Here's a fun thing to do on a Tuesday night: go out with your ex boyfriend. Have a nice conversation and a couple of drinks and some appetizers at Sandbar. Then, apropos of nothing, spill a glass of water across the table so the waitress has to scurry over and clean it up and pretend that you are something other than the idiot that you know you are. Apologize profusely. Wave at the incredibly big breasted woman and her boyfriend at the table behind you. Try and forget that: a) they were there when you arrived and have appeared smitten with each other for close to two hours now; b) they were sitting side by side to increase the amount of public display of affection they could showcase for you while you tried to choke down your flatbreat; c) they are waving at you more out of pity and embarrassment than out of a shared sense of good humour.
Oh, but don't stop there. Totally put your foot in your mouth at the end of the evening so you look like some kind of deranged stalker. Try and shake it off and make it seem like you're apathetic - nay, happy! - that yet another ex boyfriend has moved on to another relationship while you get to look forward to sitting on the #16 every morning and looking at the flags on the Granville bridge that are advertising some outdated art show at the Vancouver Art Gallery (which you've already seen) while you lament that no one (with a penis) wants to go see the new Georgia O'Keefe exhibit with you. Recall what you said when he asked if you were happy: "Yes. I have a good job, I'm in good shape, I have a really active social life. I'd say I'm like 90%. I just want someone to share it with". And, yes, I do have all those things. But when do I get the other 10%. Oh! Don't answer that. Just replay tonight. That is the reason that I am blogging this goddamn debacle while listening to "Crowded House" (live, in Sydney of course) instead of, oh, I don't know, spending time with someone that has something intelligent to say.
It's cool. Tomorrow I will put my cool new hat on, board the bus, ignore everyone that attempts to look at me, be sardonic towards my coworkers, be increasingly sarcastic towards my friends, continue to dig this particular rut in which I currently find myself (instead of being proactive and trying to do something to alleviate it), and bitch about my knee.
Right. So feel free to skip tomorrow's blog: it'll suck. Like me.
Oh, but don't stop there. Totally put your foot in your mouth at the end of the evening so you look like some kind of deranged stalker. Try and shake it off and make it seem like you're apathetic - nay, happy! - that yet another ex boyfriend has moved on to another relationship while you get to look forward to sitting on the #16 every morning and looking at the flags on the Granville bridge that are advertising some outdated art show at the Vancouver Art Gallery (which you've already seen) while you lament that no one (with a penis) wants to go see the new Georgia O'Keefe exhibit with you. Recall what you said when he asked if you were happy: "Yes. I have a good job, I'm in good shape, I have a really active social life. I'd say I'm like 90%. I just want someone to share it with". And, yes, I do have all those things. But when do I get the other 10%. Oh! Don't answer that. Just replay tonight. That is the reason that I am blogging this goddamn debacle while listening to "Crowded House" (live, in Sydney of course) instead of, oh, I don't know, spending time with someone that has something intelligent to say.
It's cool. Tomorrow I will put my cool new hat on, board the bus, ignore everyone that attempts to look at me, be sardonic towards my coworkers, be increasingly sarcastic towards my friends, continue to dig this particular rut in which I currently find myself (instead of being proactive and trying to do something to alleviate it), and bitch about my knee.
Right. So feel free to skip tomorrow's blog: it'll suck. Like me.
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