You didn’t mean to hurt me when you didn’t show up. You said you might not show up. You gave yourself an out. It isn’t about me.
I mean, other than in the sense that you didn’t show up to see me. And I’m pretty sure that you would have shown up to see me if my looks were closer to a nine, rather than the seven they are hovering around. (I think I’m a six, but I’ve been told seven, so let’s go with seven. I need that today.)
I knew you weren’t going to show up. You weren’t at the fucking bank, were you? That’s a dumb excuse. You need to set up an account? And you couldn’t get that done in all the many, many hours before I told you I was available.
I just wish I could have texted you back “I know you aren’t at the bank. I know you’re in bed somewhere, sleeping in. That’s fine. Frankly, I don’t care. Let’s just stop texting now. It was nice but clearly you lost interest. No hard feelings. Learn to be a better liar or don’t lead people on.”
But I don’t even have the right to do that.
Do I sound bitter? Do I sound desperate? I do. I know I do. And I can’t blame you for that. That’s on me. I’ve learned that lesson. You did not make me bitter. You did not make me desperate.
I just thought it was going really well. We talked for weeks. Things progressed so nicely. You recommended books to me for crissake. How great is that? That’s fucking resplendent as fuck; I don’t find things romantic, but that was. I don’t think you meant it that way.
I don’t know if there were red flags. I’m usually so good at red flags. I’m a side-stepper. I get away from red flags. Well, really, I don’t get in situations that have flags of any color. I walk alone. Always.
I just thought you were my break from that. From solitude. I thought you were going to want to hang out with me. I thought you were going to fall in like with my mind. I thought you were going to find parts of me sexy — ethereal parts, not cliche body parts.
Nope. I’m back to solitude. I like this. I keep reminding myself how I didn’t really want a relationship any way. I am low maintenance. I keep reminding myself. I don’t need more. I’m better on my own.
This is my punishment for getting weirdly hopeful. It’s like that Gnarles Barkley song “Crazy.”
Hahaha, bless your soul.
You naive little thing. You thought a guy liked you.
Man, I’m getting adept at condescending myself.
I walk alone. Always. And every time I forget that, the price I pay goes up. I need to stop wanting. It’s only going to cost me.