So after 24 hours of driving myself insane from not hearing back from him, I called again last night and got a hold of him. We talked for about five minutes. Wasn't a stellar conversation but it was enough for me to understand that he was super stressed about this test he's taking today. We both have really busy weeks so we'll hang out next week and in the meantime exchange cute e-mails. What I didn't realize is that his not calling me was not so much a lack of interest so much as a demonstration of his inexperience with dating; anyone who knows about this precarious nature knows that unless you're being coy, you pretty much call back when you get the message. But more on that later. First, let me present what I wrote yesterday afternoon, a mere 20 hours after The Message was left (afterwhich I will present some opinions on how fucked up I am):

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I have invented a new term: pre-dumping.

Pre-dumping: A complete severance of contact without warning immediately following an implication of romantic interest, the potential for commitment even, such as being curled up in a tight ball on the basement floor, kissing the nape of his neck, smelling the pure juvenile bliss that is the cheap, youthfulness of Addidas for Men followed by a lingering good-bye and a "Call me tomorrow." This is applied only to preliminary meetings, as it implies the termination of a relationship that never truly began.

For those unable to discern what has transpired due to the absence of a chromisone, he didn't call back. (NB: while in the basement, pre-tight ball, we had actually discussed the evils of not returning calls)

I suppose I'm disappointed. I know there should be pangs of resentment, and perhaps there are a few, but more than that, I am filled some something that bespeaks a more serious condition: nonchalance.

It's as though the second I left that voice mail, I knew that it was done with. The boy has always been extremely promt with returning communications (calls, text messages, etc.). So now I'm left with a slew of things I would like to say, but knowing full well from past experience that none of them will garner a response, and yet there's that overwhelming desire to let him know it was a dastardly thing to do or at the very least say, "Hey, it's ok to not be interested. Just let me know and we'll just move on." I have the beginnings but no way to end them. Maybe I should just send him this; might as well go out in a blaze of crazy glory.

I am a bit pissed off, but it isn't even at him so much. I mean, it's definitely inconsiderate and a bit cowardly, but far from a crime against humanity. No, what is angering me is that as far as romantic 'problems' go, these are all I get. The complications I get to enjoy are with people that are still essentially strangers. I don't get to have the big fights ending with either lovely make ups or devastating heart ache. It's like comparing the kinds of sex one can have, one night stand vs. wedding night. We all know upon which we place more value. I have casual, one-night romantic troubles.

And it can't be just him though. This has happened far too much in my 4.5 years of dating to call this one of several isolated incidences. There must be something in my dating style that draws people in while I'm in their presence and then causes them some ungodly repulsion upon leaving my presence. It must be me. I know my close friends will tell me otherwise, but seriously, it's time to own the fact that I have had roughly 4 times more of these 'beginnings to' than actual relationships.

If anyone has any suggestions as to what may cause this, please feel free to let me know. Unless it's "you're a sarcastic bitch." We all know that. However, I never reveal that side until...actually I don't know when I would reveal that side as it's never gotten far enough to be revealed.

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So I'm absolutely messed up.

I fully realize this. No matter how much I heard, "David! Relax! It hasn't even been one day!" I couldn't. I was in such a black and white place where there were no extraneous factors and his lack of immediate response meant that a) he was a prick and b) I was a loser. I think we can kind of agree that b still stands. I'm just so determined to be betrayed for some reason, that reason being all the betrayal in the past. Yesterday I was seriously considering taking myself off the market for a good long while. I imagined scenarios where guys would approach me and ask if I want to go out (cause that happens all the time) and me just saying, "I'm sorry; I don't date." And I really meant it because I can't deal with how stressful yesterday was, purely of my own making.

Oh, but the good news is that now, if it does fall to shit whithin the next couple weeks which, I mean, c'mon, than I'll have already gone through this and won't to go quite as crazy again.

God, je suis le fucked up.

I hate the post-first date follow up.

Last night I hung out with a perfectly lovely boy who by all accounts is everything I should want without being perfect, cause no one needs that. Sweet, kind, adorable, the whole thing. We had a great time and he left at 2:30 in the morning, telling me to call him tomorrow/today. Yay.

But see, the second he walked out of that door, it was all up in the air; until you actually speak for the first time after that, it could really go either way. Some guys simply have a way of doing a 180 within a 24 hour period and there's really not a lot the rest of us can do about it. There's no real reason why this one should, but weirder things should happen, so without being too preoccupied, I'm ever slightly on edge.

I called at 6:45 tonight with the full expectation *ring* that we had have a nice *ring* little conversation *ring* and then get together *ring* later in the week. *voice mail* Shit. The worst thing is leaving a message because then the onus as well as the fate of my neuroses are on him. I could have hung up, but with caller ID he would have known that I had called anyway. So I left a message. It wasn't the most brilliant message ever, but it was short, cute, and not too clingy. So now it's nearly two hours later and I haven't heard anything which is completely reasonable and yet the wheels of panic are already starting to grind. I really won't be all that heart broken if he never calls as I've learned not to get too invested this early, but there was potential. And it's been a while since there's been potential. A long while. In fact I believe that back then the word for potential was Oog.

I had a very disturbing, if cliché'd dream on Thursday night. I dreamt that I was in a small doctor's office and the doctor was informing that I had contracted HIV, but not because I had had unprotected sex or shared needles, rather because there was a new strain that was air-born. I feel this was my psyche's inability to actually take responsability for my own actions. Clearly, were I to ever contract such a thing, it wouldn't really be my fault. I handled it slightly better than I imagine most people would, although less well then I've assumed I would. (When you're a member of community with a history such as - and I use this pronoun only in the strictest sense - ours, the thought must inevitably cross one's mind. It's like First Nations and diabetes or Mennonites and the jitterbug. I've long forgotten the rest of the dream, but it was remarkably unsettling not solely because of the news itself but that I couldn't control how I would react. The feelings of despair and helplessness were overwhelming, and I didn't get to 'do it my' way as I've discussed before (the living wake, etc.). There was also a lot of shame. The history of the disease is riddled with shame because it was originally considered a gay man's disease at a time when that was dramatically less accepted and that feeling still holds true today, even with greater rights being passed around. It's also a disease of ignorance, as it is prevented with education and awareness. It's not equal opportunity, like cancer. Hell, we're all gonna have cancer in this generation. HIV is just so simply preventable: use a condom, don't share needles (or really, do heroine at all, cause, c'mon...), know your partner's sexual history. It's all so basic. Essentially, if I was some John Deer from middle America, I would view HIV and AIDS as the disease of the stupid gay man. Actually, perhaps not even the Middle American. We don't really express it due to political correctness, but even those of us who consider ourselves to be more educated still have those stereotypes of the slutty fag and the junkie prostitute as the poster children. Yes, there are marches and elegant fundraiser like for cancer, Parkinson's and all the rest, but HIV doesn't have the dignity of those illnesses because, for the most part, it's your own fault. That's an asshole statement, I know it, but that doesn't make it less true. I wouldn't be embarassed to tell the people I love that I had any other fatal illness, but I imagine that having to admit to this would feel like entering a guilty plea and that there would be punishment to follow, not in something so hollow as death, but rather that judgement, as innocent as it may be, decrying, "You did this to yourself."

I'm having trouble ending my entries lately, so there. That's it.

Hey, my addiction entry that I thought the computer had ate is up! Yes! Addiction rocks.

I want to be in a lesbian relationship. I really do. They just make it look so effortless, don't they? I was dining at Basil's with a friend when two of his girls came up to say hello, exchange kisses, slap some bottoms, etc. These two were apparently two friends who after knowing each other for years decided that they would go on a date and this is what I was witnessing, their first date. They had gone swing dancing. Like...I can't even deal with these girls going to swing dancing on their first date. It's really all too much. After the initial salutations they went outside for a smoke, kinda holding hands while puffing away. Never has smoking been more cute then when two attractive could-kick-your-ass-in-a-second women are doing it whilst holding tiny girl-loving hands. It was all so lovely and simple.

The lesbians really do have it all figured out. You meet, you become friendly, you go on a date - a really date - you go crazy for each other and before you can say "Next month's rent" they're renting a U-Haul, buying a couple of cats and shacking up, and k. d. lang-uishing in their new found devotion.

I think I understand addiction. Not the actual process of being addicted, as I'm not actually addicted to anything, Tori aside. I do think though that I can appreciate what is the driving force behind addiction. And I don't mean any specific kind of addiction (such as drug), just the general concept of addiction.

It's like this. You are given something or experience something that alters your reality in a way that you couldn't have imagined and it's exciting and fun and makes you so happy. Then suddenly it isn't there and there's a noticeable void where it once was. The knee jerk reaction is to try to reclaim that happiness as quickly as possible because, my God, it was so much better, wasn't it? However for most people with logical reasons, we understand that there is a reason we are no longer experiencing these sensation that is most likely healthier than the actual sensation itself (long overdue breakup, come down off drugs, etc.). Despite our urges, we maintain self control and even when we so desparately want to call that ex-lover or pop another cap (I'm not really sure how many 'we's there are that read my blog that fall into the latter category, but moving on). Addiction occurs when those urges are satisfied and we give in.

It's not hard to guess that this whole revelation is due to the party (read: rave) I went to on the weekend. It just wasn't great. The first third was awesome as usual but after that the vibe just went weird and I spent the last 5 hours just hoping for something good to happen, anything, any human connection, and it never did.

I talked about this quite a bit with U the next day, and for the first time we really discussed the negative side to the scene. It's a very superficial neverland, where most people are really gushy and nice at the beginning but it's so surface and the moment it seems you might want to actually discuss something serious or there's a problem, they're like, "Um, yeah, so later..." I'm starting to get to know people and be recognized a bit more by now, which is cool, but it's frustrating that it's so fake.

So now I have all the pluses and minuses of the scene and I really need to assess how much further I want to delve into it or if perhaps it's time to draw back a bit. Also, I love going with my girl, but she is so much further along then I am as far as knowing people and I feel like I want at least one other really solid person there with me as sometimes I am so overwhelmed by my surroundings. I still feel like such a wonderous child there, in an odd limbo between absolute love and social terror, being there on my own. I'll have to figure it out.

In the meantime, apologees to all you fine people who have to put up with me in the couple days afterwards.

We take a lot of things for granted. This is not news. Mostly, though, we tend to think of food, clothing, shelter, etc. as examples of things we take for granted. I'm going to present another example that is never stated and is yet so obvious: Truth.

Not like conspiracy theory / The ____ is out there truth. Just small things. Like recycling. This is what I know of recycling: every week, we have two blue boxes full of newspaper, cans, and plastic goods that get picked up. That's it. That's all the concrete proof I have ever seen as to the existence of recycling. Sure, they made a swell little video on Sesame Street about aluminum cans getting compressed into large compressed aluminum can cubes, but does that actually happen? I don't know! I've never heard of a field trip to the recycling plant nor do I know of anyone who claims to work there.

Now without getting too deep into the concept of belief vs. truth, I believe that recycling exists because I am told it does, but really I have no frickin' clue what happens to our used goods. And where is all this 'energy' they're making with it either? Sure, brown paper is often stamped with "Made from 100% recycled paper", but used cans? bottles? Never hear a lick about them.

I don't really believe that recycling is a sham, but it really does make one wonder: what kind of sick individual would someone write a blog entry on recycling conspiracy?

I'm out of drama.

Well, temporarily out of stock.

Lately when acquaintances have been asking me, "So how are things?" I can only answer, "Oh, you know: school, work, rehearsals. Busy, busy." I know they want more details, but my history mid-term or frustrations with clerical work are not what they're after, which is, in essence, dirt. Something juicey, usually veering on the romantic side of things. However, there's simply nothing.

I used to have good drama. Good God, did I ever have good drama. The boyfriend who ended it because I was destined to burn in hell for all eternity...I mean, that's good shit. Falling for a classmate (who occasionally read this blog - Hey! How are things?) and its subsequent pit falls. Finding my soul mate and then having him leave less than 48 hours later. I was very strong in the drama department.

And now...what? I kissed a platonic friendly-acquaintance while in a slightly altered state and now he thinks I have feelings for him. That is so dramatically lame. Though he kinda is, cause I really don't. Like, REALLY don't.

*sigh*

SCREAM is TONIGHT and I'm so excited that I might urinate in my trousers. My heart literally skips a beat every time that I think about it. My costume is SO killer. I am...the Silver Phoenix. I know, they rise out of ashes and are pretty much fire, but this keeps the them of Fire & Ice from last year, and seriously, silver is so much cooler than gold. Last night I stayed up until quarter to one painting a silver phoenix on a white T-shirt. Here's the graphic I used: http://www.fsclearinghouse.com/armchair.html (Crimson Phoenix) . Gah, I'm so lame, but it's gonna be hawwwwwwwwwwt. *ahem* hot.