You're going to ask about the dance. I know it.

Sometimes I feel like I should divulge the story behind my little emo moments and the blogs and tweets that sometimes go out to some nameless person.  Sometimes it helps me to talk about it.  I even wrote a paper on it for my English class last semester.  I rocked that bitch (but cried to whole time I wrote it).  And I figure it would be nice to give you a reason behind the weird things I say every so often.

Right now, though, I don’t think I can.  

Right now, when the sun is shining through the haze and it’s almost seventy degrees outside and Pandora is being a dick and playing Incubus’ “Wish You Were Here,” it’s just too hard for me to talk about it. 

If you’ve ever unconditionally loved and thought you were going to marry someone, and done everything for them only for that person to become a completely foreign monster to you, you might understand without my having to explain.  Or you might think you understand what I mean, but your experiences can in no way match up to mine.

Quite honestly, when I have tried to talk to people about what happened, the latter response is more common.  People who think they have really, truly loved someone when they have absolutely no idea what real love (and not infatuation) is like.  Infatuation is heartbreaking.  It’s painful.  You think you’ll never get over it.  Infatuation makes you wish you were dead.  Real love is crippling.  Real love actually kills you.

So, for now, you will have to patiently wait for the day that it isn’t torture anymore for me to talk about it.

Sorry.

In other news, I had an awesome weekend.  For the most part, at least.

My friend and his mom took me out for Chinese Friday, which was fabulous because I was craving it really hard.  And it was delicious.  The restaurant we went to gives you half a mandarin with your fortune cookie.  It’s pretty much the best idea ever.  We got Italian sodas for dessert and checked out a flooded bridge.  I have great friends.

Saturday I helped my mom and brother rearrange furniture in my parents’ living room so that they could fit an elliptical machine and treadmill in the same room as the tv.  Actually turned out pretty awesome. Really cozy.

At some point in this adventure, my brother and I had a conversation about proctologists and gynecologists.  Sometimes I think we have conversations just to see who can gross the other one out first. 

Sunday I watched this.  She gets me.  Then I had a conversation with my mom about balls.  Again.  Second time in the last six weeks, I think.  Balls are not really the most desirable part on a man, to put it gently.   We agreed.

I admitted to the fact that I used to wait for my ex to be at a long shift at his night job, then I’d go through his nightstand and dresser.  He constantly accused me of cheating on him, so I assumed he was cheating on me.  Then, for some reason I told her the two reasons I would ever want a penis.  This means I also had to explain the Flappy Dance to her.

When will I start to keep my mouth shut?

My mother does not need to know what the Flappy Dance is and she really does not need a demonstration.

Maybe that fever last week ate a little bit of my brain.  Or we are entirely too close.

Lastly, I decided to start taking birth control again.  Not because I need it for “fun” reasons, but because I started bleeding a week early and that pissed me off.  I can’t be bothered to deal with that shit.  It also freaked me out because I’ve always been super regular.  Almost as regular as when I’m on the pill, except within two or three days instead of on exactly the same day every time.  I was the girl who made all the other girls’ periods change to be closer to hers.  I’m like fucking gravity.  Well, I was.  Stupid hormones.

The big downside to taking it again is that all of this week I’ve been feeling crappy again.  Not like last week. 

Just fatigued and nauseous.  The first week of a new pill always does that to me. 

Birth control is fucking awesome.  Just like drinking the Kool-Aid.

Speaking of which, how much time do you think those groups put into choosing a Kool-Aid flavor prior to mass suicide?  Do they just pick one or do they get the one everyone actually likes?  I'd probably get the good flavors and mix them with club soda.  Maybe even put some umbrellas and sparklers in the cups.  I'm going out in style. If I burn the building down, I'm dead anyway.  So, who cares, right?