Here is yet another entry from the now-dead C-petal (2002-Jul-14). I put it here to remind myself of why I broke up with him. I will not have another birthday go by in tears.

I must remember to listen to my gut more often. It turns out to be a fairly good predictor of all things from which I should abscond.

Like trying to fit in with "Party People" who can have a great time in giant groups, who can listen to non-stop Hip Hop and Rap while playing Beer Pong, who can live communally in 1/2 of a beach house, where 4 to a room is fine (probably because they were all used to doing so in their sorority / fraternity houses) and feel neither claustrophobic nor filthy. I should abscond from trying on such an ill-fitting personality because it sags in all the wrong places: everywhere.

Like gin and tonics. How about 4 or 5 of them, all within an hour or 2, under the hot setting sun at an outdoor club. I should abscond from gin and tonics because they could lead to bad things. Things like making out publicly with my boyfriend in one minute, and in another, slugging him in the chest. Yes that's right, the insult I felt from seeing his arm around some chiquita, who was grinding her ass into his groin, was so much more magnified under all that gin and tonic that I simply had to put a stop to it by sucking his face. Don't get me wrong, it was quite nice; we got many catcalls and Anthony eventually tossed me over his shoulder a la Tarzan & Jane and strutted through the crowd with me like that as we exited stage left. But when he decided to walk into the neighboring beach house of where that girl was staying for the party, ... *tickticktickBOOM*

"So, I don't get to touch anyone when I'm saying hello to them" [Sure, that's all it was, juuuuust a simple hello] "but you get to hit on any guy you want."

Which brings me to another thing I should abscond from: icebreaking for friends. I met a girl named Lisa and almost instantly bonded with her. After hearing a detailed story of her despair and heartache for one of her roommates (who hooks up with more than just her), I told her, "If he wants to talk to other girls, then you talk to other guys and have fun."

One such lad she wanted to talk to walked by her and put sunglasses on.

"Oh, his eyes are just too blue and beautiful for him to be wearing sunglasses."

"THAT is an EXCELLENT line! Go say that!"

"I can't."

"YES YOU CAN!" [There is a direct 1-to-1 correlation between my speaking volume and the amount of drinks I pound, you see]

Truth was, she couldn't. So I grabbed her hand and did it for her. ("TRUST ME! Do you see any of those guys talking to any girls? NO--THERE IS AN OVER-ABUNDANCE OF WEINER IN THEIR DRINKING CIRCLE!! NOW is a PERFECT time to BREAK IN!") I did not speak to the blue eyed boy, but to all of his friends. And I was, for a very short time, Socially Drunk Party Girl Who Took the Reigns and Made Introductions to Strangers She Didn't Care About. I didn't think anyone of them were attractive, I only remember that one kid who must've had an unfortunate time with adolescent acne was named Skylar. I just wanted Lisa to get a chance to talk to blue eyes--who later dissed us as we did a follow-up chat. Net-Net, it was all for naught.

So, that was that. I don't know if there's any link between Anthony seeing me "hitting" on those guys and his arm slinking around that girl from behind, but there was definitely a link of my fist to his pecs as we argued later in the house. Even though we left the club together and in fine spirits, I was instantly hurt, offended, and even insulted, that he detoured right into her house instead of back to ours. Argument Mode was in overdrive, and I became a very, very ugly person. Do I remember all of the conversation? Not for the life of me. But I remember him storming out and going back to the house where that girl was, and I commenced sobbing quite stupidly. In fact, for lack of tissues, I blew my nose in my bathrobe. Yeah, you heard me, I turned my waffle-print kimono bathrobe into Kleenex, because I refused to walk to the bathroom looking like that for tissues. The robe is still balled up in my backpack, and I still cringe at the thought of unpacking. I called 2 cab companies and tried to get a ride out of there, flee flee fleeee, willing to pay whatever they'd ask for such a long drive... it reminded me very much of the Florida nightmare, actually. But I was stuck--even though Ritchie and Ward, who I bawled to through my cell phone, did offer "Say the word and we'll be down there to get you."

"No. That is so sweet of you guys to offer ... But it's my own damned fault that I'm where I'm at, and I just have to deal with it."

I do remember him returning from the party and trying to pick me up off the floor where I wanted to sleep, and then try to put me in the bed with him--and I said, "Please. I'd rather shit my pants and sleep in that instead of lie with you."

Oh, nice one.

I suppose we could sum this all up with "I should abscond from beach houses" because all in all, despite how nice the others there were, I was entirely uncomfortable. Allow me to put it another way: O the T showed up in the beach house, AND I WAS HAPPY TO SEE HER, because she was someone I knew. THAT is how uncomfortable and out of place I felt, okay?! I am amazed (and thankful) that my intestines and bowel movements functioned properly because I thought my suppressed nervousness, which grew more as more people arrived in the house, would've blocked my pooper till next Thursday. (So, in retrospect, the whole idea of me sleeping in poopy pants wasn't really an option, it was just something I felt I had to vocalize in my drunken orations to Anthony.) And next Thursday, I will be 28 years + 1 week old. How sad that it's taken 28 years + 1 week to learn that I am NOT a "Party Person." I am NOT someone who is eager to meet new people (as "Party People" are), and much less am I to do so in their house, where they are all friends and I'm a stranger. I reiterate: I am NOT a "Party Person" because I cannot enjoy such a body-packed place like a beach club for happy hour without mass consumption of alcohol. Most definitively, I am NOT a "Party Person"... because the phrase "But I'm coming home to you" (i.e., I can do harmless other flirtatous things with other people that I'd never normally do in front of you) does not really gel with me. That rationale never has agreed with my gut, which is shaking its head in disagreement even now, as I re-read what I typed. In my life, I've stated publically that I endorsed such a cavalier policy, but I've never really applied the theory. If I were a "Party Person," witnessing girls touching my boyfriend and him touching them back would not have put me past boiling point.

No, when I think about trying to be a "Party Person," or even returning to the beach house [YEAH, LIKE THAT'S EVEN A POSSIBILITY, NOW!!] to try to be one with the "Party People," my gut shakes its head and goes "nuh uh."

The other thing that my gut is grimly shaking its head at in disapproval is ...staying in this relationship. Because I have to say that one discussion (either on Wednesday or on my birthday) revealed to me that Anthony views our relationship as him being "tied down," that I "wore him out." My, that was comforting and nice to find out; can't help but think this was some contributing factor in my nervousness. And now, for the rest of the summer, I'm supposed to have faith in "But I'm coming home to you" and think that everything will work out.

I tried to put a light and airy spin on this entry.

You have no idea of how I feel right now... Well, some of you might.