And Maybe I'm not the only one. I say, Never Trust Anyone.

Always the one that has to drag her down... maybe you'll get what you want this time around...
The trick is to keep breathing... The trick is to keep breahting.
I won't be the one that's going to let you down, Maybe you'll get what you want this time around..
The trick is to keep breathing ... The Trick is to keep breathing..

And still you call me complicated... somehow you lay the blame on me.
And still you call me codependent... somehow you lay the blame on me.
And still you call me contemplative...somehow you lay the blame on me.
somehow you lay the blame on me...

Some body get me out of here, I'm tearing at myself.
I've gotta make a point these days to extricate myself.
Some body get me out of here, I'm tearing at myself.
Nobody gives a damn about me, or anybody else.

This is what I get for staying up all night tearing out my hair over a worthless piece of ass. Jesus, this is why I always keep three around. You can't get too attached to any one of them because the other two will distract you. Now I'm listening to Garbage at 5am and thinking about cookie recipes and trying to avoid ironing. Not that I can afford to stay up tonight. But I've been juiced since last night. Jesus, ever since Dennis gave me that bit about trusting him in time, I've been on edge. I thought I had it under control. But here I am, fucking shaking and bruised and sore and sleep-deprived and my eyes are wide-open and my mind is going a mile a minute and all I can do is smoke and freak out.
I... I wanna fuck it all up. But I don't. I mean, God knows it's not likely, but it is possible, that this is something real. I don't often feel this way about boys, everyone knows that, especially not about boys who aren't on anti-psychotics, but I do. And I don't know where he's going with this. I don't know. And I don't know where I want to go with it. I just know that if I make a dumb statement right now like, I'm not the kind of girl you take home to mother, then maybe I'll lose something special. Maybe. Maybe it'll just be another asshole and we can have our wild ride and call it a day. Maybe he'll just go poof in the night one day and leave me wondering if I said something wrong. Maybe he'll go poof today. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know him worth a damn and god knows I'm too chicken shit to ask these things.

Years ago, back before Carl, and hell, during, I used to get confused. There's this look that boys get when they look at you sometimes... they're drunk on the idea, on the feeling. And their eyes sparkle and they smile at you like it's something real. That look used to screw me up bad. They look at you like you're the only woman in the world and the best one if there were any others.... yeah, it doesn't mean shit. I learned that lesson again and again. And I keep seeing it in my head, sometime in the middle of this morning, in his super-dark apartment, when he was staring at me and grinning and then he hugged me... hugged me of all things and made this little fuzzy noise like I was his favorite childhood teddy bear rescued from the attic in solitude. What the hell was that? I mean, sure, the sex was good and all, but a hug? And what was that look? It was dark... it's tough to tell. It's always tough to tell, but this one has had me baffled for a while now.

Boys are usually so simple. Why am I so confused? Boys are simply motivated. He did not have a cookie in his hand at the time, so the hug wasn't a thank you for bringing cookies. That I know. He had a naked, tired woman he barely knows in his hands, so why on earth would he hug me and look at me like a stuffed animal? It makes no sense. None. It's making me crazy. I couldn't sleep most of last night and apparently, I won't get to sleep at all tonight for being confused. Why am I so damn worried about it? Plenty of people hug me. Phil used to hug me and make a funny noise, but that was easy... Phil is a dirty old man and hugs were all he could get.
This is gonna drive me crazy. One of these days they'll take me away in a short bus to the funny farm in a jacket that makes Me hug me and I'll still be muttering, having pulled all my hair out, "why a hug?? Why a hug?"

I'm not used to getting treated like a stuffed animal. Especially when the person in question has known me almost a week and we've just had our second session of exceptionally wild sex. Yeah, he didn't even get a blow job, why the hug? Huh? Can you tell me that? Can you tell me what the hell is going on?? How did I pick up a skanky, macho, kinky, mouthy line cook and end up with all this warm fuzzy shit? Where the fuck did that come in? I didn't sign up for warm, fuzzy shit. If he'd belched and rolled over and passed out, I would've been perfectly comfortable. If he'd grabbed my ass and started snoring, I would've known exactly where we stood.

What the hell?? How is it that I always pick up the clingy ones? How do these guys get to be clingy? Is it even clingy? Or is it just some bizarre perversion that I don't know about? What the fuck? And second of all, where the hell has this guy been? He's got stretchers in his ears with some really nice art and nipple piercings and he says to me that he's never been with a girl who had her tongue pierced. Has he lived in a cave? They're everywhere. I know because I got mine on a lark since everyone else had one. I just kept mine longer. Because I never settled down or grew up.

And the calling my name during sex... what's up with that? I always thought, and I'm not alone on this, believe it or not, that it's bad form to do that until you're in a committed relationship. Especially not in the first week. Definitely not the first time. And yet, I've slept with three people this week and they've all done it. Even when they knew I wasn't looking for anything other than entertainment. What the hell is going on?? It kinda creeps me out when they do that. When I'm having trouble remembering their name... I'm all uhh... Rick, Dave, uhh, MATT! that's it, Matt! I'm happy with myself that I can manage to remember and here they are calling when they're all naked. And it's not that I'm paying that little attention... I'm trying to pay attention, really, to anything that might possibly matter. But we all know that most of these conversations are supposed to be idle chit-chat leading up to a point, and that point is the sex. So why are they paying so much attention?

Maybe, just maybe, it's New Orleans. There's a theory. All the girls I know in New Orleans are desparate, and we all know that it's easier for a girl to get laid anywhere than a boy... maybe they just haven't gotten any in a really long time and they're really really grateful that a slutty California girl like me came along. Did you know that spellcheck doesn't recognize the word slutty? Stupid spellcheck. So here I am at 5:30, having not done the ironing or the cleaning, again, and needing to go to the post office before I go to work at 2, and just fucking baffled by all this shit.

Ok, that's a good theory. That'll be my new theory. That it's New Orleans. That it is for some reason next to impossible to get laid in New Orleans and that's why the guys are being so weird. Dennis also has on his end of the weird scale the fact that he has four sisters and was in the military. That's a lot of crazy ideas about women to reconcile. But Matt was in the Navy for quite a while and all it got him was properly trained to do things like pay and take me home and flatter me and call to check on me later. And make sure to tell me about his vasectomy. I'm just full of interesting information tonight, aren't I?

This is what happens sometimes... I get stuck on the boys... they monopolize the brain, and right now I'm running through cookie recipes in my head because the next batch is Chef's choice and I'm the Chef. So I've gotta make a choice. About more than cookie ingredients. You know, he's barely said a word about chocolate. I find that interesting and probably says that chocolate is not his favorite. He has raved about snickerdoodles and pfefferneuse (now spellcheck is really angry) and things called rainbow cookies and honey balls that I guess his grandmother used to make, but almost no mention of chocolate... except of course in the dreaded opera cake. I'm not making opera cake. If I'm making opera cake, I get a 90-minute massage and dinner at Herbsaint. Period.
I already told him that while he sells his services cheap, a massage for a batch of cookies, if he wants a massage in return, he's taking me out. Of course, with our schedules... not going anywhere too special. I think he's off Thursday and Saturday this week and those are not my days off. Damn. I'm a complete idiot. And I've decided to stop freaking out and just do some cooking and some ironing and clean the bathroom like I've been meaning to for two fucking weeks now.

Right, cause Deciding to stop freaking out really works... it's like deciding to be straight or right-handed.... or to stop needing air. God damn it. Fuck this, I'm sure I'll get eleven fucking messages from him tomorrow just like I get every single day and I won't be here to pay attention to any of them, because I have to go to the post office and then to work and then Steve is coming over. That should be enough of a distraction. I hope. We're gonna watch Red Dwarf.

G'night. Maybe I'll take a nap, since Steve is coming over tonight.

I'm not due to see Dennis until Thursday. I'm sure I'll hear from him before then though. Matt will probably call too... I left him a message but I think he was asleep by then... he's old, you know. Drag brain away from boys... must drag away from boys.... argh.