Saturday, August 11, 2007

Not being sure if it's a date is the new dating. Eat your heart out Samantha Brett, you utter retard. For I am about to turn my mighty intellect to the question of whether a pretty man has actually asked me out or not. You see, I tend to think I am on dates when in fact the other person thinks we are "hanging out" or "networking".

I went on the maybe-date in question last Saturday night. Damn, this pretty man is fine. But tonight I texted him that I am going out to see another band. He asked which one and when I told him, he didn't reply. Perhaps he thinks I have lame taste in music. Or perhaps I am foolish to think it was a date when his friendliness might just be politeness. He certainly seemed interested in what I do; perhaps he wants a writing gig. It makes me sad to think that pretty men are only interested in me because of my job.

There are times when I feel awesome about myself. And then there are times when I see photographs of myself, drunk and wearing a toga, and go, "No, I don't think it was a date."

Today I was at the shops and as I was on the escalator, I was hit by an intense feeling of wanting to cry. It felt exactly like a wave of nausea: the body's unbidden, animal reaction that the conscious mind has to fight. I rode it the same way, going "Don't cry, Mel, don't cry" to myself much as I'd will myself not to throw up. The urge passed and I felt the same kind of spent relief that accompanies a victory over vomiting.

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