Whatever.

August 20, 2005

You know, for once, I'd like to be right about something. I have a flaw where I believe everyone is good and lovely until they prove me wrong, and I cannot tell you how many times that has royally fucked me over.

I just have to admit to myself this one simple fact: I know nothing about the male species. I have no idea what they're thinking about, why they do the things they do, that weird vacant look in their eye they get before having animalistic sex with you, their claims that they're "different" and "not like other guys" when, in fact, they're just like other guys and the only difference is they manage to hide it better at first.

But, whatever. We all make mistakes, we learn from them, we don't burn bridges, we torture ourselves about it, and we move on. I'm tired of the bullshit. I'm tired of being blissfully happy and then crushingly disappointed. What I'm most tired of it being assured that it's okay to be myself and let my true feelings show, but when I do, it's suddenly a serious condition of "attachment" and everybody must clear the room before an atomic bomb goes off.

Whatever. It's Saturday, I thought I had plans today, but instead I'm going back to my failsafe routine: work some overtime, go to the farm, play with the doggies. That sounds better than anything else, anyway.

This cryptic message brought to you by the number 3 and the letter M.