Why is Called a Pet Peeve Anyway?

Day Two: Your Top Five Pet Peeves

It seems appropriate to follow up the ten things that make me happiest, with a list of things that annoy the shitout of me, right? I think so, yes.

Pet peeve number one: People who stand too close to me in line. Back the fuck up please, seriously. I have actually written a blog about this before, and it still rings true – get the fuck out of my personal space! If I can feel you breathing on me, you are too close to me. If I can swing my shopping basket and smack you with it, you are too close to me. If I can hear you chewing or exhaling or just existing in general, you are too fucking close to me! Move!! No one is getting out of the store any faster just because you climb up my ass and hang out there. I like my bubble, and I need you to just fucking stay out of it.

Unless I am dating you or you’re my best friend, in which case I literally cannot get physically close enough to you.

Pet peeve number two: People who let their dogs jump all over you and use “he’s friendly” as their excuse. First of all, friendly does not mean jumping on me, slobbering all over the place, or humping my leg. Second, if he’s friendly, why am I staring at so many teeth? And third, I don’t care if your dog is a cartoon character, I still don’t want it jumping on me. I don’t like your dog.

Pet peeve number three: When people stop texting in the middle of a conversation. I mean, I am definitely guilty of falling asleep in the middle of a late night text marathon, and I can’t count the number of times I have forgotten to respond to something I opened at work and then got too busy to immediately respond to, but like, where are these people going when in the middle of talking about something they just stop? And like three days later, I’m still waiting for the punch line. I don’t get it. Would you walk away from someone who was talking to you and just never come back? Finish your thoughts, people. Say goodnight or goodbye like normal human adults.

Pet peeve number four: Poor grammar. I hate it.

Pet peeve number five: People who make excuses for other people’s shitty behavior. Your boyfriend/girlfriend/husband/wife/mom/dad/sibling is an ass hole. Don’t make an excuse on their behalf! Let them fall on their face like they deserve! We’re already judging you for associating with a sociopath; don’t make it worse by clarifying that you do see what we see and are actually okay with it. Pretend you don’t even notice their shitty comments, poor social skills, or shitty personality. Don’t make a feeble attempt at getting us to just tolerate the insanity because you can. We can’t. We don’t like people who behave like shitty shitheads in public. And now we don’t like you that much either, because you brought a shitty human to the party and basically acknowledged it while begging our acceptance – or tolerance, at the very least.

No. I don’t want to party with your shitty other half.

It was far too easy to compile this list, by the way. I may have a short fuse, I can’t be sure. What I can say for sure is that little things can be really agitating. I need a beer after spending time considering all of life’s little annoyances… 

2017. Coming to You Live on January 9th.

2017 started with a bang.

Quite literally.

On Monday morning, at about 4:30am - after finally dozing off somewhere around 3:30 listening to my nightmarish upstairs neighbors and their dogs run and jump and bark and play drums and smoke and be fucking obnoxious fucking ass holes - I fell out of bed.

Out. Of. Bed.

I fucking fell out of my bed like a toddler sleeping in a big-kid bed for the first time ever, smacking my forehead on the nightstand drawer, which I had lazily left slightly open, landing on my arm, which has now been sore for 48 hours. And this was how I woke up on January 2, 2017.

Great.

After I fell out of bed, I slept for about 30 more minutes before it occurred to me no later than 6:00 in the fucking morning that thanks to the aforementioned ass holes living above me, I wasn't getting any more sleep. So I got up and took my time getting ready for work. (For the record, I have to be at work by 9:00, so I usually get up between 8:00 and 8:40, depending on whether or not it's the one day out of every five to twelve that I commit to actually washing my hair.)

Instead I'm up at 6 fucking o'clock. And you bet your ass I BLASTED Pandora the entire 3 hours. Fuck you, upstairs neighbor. Wake your shit asses up, and enjoy the sweet, sweet sound of Bryce Fox on volume level ear-piercing.

I was then in my office by 8:00 in the morning, I spent the next 8 hours getting bitched at because you know, people are surprised every single month when they have to pay their rent, and somehow the fact that they can't afford their apartment or got in a fight with their roommate or broke up with their boyfriend, is my fault. Well, sure, that does make sense. My bad. I then left work, went to Costco with my mom, where literally everyone on Earth was shopping with their bratty-ass children who were acting like feral cats, and their stupid husbands who were too bored to pay attention to the fact that they were standing in the middle of the aisle with their thumb up their ass, and their dog.

Side note: DON'T TAKE YOUR DOG TO COSTCO YOU STUPID MOTHER-FUCKER!

On Monday, because I didn't get any sleep at all on Sunday night, I came home from Costco, had saltine crackers and peanut butter for dinner. and went to bed.

I'm awesome.

Today I got up at 8:45, because I didn't have to wash my hair, and got to work where I was literally told to fuck myself (side note, YOU fuck YOURSELF, you dumb twat) four times - again because people forget that I am not in charge of managing their finances or their lives or their abilities to be a human. And then I came home and had popcorn for dinner, because I have had such a shit-ass two days at work I don't dare go to the grocery store for anything adults eat for dinner, and am sitting on my couch at 8:00pm, watching a Jim Jeffries comedy special in a fluffy bathrobe, drinking a Corona and considering just going to bed.

Of course I am really busy reading insane messages sent to me by desperately horny, unattractive, possibly-single-but-probably-married, dick-pic-sending, perverted freaks on Plenty of Fish, so I'll probably stay up for a while. These dudes do make me laugh, if nothing else.

In short, 2017 has not made it easy thus far, for me to maintain my resolution of being fucking amazingly positive about all things.

It's not easy to resolve to be positive when people are screaming at you to fuck yourself.
Especially since you're supposedly paid to listen politely as they do so (side note, I will absolutely not be tolerating bull shit behavior from anyone in my life this year, and that does include residents).

It's not easy to resolve to be positive when you're sleep deprived.

it's not easy to be positive when you haven't been to the grocery store like an adult and are now consuming food that is in direct violation of the health and fitness resolutions you made less than 72 hours ago.

It's definitely not easy to resolve to be positive when you fall out of your god damn bed the first morning of the new year!

And so I have adjusted my resolution slightly. I'm an adult, and I can do that.

I have resolved that I will start my new year on Monday, January 9th. Because you know what? Rent week is not a good week in property management. And the rent week following Christmas is quite possibly the WORST week of all time in the entire career of property managers. So I am not going to set myself up to fail, plain and simple. For me, the next six days are still 2016. They don't count. My new year is the property management new year, which officially begins the Sunday evening following the first rent week of the new year.

Beginning on Monday, I will have gone to the grocery store. I will have located and charged my FitBit. I will have bought enough water to stay hydrated. I'll be ready for my exercise, and I'll be ready to not eat M&Ms for lunch as I try to not stab someone who is calling me names because they owe a late fee.

Beginning on Monday, I will have cleaned my apartment and done the dishes, and will have addressed my issues with my upstairs neighbor like a grown up instead of by blaring Pandora in their ears for three hours. I will have updated my address and forwarded my mail and done all my laundry. I will be fully adult on Monday.

I have already resolved that 2017 will be a positive, awesome, fantastic fucking year, where I go after my goals and crush every last one of them. It just so happens, that I know I can't do that, this week. Fuck this week.

Lesson: It doesn't really matter if you fall, as long as you get back up.

2017. I'm still winning. I'm just a week late to the game.

A Lid For Every Perverted Pot

So, because I was feeling too confident and secure in my life, I'm now online dating.

And by online dating, I do in fact mean I am online, being solicited for sex and blow jobs, turning down dates with creeps who I then have to block from contacting me.

It's so romantic!

After complaining one too many times about not ever meeting anyone I am "allowed" to date (because in the course of my day, I spend time with my employees, my residents, and my vendors, all of whom are on the naughty list), I was encouraged to give the online thing a try (because God forbid any of my friends know any handsome, independent, normal guys to set a girl up with).

Okay fine. I mean I do not want to at all, but I'll give it a go. So I spent yesterday afternoon creating an account and a profile, and resolved to give it a real opportunity to surprise me.

No surprise at all.

It is, of course, going basically like the shit show you'd expect from thousands of single, horny dudes without a filter to control them.

In my first 12 hours, I received no fewer than 100 emails. Approximately 80% of them contained at least one of the following:
"Hi." And then nothing else. I equate this to approaching someone, saying hi, and then just awkwardly staring at them, blinking.
"You're pretty/hot/gorgeous/bangin'/sexy" (okay I admit I liked the one who called me bangin').
"Wanna get a drink this week?" (can I get your name please, like, you could really be an axe murderer)
"Do you like to give head?" (not to you, bro!)
"Wanna chat?" (isn't that why I'm on this bull shit website?)

I also got two messages from chicks, who apparently are dumb as rocks, since I very clearly stated woman...looking for a man. Nice rack though, I'll give you that. And honestly, after the guy who said he wanted to bang my head against the headboard while he spanked me, I might actually go for it...and these girls probably knew I was feeling that way. So actually, a genius move!

Online dating truly blows me away. Like, would you ever approach a woman in a bar and whip your dick out?

No?

Then don't email a dick pic!

Would you walk up to a woman at the gym and ask for a blow job?

No?

Then don't lead your message with, "girl, you look like you like to suck dick."

HAS ANY OF THIS EVER WORKED FOR YOU!???

A guy messages me last night, and says hi...he's cute, so I say hi back.
And that's where I went wrong, obviously.
He then says, "I'm a dominant guy and I like to take charge."
Umm okay...my dumb ass asks what he means by that.
"It means I'd like to spank you hard and bang your head against my headboard while you suck my dick."
Oh. Well of course that was what you meant.

Block.

But seriously...what?!

Has this ever worked for you in real life? NO. That's why you're on this website, trolling women, getting blocked left and right. And what's sad is I bet you sit at the bar with your buddies, bitching and whining about how these dumb bitches online just won't give you a chance. I mean, we might...if you'd put it back in your pants and chill for a fucking second. I really thought this guy was attractive...that is, until he started typing words! Like, you're cute, but please don't speak.

I have now figured out (in only a few hours) how online dating works for nice-ish guys:

Women are bombarded with perverted, dirty, creepy fuckers asking us how sloppy we like our blow jobs, how big our tits are, and whether we're down with three-ways...so then when we get a message from an even halfway normal guy who we may not be attracted to, or who may misspell all his words, or who may be super boring, we're like YES I HAVE FOUND THE ONE!! It's not even about love or connection; it's just about pure relief, and the thought that we may be able to disable our profile for the love of God before someone else emails us.

Smell the desperation working for the boring guys who are only slightly intelligent but at least smart enough to not start a conversation with "here's my dick."

Like, I'm just happy you didn't ask me if I like it in the ass, so yes, I'll marry you. What was your name again though?

And that is really how I think it works. I spent a painful hour and a half emailing a guy who I was bored by, and also judging for misusing your/you're, thinking - oh my God just let this guy be nice and I'll seriously be his girlfriend if only to log out of this fucking shit! Nice, boring, kinda dumb...for the win.

I was forwarding screen shots of these insane messages to my mom and cousin last night, telling them how amused I was...because really, how can you not just laugh when a stranger asks you how often you masturbate...and my mom was like, this would just piss me off so bad. But like, why? It's hilariously pathetic, and the block feature is awesome. I have literally been on this site for 18 hours and have blocked somewhere in the 40-50 range of seriously demented douche bags who apparently think online is the place to get a rim job from a stranger.

I mean, that does happen online, but I don't think this is the site for you, man...try Tumblr.

While I was chatting with someone else last night, I received three emails between 12:00 and 12:15am, all three asking for sex, pretty explicitly. I told the guy I was talking to that midnight felt very much like last call, where guys are stumbling around drunk, just grabbing onto any chick who walks by, willing to literally fuck anything and anyone. I said I needed to log out before I started being virtually groped, and he replied with a pretty smart remark about how much it must suck to be a chick.

For fucking real, bro.

I bet no one has asked him how big his dick is today.

You're a Weak-Ass Bully

The definition of BULLY: a blustering, quarrelsome, overbearing person who habitually badgers and intimidates smaller or weaker people.

Let me just preface this blog with a reminder that, this is my mother-fucking blog, and I will say what I want, how I want, when I want. I am very aware of the consequence of voicing my opinion out loud (or writing it out loud, in this case). I don't need anyone to tell me to relax or let anything go, nor do I need to be told to be nice or to keep things to myself.

FUCK. YOU.

Fuck your bully-ass, manipulative bull shit. Fuck you for the way you speak to people, for the way you speak to your family. Fuck you for the way you use people, for the way you make yourself a victim by manipulating the people around you. Just seriously, fuck you.

I am so beyond done with the bull shit, it's insane. I cannot continue to sit idly by and watch people mistreat other people. If you are a bully, I will call you a bully. If you are manipulative, I will call you manipulative. If you are abusive or domineering or aggressive, or just quite plain FULL OF FUCKING HORSE SHIT, you're going to be put in your place for being a fucking ass hole.

FUCK. YOU.

Fuck you for ruining holidays, for tearing things apart just to be the winner of some bull shit stupid fight. Fuck you for crying and whining and being a big fucking bratty-ass baby, Like, for real, fuck you, you stupid ass holes.

Here's the reality. People are destroyed here. This isn't a moment where you have been hurt and we all need to bow down to you with apologies, begging you to forgive us. Ummm. Fuck you. You and your manipulation have legitimately destroyed other people. And you don't give a fuck. And you don't give a fuck because you're too fucking selfish to even see that you caused all of this damage. You are the one behind it all, and maybe it took us 10 years to figure it out, but we know now, and you're not going to continue to play the puppet master.

You can seriously, just fuck right off. Girl, bye.

And seriously, just like that I feel a little better about this insane lunacy.

Sometimes a girl has just got to vent, ya know? And today was one of those days, where I just need to type the word fuck like 35 times so I don't drive somewhere to pop someone in the jaw.

On a serious note though, it's awful to sit back and watch as one person tears apart ten other people. To sit and watch it all play out; to watch the lies, the bullying, the manipulation. It's sad to bring it up and be completely ignored (because God forbid someone take ownership in their part of anything). Sometimes, being the bigger person is really fucking hard. It's hard because usually, it requires letting go of relationships. When you stand up to someone who abuses you, you have to be prepared to say goodbye to that relationship. When you stand up for yourself, when you choose yourself over anyone else, it can really, really fucking hurt.

That is, until it doesn't hurt anymore.

Until it occurs to you that you're better now, that you win because you're no longer cowering to another person. It stops hurting when you learn how much better your life has become since you made a decision to just choose to take care of YOU. It takes a long time to get there. It takes a few steps forward, and then a few more back. Deciding you are more important than anything else, feels like trying to claw your way out of a wet paper bag. But trust me when I say, it's worth it.

If you're a bully, you can actually just fuck off right now.

And if you're the victim of a bully, stop letting that shit slide immediately, and just put yourself at the top of the list. You matter so much more than any bull-shit dumb-fuck weak-ass bully, who literally is only picking on you because they hate their own life.

How sad is that??

Just. Go. Love. Yourself.

And fuck off to the people who would rather just crush you than let you love yourself. #boom.

Dear Upstairs Neighbor

Dear Upstairs Neighbor,

You don't know me, but I feel like I know you. How is that possible, you ask, since we've never met?

Well, dear upstairs neighbor, it's because you are so mother fucking loud, I feel like we actually sort of live together!! So hear me when I ask you to please, seriously, for the love, SHUT THE FUCK UP.

I, of course, realize that I live in an apartment. I have neighbors on all sides. I chose to live on the ground floor, because it was cheaper, and because Juno likes to chase the squirrels back and forth across the patio door in the spring, and let's be honest - that is her only cardio all year long. Also because I have neighbors on all sides, I follow the rules set forth in my lease. For example, I don't run my dishwasher late at night. I don't do laundry early in the morning. I don't blast my music or run the vacuum late, nor do I listen to the TV too loud or throw raging parties. I also pull my headboard a respectful 4 inches from the wall so that the neighbor next door doesn't have to hear me bang.

I know I live in an apartment.

Which leads to me to wonder, how in the fuck you do not realize you live in one too!?!?

You. Are. So. Loud,

Literally so mother fucking loud, I think we may actually share an apartment, and I just haven't realized yet that you live with me.

Things you should know before choosing to live in a top floor apartment:

1. People live below you. That's right, underneath you. And despite the fact that they choose to have neighbors in the ceiling, they would appreciate if you did not choose to get up and play fetch from one end of your apartment to the other with your giant-ass dog in the middle of the night.

It's a fucking dog. And a fucking ball. Take that shit outside.

2. Your heels are not the part of your foot that should be hitting the floor first when you take a step. Please consult with a podiatrist to confirm there is no actual lead in your foot. I'm worried about you.

3. Also please don't chase your fucking dog around the apartment while it jumps, barks, chases, wags, and threatens to fall through the ceiling onto my couch. And stop bouncing it's fucking ball on the kitchen floor before I walk my ass up there and make you eat it.

Let's just be real, upstairs neighbor: living in apartments sucks, in general. And living in one with a dog has got to suck even more. It's probably the same as how living in an apartment with an infant who screams all the time, or a toddler learning to walk, probably sucks. Or a door-slamming teenager, I suppose. And so of course, dear neighbor, I do not have high expectations. I have a high threshold for noise. I expect to hear laundry and music and cleaning and lead-foot walking.

That said, shut your god damn dog up, dude.

Because sadly, your dog is not the ass hole. Your dog is just a dog. Dogs are dumb; they can't help it. They don't know they live in an apartment. They just see your stupid happy ass bouncing a ball on the floor or throwing a frisbee down the hallway like a dumb ass instead of putting a coat on and going to the dog park. Your dog is not at fault for your idiocy. That's on you.

And so, dear upstairs neighbor, as I sit here, typing this blog and listening to you stupidly play a long, loud, annoying game of fetch, I ask that you consider being a little bit less of a fuck stick in the future.

After all, it is after 10:00. And I know your lease like the back of my hand.

Goodnight.

When I Grow Up and Get Married, I'm Living Alone!

I am already loving this writing challenge...Rachel, you know me so well!! #feelingfestive 

Day Two: Favorite Holiday Traditions

No matter what craziness has ensued with my family in the past 33 years, no matter where I've lived, who I've lived with, who I've been dating, or where I have celebrated the holiday, one tradition is an absolute must: after Thanksgiving dinner, I pour myself a glass of wine, make popcorn, and watch Home Alone.

It's. My. Favorite.

I love coming home from the family madness, where everyone is loud and the festivities are crazy, to my own quiet corner of the world, curling up and starting the movie. If I am setting up a tree, I tend to do it while watching the movie...but I also don't often get a tree.

This year, I boycotted Thanksgiving (for reasons not worth mentioning). Instead, I took 6 days off work, and I went to the beach, where I watched all of my favorite Christmas movies, ate Grandma Stacey's famous teriyaki chicken wings & asparagus for dinner, and drank at least a bottle of wine each day while reading books in front of the fireplace. It was perfect.

Stacey and Blake joined me on Friday afternoon, and after we spent the day adventuring around, "Black Friday" shopping in Cloverdale's antique mall, and eating a spaghetti dinner, we introduced Blake to the awesomeness that is Kevin McAllister in Home Alone.

This kid.

We made popcorn (and Stacey spilled it).
We made margaritas (and virgin ones for Blake, the salted rim addict).
We turned on the fire (mostly for the cat).
We turned off the lights and snuggled up in our jammies.

And we watched Home Alone.

Blake thought the bad guys were a riot, and watching him watch their antics was pretty entertaining. And while it was not the quiet, peaceful viewing of my favorite movie that I traditionally take in, it was probably my favorite ever.

This year, I had initially been feeling pretty gloomy about spending the Thanksgiving holiday alone. I mean, better alone than with the company I would have had, but still...who wants to be all alone on Thanksgiving?? I didn't have any traditional food - like I said, I had chicken and veggies - nor did I talk to anyone in my family, get dressed up for dinner (didn't even get out of my jammies, in fact), and didn't do any real Black Friday shopping. It potentially could have been a real downer, right?

In the end, though, I loved every minute of it, and could definitely make a solo beach weekend a new Thanksgiving tradition - so long as Stacey and Blake join me for part of it!

What it boils down to, after several years of discussing this in therapy, is that I don't have to go along with every holiday tradition my family has, nor do I have to feel bad about missing them. I need to create my own traditions in order to feel festive and to enjoy the holidays, and they don't have to be big huge events either. I can be (and am) happy just snuggling up with my favorite wine and favorite movies, drinking mimosas and eating bacon & eggs with my mom and dad, and wearing Santa socks & a goofy Christmas tee shirt. It's simply about what makes me happy during the holiday madness.

And what made me happy this year, was sharing my Thanksgiving tradition with my cousin and my favorite little guy.

#500wordsaday: Liar, Liar...Pants on Fire (if I even ever wore pants, which I don't)

1) A time you lied
2) A time you were hurt
3) The last time you were happy for a week straight
4) Family
5) How you wish you started your day (and then why you aren’t doing that already)
6) Your most authentic moment
7) When you really loved yourself
8) When you were scared
9) Why you long for love
10) Something about you that you’re hoping people don’t notice   / Something about you that you’re hoping people do notice

500 Words a Day: A Time You Lied

I am feeling the true struggle of writer's block as I try to make sense of what to write about a time I lied...because I am clearly just so pure of heart.

No?

Okay that's not true. I can certainly think of times I've lied about things - especially as a rebellious, headstrong teenager self-medicating in Boones Farm and Apple Pucker (fucking, YUCK) while I ran around with boys who were older than me and looking for ways to feel me up while parked at the North Clackamas Aquatic Park (you know who you are).

But who writes a blog about the shit they lied to their parents about in high school? That seems like a bit of a cop out, since literally all teenagers are dirty rotten liars who cannot be trusted. I'd never get 500 words out of, I lied to my mom about drinking in high school.

Uh. So what.

I think there have been a few points in the last year where I've lot more to myself than to anyone else in particular, and I suppose that counts. It's often easier to convince yourself you feel a certain way, than to admit that you feel betrayed, bullied, belittled, or back stabbed (that alliteration was accidental, just to clarify). It can be easier to say I'm fine, and convince yourself to believe it, than to stop and consider your true feelings about dating someone who had another girlfriend the whole time he was with you, or to embrace the reality that someone who was your very best friend, who you then came to love, treated you like crap and then secretly got married after vowing to be single for eternity.

We lie to ourselves probably more frequently - and honestly, probably on a larger scale - than we lie to anyone else. I'm sure I am guilty of that self-preserving dishonesty. I think the biggest lie I ever tell myself, is that I don't care. Whenever I say, I don't give a fuck - okay, 95% of the time - I actually give at least one fuck. Probably a lot of fucks, in reality.

Several months ago, I abandoned the fucks I gave about one of my very best friends; let's call him Goose, so in the instance he stumbles on this post, he'll know it's intended for him. Because that's how I roll. Goose and I became fast and furious friends as soon as we met, talking for hours on end, all day every day, to the point of crazy-town. Like, looking back I wonder how we ever accomplished anything outside of a Facebook chat window for approximately 60 total days. As most male-female friendships do, this one took a romantic turn at some point, and progressed from friendly to physical, then physical to mushy-gushy, and then from there, came to an obliterating end.

For some reason, I convinced myself (liar, liar, pants on fire) that I could stay friends with him after he broke up with me. But not just that; I convinced myself that I didn't care (there is is again) that he broke up with me without reason, with no explanation, in a Facebook chat window, as though we were in 8th grade and he was uninviting me to a school dance. My inner dialogue did an awful lot of justifying his crappy behavior, a lot of defending his honor, which - looking back - was certainly unwarranted. Truth is, he acted callously, and even after facing reality in a more sober light over the next year, never apologized to me...his supposed "friend." Even when I straight up told him why I was upset, why I was hurt, he offered no apology. Instead he stopped speaking to me.

In my stubbornness, I said, well fine, I give no fucks. If you don't need me, I don't need you. If you can't open your mind to why I might still be hurting, fuck you then. I don't need to wait around for you to understand why it wasn't okay to abandon our relationship in a moment's notice, without ever sitting me down and explaining it. #nope.

I gave (and still give) almost every single fuck.

He was someone who truly got me, and genuinely embraced me; he understood why I was stubborn and hard-headed, sensed when I was exceptionally needy, and passionately connected the dots that put me together; for my great days and shitty ones, he was the first person I reached out to vulnerably, every damn time. As my friend, we talked about books and writing and people and life and goals and problems and booze and sex. And then as my boyfriend we talked about love and passion and life and running away and change and growth. And then as exes-who-were-trying-unsuccessfully-to-be-friends-while-still-sometimes-fucking we talked about sobriety and work and hopes and romance and relationships and sharing space. He understood every nook and cranny of who I am, and until I had to convince myself to stop giving a fuck, I was certain I would forever give all of the fucks.

The lie I tell myself: I give no fucks.
The truth: I still care a lot. About him, and about what he did.

I no longer care about him romantically, so don't get it twisted; we were clearly not cut out for each other, and that's fine. I'm glad he's happy, and I'm happily moving on, boyfriend-wise. But this person is someone I truly did love, on several levels, and it is a challenge to continue to try not to care, when I in fact care very much. I care how he's doing, what he's got going on, whether or not he's drinking, how his family is. I care about him, period. However, I also know we're never going to be friends if he cannot accept, understand, and apologize for the way he treated me when we broke up. Because it was childish and mean, and it bothered me a lot, and he knows on what levels.

We lie to ourselves in an effort for self-preservation, and in an attempt to move forward faster than we're really ready to. All of the I'm fine convincing allows us to put onto the back burner, what we should really be addressing full attack mode. But instead of allowing time to be upset, to be sad-mad-transparent-vulnerable, we push it all down as far as we can and claim to not care.

I don't care.

I don't care is how baggage is picked up.

I don't care is a lie.

I don't care will do nothing to help you, and will only weigh heavy on you later, when you least expect it. When you're starting to build something with someone new, and you find yourself doubting them, doubting yourself. When that someone else says to you, I think we have the same baggage.

It requires honesty. It requires internal honesty, more than anything. It requires that you admit, Goose, you hurt my feelings, and you made me feel irrelevant and unimportant and invisible, and when you didn't apologize for breaking my heart so ruthlessly, it made me feel like the dirt under your shoe. What someone else chooses to do with your honesty, is not relevant. It matters only what you do, how you process your own honesty.

Admitting that you give at least, like one half of a fuck, is probably the first step.

I'm done saying I'm fine.

I give 75% of one fuck today, actually.