I think I'm sick

Sitting here playing Spider Solitaire on my computer and listening to Bonnie Raitt sing "I Can't Make You Love Me," I for some reason had a flashback to my junior year of college:

I was at my friend Missy's house. If you recall, Missy was the girl who smoked me up on a regular basis as a thank you for me helping her with our psych stats work. Missy was also the hot blond girl who I felt strangely attracted to. You remember now.

Anyway, I was sitting in her living room, stoned, watching the beginning of Mrs. Doubtfire on tv. When I'm stoned, *everything* is intense, especially my thought process. I remember sitting there, thinking to myself, "this is the saddest thing on earth! Poor Robin Williams had no clue that Sally Fields was unhappy with their marriage, and out of nowhere she up and divorced him! He loves his kids, can't you see it in his eyes!?" It took everything I had to not start weeping right then and there.

And this, ladies and gentlemen, is why I should never smoke up when I'm around ANYONE other than my one roommate, because she understands how I get and is always along for the ride with me. When I get stoned around anyone else, though, I always end up feeling incredibly self-conscious and embarassed. I've smoked in front of or with a couple guys I've liked over the years, and it never ends on a good note. For one reason or another, this almost always happens when I'm around fiestada. Hmmm.

The last of such incidents sticks out clearly in my mind. Just this past summer, J went with me to fiestada's house. During our visit, I took a bong hit. Or two.

By the time I drove us back to my house, where his car was, I was all kinds of emotional, in just about every way imaginable. I remember standing in my driveway, pleading with him to forgive me. He kept shrugging, saying he didn't understand what it was I was asking forgiveness for. I wanted to bitchslap him as hard as I could and scream "I want you to care! I want you to be emotional! I want you to feel something, ANYTHING, about me! Jesus fucking CHRIST!"

But I didn't. I let him go home. Then he started pretending like I no longer existed. When I wrote him that ill-fated letter in an attempt to find closure and gave it to him before he left for college, he read it with his whore of a friend and they both laughed and laughed at me. Of course I didn't find this last part out until months later. Boy, it sure is a great feeling when you find out that you were never anything more than a joke to a guy you were falling in love with. Warm and cuddly, that's for damn sure.

I miss the sex. A LOT. No, really, A LOOOOOT. Like.... holy crap, a lot. I think you get the picture. But other than the sex (which, in case I forgot to mention, was incredible), I really am over him. And I'm proud of myself for that. I've come to realize how monumentally shitty he treated me, from day one even, and no longer have any desire whatsoever to be anywhere near him. I deserve better, I know I do.

Which leads me to the present dilemma, because there *always* has to be one. There are two guys right now, to my knowledge, that like me. One is a good friend whose company I enjoy a great deal, and the other is a guy I don't know too well, but I already know he's just not my type.

I HATE having incompatible attractions.

And during all of this, I really like another guy. Who doesn't like me back. Awethumb.

Now, if this scenario followed the lead that the rest of my life has provided, these three guys will soon meet one another, get along tremendously well, fall in love, and start fucking one another, all while rubbing it in my face. Because that's what happens in my life.

Last night I had a dream that I was sitting in a high school auditorium, watching some sort of production, and these three guys were standing up on the catwalk, pouring water down on the people seated in front of me. This really pissed me off, so I yelled up at them to knock it the fuck off. This angered them, so they came down to beat the shit out of me. Quickly becoming terrified, I tried to reason with them. They weren't listening. One pulled out a knife and started to threaten me with it. The crowd around me got scared, so people started screaming and running away. The guy with the knife took advantage of the distraction and ran the knife sideways across my cheek and chin, slicing deeply into my skin. I screamed in pain and tried to get away, but fell down on the floor. At this point there was nothing but mass panic all around me, so the guy leaned down and cut my face again. I couldn't move. That's when he started stabbing me. He finally stopped and ran, which is when someone tried to pick me up and tell me to get out of the building. I was stumbling and losing a lot of blood. The pain was unbearable. At one point I looked in a mirror as I passed by it, and screamed when I saw how deformed my face was. The last thing I remember was being on a busy city street, people running all around, slowly bleeding to death, with no one there to help me.

WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT!? I rarely remember my dreams, but when I woke up this morning, it was frighteningly fresh in my mind.

I think I need to go now.

I'm Listening To:
One Thing I Did Today: