Always happy to avoid conversation

On Thursday, the guy I’d been dating texted to ask if I had time to hang out this weekend. I said I did, but we didn’t make actual plans, and I haven’t heard from him yet.

So I think he was right in saying “we want different things.” I want to be ACTUAL friends with benefits, not the “beck and call girl” of a dude who forgets about me until his dick gets bored.

At least this means we don’t have to get together to discuss the terms of our fuck-buddy-ship — we’re Facebook friends and that’s it. No travel, no feelings, no shaving!

I’m not actually too hurt by this. It’s nice to be sure of something I’d mostly already decided.

Giving new meaning to “Doublemeat Palace”

Thought process:

“Ooh, Friend of Facebook Friend is cuuute. I should ask her about him.”

“He lives in St. Louis.”

“And? I’d hardly ever have to shave, and I could just fly out once a month for sex and barbecue!”

The Smug Singleton Projection

See, look at me, understanding a bad workweek is influencing my inclination to say, “Fuck this, I’m going home, and why is this New OkCupid Guy getting all bitchface at me? [He’s not, at all, my brain is just breaking.] I’m never dating again. No one’s dick is worth me having to get Date Pretty, what with the showering and the shaving things and the being charming — I have no charm, I hate everyone. I am officially OK dying sexless, peach fuzzy, and alone with my blankets and books.”

I KNOW WHEN I’M PROJECTING, SHITDICK ELBOW HECKLER.

Ahem. I feel better now.

In praise of mutual cowardice

Hm. Maybe I don’t even need to take the coward’s way out of this “breakup.” I haven’t heard from him since Christmas Day, and that includes an uncharacteristically booty-call-free weekend — I think the first since I’ve known him. This is good, because I was frankly too goddamn tired to shave anything all weekend, let alone deal with the performance of sex. (Yep, “performance.” Go big or go home, people.)

Hurrah, avoidance! Hurrah, not shaving!