Six Weeks

So, yeah, the denouement was ugly, and there was vomiting and crying and lots and lots of rage, which is now more of a "boy, am I ever still kinda really a little pissed at That Guy," alternating with, "Gaaaaahhhh, I wish I could talk to him again, shit we had such a great email rapport, and I wish we could do the fun emails without all the romantic bullshit, fuuuuck he said he wanted to be friends, but maybe because it was email it was really one of those throw-me-a-bone bullshit things," and oh, yeah, throw in a beastly-roaring I WILL DESTROY HIS LIFE revenge fantasy in which I totally Hulk out, and which still nudges me with its nose now and then before I come to my senses (alas, it's just not my style, hon, not my style. I figure people do a pretty good job of punishing themselves, and they do a fine and admirable job of fucking up their own lives. They most certainly don't need any help from me.).

But then (little sigh), I fell into some emails last night, and remembered with a big smile on my face (I know, no crying, how weird is that?) --

"Oh, yeah, it was pretty fucking fun for awhile. It wasn't all suck and looking thoughtfully at the number 6 as it pulled into Union Square thinking I wonder if that would hurt and wanting to die."  Oh shush, I'm being melodramatic for effect. Do you really think I'm the kind of person who kills herself over some guy?

I originally had written this post with excerpts from some of the emails I received from MWBMH(tm) in one 4-day sprint where things went from friendly and mildly flirtatious to stepping bodaciously over a line that neither of us should have crossed (ah, hindsight).

But on reflection (god love the draft function), I've decided, no.  Those are mine.  And, well, his. For a short, really sweet time, ours.

So, on reflection, on reading the emails from that weekend at the end of April, I know I'm not crazy.  There was some good shit happening.  And this was a guy who was really, really into me.  And tell me, what kind of girl doesn't respond to that?

Especially a crusty, dried up half-dead petunia like me -- when someone throws some sunshine and water at me, I fucking bloom.

I just mean that maybe I'm not a perennial. Some flowers only bloom once a century.

Why not me?