the brim with clothes of his, so many clothes that I had to run them through the dryer twice, and yes, I'm the one who had to run them through the dryer because the boys had gone out. When they came back, I introduced myself and told Jordan I had dried his clothes, he thanked me, I told him he could stay in G's room, Kiwi said he'd show him where it was, and they went upstairs.

I hoped he'd be comfortable, especially since the following day I found out that that night in G's bed was his first time sleeping in a bed in over a month. Poor thing, I thought. That's so sad.

Well.

Can you guess what I'm going to say?

Is it that the only thing sad is my judgment and fear of confrontation?

Because that's pretty fucking close.

Poor, poor Jordan, it turns out, is an ungrateful, entitled piece of crap, and I exhibit no surprise whatsoever that nobody, including his own parents, wants him in their house, and lest you think I'm about to exaggerate my tale, I'll have you know that last week Kiwi's girlfriend messaged me asking if we could throw a party when he leaves and even Kiwi, who was pro Jordan for much more of his stay than he should have been, also wanted him out.

To make my life simpler, and I'm in dire need of simple after this ordeal, I'm going to give a tiny bit of info and then copy and paste lots and lots (Facebook friends, you can skip those parts).

Jordan, you may remember, didn't have a job. How then, you may wonder, could he afford to eat? Where was he getting food? It's not like some dumbass schmuck came along and went grocery shopping for him, even texting her son to find out what his friend wanted to eat.

Except it actually is.

So for twenty-one days, I fed and housed this kid; I drove him to the skate park; I included him on Wednesdays when we had family dinners with my nephew Ty; I listened to him make beats loud enough to drown my music out when he was upstairs and I was down, and while we're talking about him and his music, I might also mention I had to listen to him rap/record all the time; I scrubbed the toilet and underside of the toilet seat repeatedly because never in my life have I seen someone who is so unbelievably bad at directing his penis and its stream of pee--I'm talking pee, still wet when I'd wake up in the morning or when I'd come home from school, dripping down the toilet seat in little rivulets; I swept the floor day and night, an action made necessary by his constantly twisting the tiny dreads he was cultivating and the nauseating collection of hair he left wherever he would sit; I scrubbed the stove when I woke up because he left macaroni and cheese powder and other food particles on it overnight; I cleaned the counter constantly because it was crumb city all the way; and I went further and further into the abyss of insane.

On day eight, I posted this

Okay, so Kiwi's friend has been here for eight days and shows no signs of leaving. He has no job or money, so I'm buying all his food. Is it all right for me to ask him to vacuum twice a week? Like, at this point he's no longer a guest, right?

prompted by his having done nothing but go to the skate park, record music, make a mess, and sleep until at least 4:00 in the afternoon every day (later that day I got up the nerve to ask him to vacuum twice a week and wash all his dishes; he vacuumed twice and if we all held a collective breath waiting for him to wash his dishes, we'd be collectively dead).

Two days later, on September 7, I commented on a post declaring the rapper had to leave

Okay, so two nights ago--Wednesday night--he woke me up rapping and blasting music at 3:30 in the morning. 3:30 in the morning! I messaged Kiwi and was like, wtf, I have to be up at 5:30, and he apologized over and over and said he told him to be quiet. I couldn't fall back to sleep until almost 5, and I wake up at 5:30. So I was pissed. I said the next day, which was yesterday, we needed to establish rules. 

Well.

He was still asleep when I took Kiwi  to work at 4:30 last night and still nowhere to be seen when I went to bed at 11:30. I just got home from work and was in a perfectly good mood only to find a sink with dishes and crumbs, crumbs on the floor next to the garbage can when I mopped yesterday, the Brita pitcher empty, and the sponge smelly because he didn't wring it out. 

I can't be understanding anymore.

And later that day

Okay, so get this. I just talked to Kiwi. He and his gf got the rapper an interview at their job today, which was just a formality, and he didn't even show up. He said he couldn't find it even though Kiwi pulled up the location and showed it to him on his phone.

And

You guys! I just found his hair in my bed.

In. My. Bed.

A couple days later, I was sitting on the counter drinking an apple ale talking to Kiwi when Jordan walked into the kitchen, open the fridge, and without so much as a word, just took out and opened a beer. I seriously think I almost dropped dead. Not long after that when he was cooking himself the vegan pizza I'd just bought for Kiwi the night before, I told him to please not eat Kiwi's vegan food but to eat the stuff I bought for him instead and to wipe the toilet after he peed.

Then I went out of town.

And, well...a copied and pasted list from yesterday afternoon

Okay, so I was out of town from Tuesday to last night. Before I went, I sat both boys down--really to tell Jordan, not Kiwi--and went over rules. I reiterated about cleaning up after themselves, not leaving dishes in the sink, things like that. Also, the day I left, I came home between work and the airport and Jordan was making Kiwi's $8 Daiya vegan pizza, and I said to him that I want him to leave the vegan stuff for Kiwi since he's a vegan and so picky that he's 5'10 and weighs 118 pounds (keep in mind that I grocery shop for Jordan, getting him stuff like macaroni and cheese, grilled cheese stuff, cereal, pasta). So:

1. Erica text me (unbeknownst to Kiwi) to tell me Jordan was eating all Kiwi's food
2. Kiwi text me to tell me Jordan didn't do one dish the whole time I was gone and that he had to keep doing his dishes
3. Kiwi had this collectible Monster shot that we bought on a road trip like three years ago, and it's $50 online now since they're unavailable. Jordan drank it.
4. Kiwi said the counter was covered in stuff because Jordan didn't clean up after himself once
5. When I got home last night, I saw a cockroach--a cockroach!--on the dryer. That hasn't happened in 17 years of my living in this house.
6. He ate an entire pint of Kiwis vegan ice cream in G's bedroom and left the empty pint and a dirty spoon on the shelf attached to his bed
7. The upstairs toilet actually had dried pee on the top of the toilet seat and dripping pee on the underside. I had to scrub it when I got home last night at about 1 a.m.
8. I can't say for sure, but I'm pretty sure he was in my bed. After scrubbing the toilet, I had to change my sheets.
9. The downstairs toilet doesn't have the pee issue, but the seat is just filthy--like black, like someone really dirty sat on it. Obviously I had to scrub that, too. 
10. Kiwijust told me about half an hour ago that his gf bought him Bento and Jordan ate it from the fridge
11. I'm not sure if I mentioned it before, but he took my good running/talking on the phone headphones from the counter (right in front of me while I was doing dishes!) and lost them
12. He's just a disgusting human and I can't have him in my house


Jordan is now gone. Kiwi told him when he woke up at 9:00 last night--9:00 last night!--that I wanted him to go. Embarrassed and uncomfortable even though he wanted him gone as badly as I did, he initially said something about my not being able to afford food for both of them and the house being dirty, and for some strange reason, his detailed explanation of that was that I said something about crumbs.

Jordan's response?

[n word with an a] i been in here all day
how could there possibly be crumbs
lmao
its whatever tho

and Kiwi told me that even though he told him today that it was more than just crumbs, whenever he DMed anyone, crumbs was the reason he gave for my kicking him out, and as if that's not bad enough, when that fucking piece of crap motherfucker left my house, he didn't say one word to me, he just walked out of the house like I wasn't even there.

In the 23 days that I made my house that absolute stranger's home, he said thank you once, and that's when I put his clothes in the dryer on day one--oh, and maybe when I drove him to the skate park two or three times.

I have never felt so used in my entire life.

And I'm a fucking slut. 

I Was Kinda Hoping You'd Stay

Well.

La Dispute Guy wants to keep it casual. After a lot of going back and forth about whether I should say something or not and consulting with a not obnoxiously huge, but not tiny, number of people, I decided to ask him what his intentions were with me, and keep it casual is the answer I got. Emotional wall...hurt many times...investing in things that disappear...all things that were mentioned that may as well have been me talking to him.

I have to tell you that at first that felt entirely fine. I told him before I asked that there wasn't a wrong answer, and that wasn't a trick. I honestly just wanted to know. Plus, BS--yes, the BS I was in love with last July--well, the July before the July that just passed--you know what? Since he's now my friend and no longer that other kind of  boy, let's just call him by his name. Brian he is--and I role played my asking him, and one of the scariest options was his saying he wanted to be serious and us see only each other, not because I don't like him enough for that but because after having been single for four years, the thought of having to worry about answering to someone in absolutely any way falls somewhere between mildly daunting and abysmally suffocating. While we were lying in bed, me between his legs, my head somewhere between his stomach and his chest, casual really didn't sound bad.

But then he left, and I'm thinking you probably know me well enough by now to know I got sad. Like, really sad. Like, sad enough that Keifer actually offered to get off his bunk bed and give me a hug (which for him is really saying a lot), sad enough to tell G when I talked to him that I'm never dating again and that I had to go because I had to go cry and then go to bed. The next morning, which was yesterday, I woke up feeling just as bad. I changed the title of my Suspension playlist on Spotify, which I made when I started my fall for La Dispute Guy, to something along the lines of Happiness? Please. What Was I Even Thinking?, and felt mopey for most of the day.

My moping and sadness wasn't what it seems. It wasn't because I thought La Dispute Guy didn't like me the way I like him because I know that's not true, and it wasn't exactly because of the casual thing, at least not the way you probably think. I don't mind him seeing other people at all, and it's nice to know I can, too--even though when somebody kissed me last Saturday night, I realized there's nobody else I remotely want to kiss--but what I told Gr and what I'm now going to tell you is if things continue the way they've been, I'm probably going to end up liking him even more. I also told him that despite that fear, I can't stop seeing him now because I said the casual thing was fine, a statement he refuted, telling me that yes, I can, or at least I can just not put in as much effort as I've been putting in, something that sounded plausible at the time. I'll just stop messaging back so much, I thought. When he's in the area, I won't always be around. I'll find a way to protect my heart.

Last night, though, like every night for the past 36 days, La Dispute Guy and I messaged; when I woke up this morning I had a message from him like I usually do; like always, we've been messaging since; and I realized that other than my perception, nothing has changed. I also realized that trepidation and reserve are not my things, and I care completely when I care. I also, for whatever reason, have a really, really hard time staying sad (a fact of life that prompted Curt to tell me I'm too happy to ever really be goth when goth meant something different back when I was seventeen). To deny those things would be to deny who I really am.

So I woke up this morning and changed the title of that playlist to Melodrama Much?, I listened to happy music, I danced around my house, and I sat down to write this blog. It's true that La Dispute Guy may make me sad in the future, but he makes me unreasonably happy now, and I refuse to let foreboding joy take that away. 

Stop Burning Bridges and Drive Off of Them

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 G and K 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 G and K 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 G and K 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.

As Told by Kismet

Because if one thing defines me more than anything else, it's not being on time--okay, maybe that's not completely right. Never being on time would be if one of two things defines me more than anything else--the final installment of 30 days of blogging straight is late. I'm not trying to make excuses, but I drove from Fort Lauderdale to Chattanooga, Tennessee, yesterday where I had to first room hop and then hotel hop as a result of, in one hotel,  little flying bugs, dried poop on a toilet seat, and blood-spotted sheets, and in another hotel, the actual body of a bedbug dead on the sheet and then finally settle for sleeping in my car in a rest stop starting at four in the morning. I knew I had to write a blog, but because of the aforementioned along with the crack pipe wielding man at hotel number two,  it was not my top priority. To be honest, after sleeping a total of two hours in a Tennessee rest stop last night and driving today over twelve hours straight, it's still not exactly thing to do number one, but I really want to get it done. After having written every day except one for an entire month, I couldn't not debrief.

It's been so long, and I've written so much, you probably don't remember why I started this endeavor. Just a reminder in case you don't:  The entire purpose of this was to make myself want to write. Did it work? Eh. I definitely think of writing differently now, like for instance if something happens, I make mental notes as it's going on, thinking to myself, this can go in my blog (I've always come up with blog posts almost in their entirety while I run, but this is different. These ideas come no matter what), and I also feel like I don't know what I'm going to do with myself now that I don't have to write. As good as that maybe sounds, though, it's all not. I've touched on this before, but my rigidity makes writing something of a burden due to my feeling like I have to write, and that is the absolute opposite of my intent.

So what else? What else came from this thirty-days of write? Other than the self-explorations you've already seen in my posts, which I appreciate, I didn't learn anything about myself, but I think maybe you learned about me--but maybe I'm wrong. Maybe you already knew I was an impatient, boy crazy, bumbling mass of awkwardness. Even if you did, I still feel like any semblance of normalcy I may have had is entirely gone. I definitely never played any kind of pretend, but when writing sporadically, it's just much more likely that only certain things will come out. When writing every day, you pretty much get everything I've got, at least where mental health is concerned. You've seen me super up and you've seen me super down. I don't think I'm much different from other people in that regard other than, as I've previously discussed, my tendency to have no guard. You also may have learned, even though this one probably isn't new, that I don't much care who knows what where I'm concerned. However, what you probably don't know is that despite how it may seem, there is a lot that goes on in my life--like, a lot a lot--that, people who read my blog, you still don't know.

I didn't lie when I said I was an open book, it was the gods' honest truth. But what open book reveals all its secrets in chapter one? Or two? Or three? Or even four, or five, or six? Good open books wait until near, if not the actual, close.

People who read my blog, I am not even close.

And to Think That I'm Somebody's Daughter

So in less than twelve hours--I'm hoping less than 10--the kid who leaves lube all over the house, the girl he uses the lube with, and I will be embarking on a trip to Milwaukee, Chicago, and Columbus. I should probably be a lot more excited, but the prospect of being the sole driver on an over 3,000 mile trip isn't exactly the most appealing thing plus I'm having BTJ issues again, and I have to say, regarding him, I need to be done. You know what? I thought I was going to write about my trip, but I'm going to say some things about BTJ instead which really are observations about myself and not about BTJ at all.

When I first met BTJ, I wasn't sure I liked him. After the second time we hung out--really, even after the third--I just wasn't sure. I knew I liked hanging out with him, but I really didn't love doing anything else. I mean, it was nice, but it wasn't wow. Two things to make you better understand: one, my good friend said he was convenient but my kitty didn't like BTJ (this would be a much wittier statement if you knew his real name) and two, I bought a maca chocolate bar on impulse while I was in line at Lucky's with the intent of eating it before he came over because I wanted to want what he wasn't making me want (does that make any sense?).

It wasn't until BTJ didn't text me back that I started to care. When I was trying to decide whether to text him or not, that same good friend asked, How did we get here? You didn't even like him at all, and let me tell you, she wasn't wrong. Also not wrong, which you already know, is that we're not compatible in the way that we kiss, and you don't know some other things because they're super personal, but they're also amiss. So every single sign screams WRONG WAY, yet what do I do? I continue to proceed, not even with any particular caution at all.

When my ex-Glenn and I first met, we couldn't stand each other. At all. After that first night, we bumped into each other at coffeehouses once or twice, and the hate was still there. Almost a year after that first night, he came into the CD store where I worked, and when he, our friend Marnie, and their friend Ben made plans to go out that night, I invited myself along. After a few drinks, my ex-Glenn and I ended up having sex in my car (because do I ever do anything else?), and not long after, Marnie relayed something about how much he still couldn't stand me. To be honest, I could never really stand him, but hearing that he couldn't stand me and there was no way in hell we'd ever go out? Guess what became the main mission of me.

I have a problem, I'm aware. I often only seem to care when the other person seems to not. I'm sitting here all upset and mopey about BTJ again despite the fact that practically nothing about him is right, despite the fact that after the other night while I was lying in bed not getting kissed, I was thinking, This is totally not okay and I will never do this again, words I need to apply not just to the other night, not just to BTJ, but to this pattern that has played out, that continues to play out for my entire life.

The Kid's Not All Right

There's lube all over my house.

This may not seem blog worthy, but it's annoying enough that it is to me.

I've always been super open about sex with G and K, it's the truth. Since forever I've tried to make sure it was completely normalized and no shame or embarrassment was attached. The only two rules I ever set for them regarding sex was that I wanted them both to wait to have it until they were 15, which they did (although I'm sure that has more to do with circumstance than rules), and then once they were having it, I didn't want them to have sex in the house while I was home. Pretty much anything other than that was left up to them, a common sense free for all, I guess, but when you leave sex discretion up to teenaged boys, can you guess what happens to the common sense?

Lube all over the house. That's what happens to common sense.

Not too long ago, I got in the shower, and there it was right next to my shampoo: a bottle of lube. I've also found lube on the futon in my back room in the not so distant past, and tonight G found a bottle of it next to the couch.

Fucking lube.

I'm happy Kiwi isn't weirdly sexually repressed, make no mistake, but there's definitely such a thing as too not repressed. Well, at least involving one's mom. The things I know about Keiand sex--I'm talking likes, I'm talking dislikes, I'm talking locations, I'm talking details--are things no mother needs to know, and yet, no matter how many times I say something, I still stumble upon almost empty bottles of lube, which actually as I type that right now makes me think of an argument Kiwi and I got into last week when he said he can't wait to get his own apartment so he can freely have sex. Apparently, our living situation prevents him from just whipping it out and shtupping Erica whenever he wants, and that's not acceptable, which now that that's been said brings me unexpectedly to what I argued with Ki on my end.

An Overview of What I Argued with Ki on My End

So my sixteen-year-old son has the nerve to complain to me that he can't have sex in the house whenever he wants because I'm home too much, yet that motherfucker never goes anywhere other than school which of course is when I'm at work which means unlike him, I really can't have sex in my house ever, like at all (okay, since the argument that's no longer true because BTJ and I totally had sex in my house on Monday night while Keifer was downstairs, but that's the first time I've done that since I got divorced). The number of times I've had sex in my car in the last three years because Ki is always home and I date guys who still live at their parents' house is insane, and Ki has the nerve to complain about sex to me and tell me he can't wait to move out? And then tell me it's entirely my fault that I'm in this situation because I'm the one with kids?

Ramble. Ramble, ramble, ramble. Ramble some more. 

This post was rambling, I know, and didn't really seem to have a point--like did I want to write about Ki's misguided comfort with sex where I'm concerned? About how maybe I don't like his "misguided" comfort with sex but being comfortable with sex is always something good? About how I might still be dating A if he ever could have come over when he had a chance? About how once when I complained to my ex-Glenn that I always have to have sex in my car because Ki never goes to his house, he said, Here's a tip. Date an adult? About the irony that I'm the age I am with my own house but really can't have sex in it even though almost thirty years ago when I lived with my parents I had sex in my house all the time? To all these questions except the first, the answer started out as no and turned into a yes--but complete exhaustion coupled with 29 days' worth of posts has apparently made me incapable of writing with any type of focus and voila! You get a nearly incoherent mess (kind of like my entire life, but it is way too late to go into that).