Revisited Resolutions

So... it's be almost a year since I wrote this post...

Let's see how I did.

Shape up (why should this year be different from every other year of my adult life?).
FAIL...

Fix my problem with "da Benjamins."
Eh, could go either way. I'm getting better, but I don't think it's fixed.

Blog at least once a week.
To be fair, I do have more than 52 posts. Eh, more win than fail.

Meet Him. (No, not that Him. I'm not ready for Him. I mean Mr. Right.)
Win, big ugly beautiful hairy expensive amazing disgustingly wonderful win.

Become something meaningful.
This might be a draw. While I don't doubt I'm something meaningful to someone, I'm still not sure how meaningful I am to myself.

Do something substantial.
I said yes, and next year I will embark on the greatest adventure I've had yet. I may or may not kill someone in the process.

Love myself a little better (So that He can love me at all).
He loves me just the way I am..

Not break a heart.
Win.

Find patience.
Uhm...

Find happiness.
Double win, triple win even.

Not roll my eyes when someone (anyone) reads this and mentions my relationship with that Him.
Win, since no one read it.

Hone my wordsmithing skills. (Not a word, I know.)
Win...ish.

The cat in the bag...

Or out of the bag as the case may be.

Seems not only does Charlie Browne know about this little blog of mine, but he's been reading it since effing October.

Excuse me, do you have a towel for the egg on my face?

Oh, and as usual, I have plenty of expounding to do, all of it about dear ol' Charlie Browne and giving in.

It's been awesome. And a relief. Total, fucking relief.

A reminder for Myself

Note to Self:

No matter how randy you may be, do not, under any circumstances, try to get snuggly with Charlie Browne, especially Drunk Charlie Browne. This is not only rude, but kinda bitchy. And you don't want to be that kind of tease.

AND there's always the possibility that Al Bundy could decided to leave his room and find Charlie Browne's hands up your back while you straddle his thigh on the edge of Charlie Browne's bed. This looks bad, regardless how many layers of clothing your each have on.

Note noted.

Taking the initiative

Without going into too much detail (because it's 2 o'freaking clock in the morning), Charlie Browne just kissed me. A lame kiss, flat on the lips, like Dad insists on kissing me, or DW. All this after me drilling him to just "take the initiative."

I don't mind being the dude's life coach. I just don't want to tell him how to catch me! I shouldn't have to, I don't want to. That's like having a fish just jump into the boat once you're clear of the launch. No fun for you or the fish. He's too nice, and I know men are tired of hearing that. But yes, there is such a thing as too nice. Eh, maybe he's not too nice. Maybe he's too inhibited. No, he's definitely too inhibited, too afraid of rejection, too afraid of screwing it up.

(And, odd though it sounds, I want to march into his room right now and show him how to kiss a girl. Of course this present a whole new set of problems.)

Look at me. I said I wasn't going into too much detail, and low and behold...

Urgh.

Really I just wanted to get the thoughts down so I could expound upon them later.

I know, I know, I've got a lot of expounding to do.

(tee-hee.. oh shut up, it's funny.)

Oh, and he's obsessed with finding my blog! I told him if he could find it, he could read it. But there aren't many giveaways here, so good luck with that.

Good night... or good morning. Whatever. You're imaginary.

Freaking ex-boyfriends

I hate that they are happy and in relationships and content with their lives, and I'm not!

F.Y.I: Never friend an ex on Myspace. It will only piss you off (whoever your are).

The closest I have is a really sweet roommate who has a TOTAL crush on me.

Grrrrrrrrr. Aggression. Ill will. Feelings of utter stupidity.


(in another post, at another time, I'll expound on a.) how I have only myself to blame, and b.) how those boys weren't right for me anyway and we ALL effing know it.)

BLARGH!

Some Satisfaction

I've got sex on the brain.

Sex and the inevitable circumstance that follows.

Little know fact about Me: Pregnancy is damn sexy. My own (hypothetical, of course), those of other women. Not so much of other men. In my funky little mind, sex and all that it entails "in the heat of the moment" (yes, go on, hum the melody. I'll wait.) almost always accompanies ideals of expanding bellies.

And it's always a turn on, or an amplification of my already turned-on state of mind.

The real twist in my noodle right now concerns my current state of unsatisfied fits. I don't know from where it's wandered, nor when perhaps it may wander back...

Wwwweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeellllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll...

That's not entirely true. I may have some passing infatuation with my "new" roommate.

He's not bad looking. Hell, in the face he's down right adorable, what with his clear, water-blue eyes, dark brown hair, and just dashing smile. He's well read, has a fan-effing-tastic voice(deep and rich), he's worldly (ish), sweet as can be, and can cook as well as if not (dare I say) better than my mother. He's a breath of fresh air after a month of crass and cigar smoke.

However...

He's three years younger than I am (HUMONGOUS STICKING POINT). He's uptight (There was this thing, about his facebook... blah blah blah). He's got NO self confidence. He might be the clingy type (I get the vibe). He's NOT well versed in his pop culture...like, at all. He's huh-AIRY (humongous turnoff), and a total doughboy. He's admitted he's not well-endowed, and he's not well practiced, if you know what I mean. Last, but not least, he's apposed to surrogacy. Total deal breaker, that one (as if the other points were merely fence posts).

But he is cute, and he is there, and I haven't had a semi decent adult relationship in a year (some may argue ever), and I'm edging in on forty-two months celibate.

So, to recap, I've got sex on the brain...

Ooo, and an appointment at nine in the morning to have my eyes done...
Good lawd, what was I thinking?!

Go to bed, go to bed, go to bed.