Subtext Messages

Therapist: “So, if you’ve been able to decide you don’t care what your family thinks about your life, why can’t you apply that thought process to your romantic relationships, rather than reading War and Peace-complex subtext into every interaction?”

Me: “Ummm… because my family are Birthers, and the people I date are not, so it’s not that simple? Divide my bill into minutes — I want a refund for that question.”

Cost analysis of psychoanalysis

I’m going to my scheduled therapy session tonight, but only because if I bail last-minute I still have to pay them. But my brain is being super bitchy about it, presenting a compelling argument that it’s currently preoccupied with “too-busy-at-work stress” feelings, and we don’t talk about those, we eat and drink them, and frankly don’t even care to hear your stupid “healthier coping mechanisms.” Yoga won’t help, blow me.

For the money I’m ’bout to hand this broad, I could consume my weight in froofy martinis and fried food. I’m just saying, from a cost:benefit standpoint, we better fucking solve some big shit this session. I better leave with, like, NO abandonment issues.

Bring it, lady.

“You got a WHAT? How long ya had that problem?”

Update on Dude I’d Been Dating: He texted me Sunday to give me back his phone number, and has texted here and there since with everyday minutia, stuff so mundane I feel like he’s just worried I’ll be mad if he doesn’t say SOMETHING.

He re-added me on Facebook (he’s on my “family” filter now, though, so all he sees are sunset photos and dog videos), but not on Instagram, and we were never connected on Twitter.

So I guess we’re friends, with nudity TBD, but I think I’m OK with friends, at least for now. I’m glad we’re talking because that means he didn’t just fuck me and bail. But now I know he can and will just shut down on me, and maybe he’s only talking to me because sex is possible, so I need to get those thoughts in order.

We don’t have plans to see each other, and I’m damn sure not bringing it up, so it won’t be a real issue until he does. (He’s away on a family trip right now.)

In the meantime, I have TWO OkCupid Potentials to write back, so “I’m not waitin’, because I’m no waiter, so when I blow up, don’t try to kick it to me later.”

(^ I…I am so sorry, you guys…)

We’re this close to synchronized Swatches.

Texting with friends…

Friend 1: “You know it was a productive therapy session when you immediately get cheese fries afterwards.”

Friend 2
: “Nice. I’m going tonight as well.”

Me
: “Ha, I’m going tomorrow.”

Friend 1
: “Awwwww…we’re on the same therapy cycle.”

Friend 2
: “That feels more important than syncing our periods.”

The best-(getting)-laid plans

I might get to have sex tomorrow, so obviously my brain has picked today to have a total goddamn meltdown and decide that everything about my physical appearance is disgusting.

Whatever, bitch. You know he doesn’t care about a pimple — you wouldn’t want to sleep with him if he did. And he’s already seen you naked and still opted to invite you back.

We are getting laid if the opportunity presents itself, so get your judgy ass on board.

“What about all that other stuff I’m telling you, how he’s probably already over any real attraction but is smart enough not to say so to a woman who’s so clearly willing to sleep with him?”

Nope. Don’t care. Maybe he’ll fuck the Crazy out of you, and if that doesn’t work, that’s why we pay a therapist.

Ain’t no slut shame in my game. 

I never recapped the first date with New Guy last weekend, but it ended with a pleasant goodbye kiss and plans for a second date, which happened yesterday.

So.

I was actually happy when my period started a few days prior, because then when I went to his house to watch movies, we both knew second-date sex wasn’t an option. No need to worry about things moving too fast, or for me to get bonus therapy beforehand for being all “Insane in my Slut Shame” — it just ain’t happ’nin’.

Um, yeah… Turns out my period doesn’t stop me from stripping down to just panties and then blowing him.

Whoops.

But also, godDAMN, I’d missed doing that. (He seemed pretty happy about it, too.)

And at least so far, no shame to speak of. I like him. I think we’d be friends if we weren’t dating. Even if it ends up just being casual or short-term or whatever, I already know I didn’t blow a boring idiot. So…you know…progress.

P.S. He said he owes me oral once my body isn’t made of betrayal, so if you hear about a woman exploding with years of pent-up tension in South Philly this weekend, it’s been fun knowing y’all.

P.P.S. He also called my body “fucking hot,” even though I suddenly have 10-15 extra pounds on me that I’m working on getting rid of. Pay attention, gentlemen — that’s the kinda game that gets your dick wet.

Wall-a-palooza

Writing about therapy in my everyday journal:

“She told me I’ve ‘built up walls,’ but I think I’ve actually constructed some sort of castle. A fortress, really. There might be a moat. Perhaps turrets. Obviously a panic room.

“Pfft. You say ‘guarded and distrustful’ like it’s a BAD thing. Lemme ask you: How many times have I sent money to an online Nigerian prince? That’s right, NO times. See? I don’t have ‘issues,’ I’m just smart.”