Where normally I'd compose an email for him to read and wait eagerly for his response, I'm going to instead turn to this diary. Me sharing how I feel with him won't make the decision to not be a bad girl any easier.

[However, wanna know what does make it easier? Wellbutrin! My friend and I love it!]

...Wait, wait: back to bemoaning.

I have decided to be a good girl. A good person. To decide with my head what my body will not do. But as we all know, decisions made by the head aren't always abided by the heart.

Not that I am excessively gushing with emotion for him. I'm not. But I do miss him.

I miss the thrill of knowing someone who I thought intensely attractive was feeling the same about me. I miss the IMs that got a little out of hand, and onto camera. We didn't talk on the phone that much, but I miss the softness of his voice; sounding gentle and sweet, when his general business demeanor was rather different.

And it would be wrong (not to mention stupid, since I said I was backing down) to try to share this with him, considering he's married with kids. You see, I was getting signs.

• I was sick enough to cancel an arranged meeting

• I shortly got better and actually drove to the meeting place, nearly killing a squirrel

• I pulled over in the Quick Chek to see if there were squirrel guts on any of my tires, and found a bleeding, dangling worm embedded in the treads, like some sort of morbid booger

• Continuing on down to the spot, I actually pass the Buj--who has called him, outright asking "Did Knot call you?"

• The next day, I watch Dr. Phil--which I never do--and the topic is "The Other Woman"

• The day after that, I watch the John Walsh show, another waste of TV air-time, and the topic was video voyeurism gone criminal; a more extreme version of what he and I were discussing in great detail a la Freudian theory

The combination of these things served to magnify what my conscience was already telling me--to back off and come back to earth.

And to forget about going to the beach with him, for which he persistently asked.

Now, back to Wellbutrin. See, as I mentioned before, I've been sick. Disgustingly sick. Sopping-wet-tissue sick. Wonder-if-my-neighbors-hear-me sick. Might-you-be-suffering-from-SARS sick. Good-God-get-the-fuck-away-from-me sick. (None of which any of my friends cared about as they came over and smoked in the apartment regardless of my nose-blowing and lung-hacking.) But yes, when I blew my nose, it sounded like I was poaching elephants. The gobs I spat out could very well have been useful as an alternative automotive engine lubricant. Of course... it would've gotten crusty, and dried up eventually...

[-=um, EW! can we stop with the grossness?=-]

I went to the doctor, and blamed my condition on smoking. I requested a prescription for Wellbutrin to assist me in my new quit.

Well, aside from curtailing the desire I usually get for a smoke, I get the added bonus of levelled-out brain chemicals. I feel calmer. More likely to go "mmm.....nahhhhhhh" when I think about things that would typically have me antsy and frowny. See here, how I have typed out my angst to no one in particular, rather than direct it at its very sexy target? See me now, as I am not smoking while typing this! See me get easily distracted in my writing? All the wonderful, soothing, relieving effects of our friend, Wellbutrin.

You know, on a totally different note, I made a startling connection this morning in bed.

But first I must tell you that I broke up with Anthony again. For good, this time. How do I know? Because Wellbutrin is totally not responsible for this cold indifference in which I tell you about it in passing. The expiration date to our partnering arrived, that's all.

I thought I missed Anthony where certain physical things are concerned. The way his muscled arm would cradle me against him when we slept... my head on his chest, his hand nestled in the curve of my waist. His wide back had a comforting map of freckles that I'd run my fingers over when he'd sleep on his side.

Then I realized I just missed a thick body next to me in bed.

Which horrifically reminded me of a time when I was about 10 or so, and wanted to sleep in bed with daddy. Yeah, when mommy was once out of town visiting her relatives, little Knot in her night gown carried stuffed animals into her parents' bed to go to sleep next to her dad. HOW FUCKED UP IS THAT. I distinctly remember bringing one stuffed toy, some fawn, with small white felt ovals for speckles on its fur.

And I was so happy.

And all this reminds me of why I favor older men (or as in Anthony's case, men who look older). Anthony's body--short, thick, heavy but with muscle--even reminds me of how my dad was built.

So... um, ... yah. I'm done writing for today...