My fault.
I went out with L last night and drank 5 or 6 tequila sodas. 8 if you count the shots. And now I’m in the post-grad library, miraculously not hungover. I have a date tonight, and M just texted me good morning. I’m on my second coffee, and my period is a week early. Everything sorts itself out, so I’m sure my skin will look less dull tomorrow once the tequila leaves my veins in full. For now, I’ll nourish them with more espresso. It’s my fault, I’m the one who went out and got too excited to chat to new people. I love new people, not as much as I love the old ones, though. The ones who know every fold of my brain, every wrinkle of my thumbs once I get out of a hot bath, and every burn mark on my body from misuse of a curling iron. Those people I love. But after catching up with L and exchanging stories about Garda boyfriends and dirt caked under nails from working in the desert, we wanted to chat someone up. So, we did. A Cal Poly boy who looked straight out of Silverlake, whom I mistakenly invited to my return to stand-up open mics before ditching him to go to another bar, and a Mick Jagger looking fool which I promised coffee to- purely out of curiosity for his music and how I can get him to record an EP, make a music video, and take a check out of his success. Now I didn’t think that was a date, but when I left for the bathroom, he told L and everyone else it was. Magically, coffee had become ‘brunch’ from his perspective. I’ll give him a call of advice, but I’m not letting the poor fucker take me to brunch. He was far too soppy, cute, but gangly and boyish. That’s my fault, I guess. You can’t ask a boy to coffee on a night out and assume he knows you’re trying to make a business deal. Whoops. Now the sweet Silverlake boy won’t stop texting. Also, my fault. And I have a date tonight. With a Polish (maybe Slovak?) boy. Someone who used to stare at me on campus every time he walked by, spoke to me once. I kind of want to cancel, but I’m the one who asked in the first place, so I guess I’ll go. This dating thing is exhausting, and why is there so much of it even though I chose not to get on those god-forsaken apps? Again, my fault. You put it out there, and it’ll come. There is no lesson in all this; this ‘blog’ isn’t about lessons. This is practically just a digital diary that I publish anonymously. Mostly because my hands got tired of writing the cursive they burned into my 8-year-old brain. And Moleskine journals are expensive.
