Two for Two

I almost cried when it happened, which was embarassing, but I wasn't really crying over the dumping (well, probably a little. It hurts!). I was crying because right before he called (yes, it was over the phone) I was thinking that (I'd have to check last year's exam schedule to be sure) today was probably the anniversary of the day my parents told me they were separating, so as he was talking, I leapt to the natural conclusion that April 12th was some sort of cursed Day of the Delivery of Bad News for me.

Later I really did cry, though I was chopping onions so I had a cover. This time I was crying cuz I'd realised I have a Relationship Pattern. Twice now (see entry title), I have met a guy, made out with him a scant handful of times (he has a couple orgasms, I barely come close), then spent a solid three months trying to figure out whether or not we were really "together" at all, and eventually been rejected because he might have a shot with something better. It's not a good pattern.

And the real problem, not the "fault" I don't think but the place where it all goes topsy-turvy, is me. I sit around dithering and angsting for weeks on end, trying to sort out what I percieve as mixed messages (the messages may in a hypothetical objective "reality" be totally unmixed and the ambiguity all added by my overactive imagination) instead of just asking because I'm equally afraid of not being loved and of being expected to love and unable to deliver, and more than either of those I'm just afraid of people, of direct communication and confrontation when I'm not sure where I stand (a character I think I share with today's dumper, probably why I thought we were compatible and part of why we ultimately weren't).

Today's illustrative metaphor is daisies. You know, pulling petals, helovesme, helovesmenot? That's what I do. I go over every clue, every action he makes or I make, wondering what it means, whether I reacted correctly. So I spend these weeks, petals collecting in drifts at my feet, trying to figure it all out, and the last petal comes with good signs (a trip to Vancouver and joking about no spare beds, more free time and a scheduled date): helovesme. But I forget to count the head of the daisy, the yellow bit: helovesmenot. Moral: daisies are not a reliable divination method (and not really a great metaphor after all, sorry). Stop playing detective, you're not good at it. If you have a question, just fucking ask. And it'll probably be another six months before I get a chance to try again, and it'll probably go just as sourly. Ah well.

And besides that, I really didn't get anything done today. Or this week, in fact. Should probably try to remedy that.