Nothing nice to say

Haven’t had much of that lately. So I haven’t been saying anything. Except in my journal. The written kind. The kind where you can’t and don’t take anything back. Pretty much every entry from the past few days starts off with one adjective: stupid fucking. Stupid fucking this, stupid fucking that. Stupid fucking Phil. I’ve been full on in the anger stage of loss (looked it up, just for fun). There are five stages that people navigate through. And it doesn’t just have to be if someone dies (clearly). They apply to anything lost. Loss of long-term and short-term relationships. Loss of a favorite white shirt from freshman year in college that I know my horrific roommate Lisa stole. (Still in the anger stage with that one.) I’ve lingered simultaneously in the sadness stage (re: Phil, not favorite white shirt). I go to bed sad and I wake up mad with a headache from teeth clenching and all that toxic energy.

Today was different, though. I woke up feeling quiet. I’ve been quiet all day, like I was on the cusp of acceptance (the final stage). Like my emotions were finally catching up to everything I know and keep telling myself: That it will all be okay. Actually, it will not only all be okay, if it follows the pattern of every other guy I’ve been disappointed by in the last three years, I will reach acceptance with the whole thing very soon, possibly even wonder why I ever dated him. And then he’ll start calling again. It’s like fucking clockwork. Which is not okay with me. I’m not counting on the calling part this time. And I don’t want it. An hour ago, maybe I would have. But I just remembered that Phil isn’t the only guy in DC. I think that’s been part of the anger management issue—the fact that there’s no one good to have a crush on to distract me. I’m back online, searching, and there’s just nothing (acceptable).

But then I went for a run today (girls love to work through anger by becoming skinny), and wouldn’t you know some dude came running up behind me and started chatting. He actually said he’d been trying to catch me all the way up the hill, kind of like in that Impulse perfume commercial from the 80s when the guy chases the girl with flowers. Except there weren’t any flowers. And I wasn’t wearing Impulse, or deoderent for that matter. Who cares if the only reason he was trying to catch me was because he was probably thinking to himself “I can’t let that slow gimpy girl hobbling up the hill beat me”? Who cares if he probably turns 27 in 3 years? Who cares that we talked for 3 minutes while jogging and parted ways and I’ll never see him again? I don’t. All I care about is that there is at least one dude in DC who is relatively cute (at least his profile is) and isn’t afraid to chase after a girl and talk to her. I said it would never happen, that it never happens to me, that I would always have to rely on stupid internet dating because it’s the only way to meet people. I stand corrected.

The light at the end of my angry/sad tunnel is in sight. I’m annoyed that I missed my March 1st deadline for this not sucking anymore. Whatever. I suck with deadlines. March 8th. That’s my new deadline. Sucky sucky over on March 8th.


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