Thursday, January 7, 2010


If he doesn't call me by Christmas, then I'll know he doesn't love me. I can't call him. I won't. Even if I did want to I couldn't--I deleted his number the day he left. I'm lying about that. I have his number stored in my brain. In fact just yesterday I tried to scramble each digit in my head, but it was anything but a success.

I need to get serious about this; I have to resist the urge to call him. It's just hard seeing every cherub faced girl in town in the arms of some guy. When I go shopping for face soap at the mall, everyone has someone. I have this dog who just drools everywhere. I don't want a drooler. I want a lover. Someone who'll put his hands up my shirt when we're in bed. Or someone who'll insist that we have sex on the train home from the city. Not a sloppy dog who leaves his hair everywhere--no thank you.

The grocery store is by far the worse. Either every girl in the store is on the phone with their guy, asking whether they'd like a rotisserie chicken or a pizza, or they're playing the part of the doting couple and picking up detergent and other boring household items. I wonder what these couples do when they get home. Do they drop their bags at the door and have at it in the hallway or are they taking turns cooking dinner? Do they play scrabble or purr at one another when they're close? I don't know anything about these people's domestic lives. All I know is that I can't call and it's killing me like cancer.

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