Melissa Etheridge Radio

I can't sleep. And I think I'm sad? Although it is the vague, maybe-kinda sad, to which I can't exactly assign a specific blame, but can identify four or five things that *should* make me feel pretty crappy. The thing is, I'm pretty sure I'm sad about a boy, a boy I should have been over oh so long ago. And I have REAL problems! I have a mother who is getting divorced in two days, divorced from The Monster (yes, that Monster), and I have been playing at being her lawyer without knowing what the hell I'm doing, and in two days I have to be in court facing off against The Monster, unable to help my mom as she inevitably crumbles under his madness. But I want nothing more than for this magical tea to quell the awkward pounding of my heart so that I may slip off into the sleep that I keep chasing, night after night, because I can't stop thinking about that silly, stupid miniature romance.

I am getting ahead of myself. Sorry, fake internet followers. Let me explain. This boy and I dated for like a minute. No, really. Basically zero time at all in the grand scheme of things. Ten days. Ten days. Not even two weeks! But in those ten days (and the preceding month of getting to know him), he seeped into my bones like something out of a bad John Cusack movie. I didn't want to like him. I really, really didn't. Because he wore awful clothes (elastic jogging pants with hiking boots!), listened to terrible music (favorite band: Third Eye Blind!), and legitimately wasn't that physically attractive to me (sorry P, if you ever read this). Yet, I fell. I fell insanely. I fell like a teenaged girl falls, throwing all of those emotions right up in there, right at the beginning, despite all the warning signs. And then, almost immediately but not before I had fallen hard like an idiot (still with me?), I decided that those warning signs were too much, ended it, wanted it back, grovelled, was rejected. All in a fortnight.

Now, the time that has passed since we dated equals about 150 percent of the actual time we dated. And yet I'm still all stupid. I lay in this bed and remember how much better it was when he was laying in it with me, even though that only happened like six times. How did this happen? Why am I listening to weepy nineties woman ballads (The First Cut is The Deepest? Come to My Window?? I Can't Make You Love Me???), sipping my heartbreak tea (I love you, Kava), and sleeping until noon (er, one pm). His number in my phone is listed as "Face of Dicks" and I have deleted it and all attached messages several times so that I don't drunk text him something retrospectively embarrassing.

WHY IS THIS HAPPENING TO ME.

Is it because I came crawling back and was cruelly rejected? Or because I agreed to be friends after a period of away-time and, now that said away-time has long since ended, he has yet to even try to make any friend-plans (even though those friend-plans probably would be merely a cover so that I could charm my way back into his heart/pants)?

Is it because I am clinging to this temporary heartache drama so that I don't have to focus on the aforementioned Real Problems?

Or because I lowered my (admittedly too high) standards for physical appearance in order to take a chance on someone with whom I connected deeply on an intellectual level, and yet I STILL ended up alone?

I think it is because he is actually a rare and wonderful person, someone who I felt an instant and inconceivably amazing connection with, who I was comfortable around almost immediately, a person who I sorely miss. And I kinda thought I was the same to him, but I'm beginning to believe otherwise.

(Foolish Games is on my Melissa Etheridge Pandora station right now, and I am thumbing it up. If that gives you any indication of my ridiculous mental state.)