Bunk

I just spent an inordinately long time writing and rewriting a super lame and wholly uninterestingly post about how M3 is in my mid-sized town today and while I know his itinerary (down to precisely where he'll be spending the 90 minutes between his first meeting and his second), I'm refusing his continual, tenacious and debilitatingly charming attempts to rendezvous this afternoon. Then I gave myself props.

Next, I proceeded to summarize the rather uneventful but nonetheless joyous events of last evening, rambling on about how The 26 Year Old and I stayed in last night and masqueraded as an old, married couple. We ate dinner on the couch, snuggled as we watched the cinematic masterpiece that is "Fame" and I tried to get him drunk so I could take his clothes off. Rather anticlimactically but not entirely unsurprisingly, success on the first account proved unnecessary to achieve my secondary goal.

I then went on to explain how this morning, The 26 Year Old somewhat strangely endeavored to extend our final moments together by sitting down on my couch for no apparent reason (as opposed to leaving straight away after making my bed, retrieving from the floor and subsequently folding the pants I'd worn last night, and knocking back some of the Listerine that I very thoughtfully keep around the house for boys who don't have the foresight to pack a toothbrush). Once seated, he divulged that he has a "date with a girl from the Internet tonight."

I then took the opportunity in this morning's post to analyze my emotional response to this information, unexpectedly shocking due to my complete lack thereof. Rather than the news of his date giving rise to feelings of unwarranted jealousy, insecurity or regret, I instead found myself entirely non-plussed. While I certainly like him, definitely wish to continue seeing him, and absolutely need for him to make-out with me as much as possible, I guess I'm also entirely prepared for The 26 Year Old to take to this Internet girl person and for that to render our arrangement effectively moot.

I then posited whether -- after countless fits and starts, after failing repeatedly to try to play with lots of different boys at one time without falling for any of them, and after sabotaging at least one Potentially Good Thing over the summer because I was entirely incapable of keeping it light n' breezy -- I've finally mastered the elusive art of dating.

And finally, I called bullshit on my own ass because, while I'm totally basing the following statement on a mere six hours of face-to-face interaction, two phone calls, and four weeks of written correspondence, I'd do just about anything right now for a shot at being M3's girlfriend. If he didn't already have one, that is.

It was a pretty boring post.