Dripping With Cheese, Not Vegan Friendly.

S'weird, this dating thing. Weird, weird, weird to be drawing little fences with chalk, erasing lines and drawing them again only to re-erase and re-draw them every time the wind changes, sometimes saying "fuck it" and erasing them altogether and mashing up against someone in a messy heap, defiantly and willfully ignoring the time-tested fact that boundaries should remain in place for a certain respectable amount of time.

I like this guy a lot, really. And he's sort of fucked up in that broke-ass, I-have-a-really-shitty-job-that-I-hate, but-really-I-want-to-do-this sort of way, a trait in men that I hoped I'd outgrown my taste for.

We both live with our moms, for Christ's sake. We're both ghetto-ass broke, lacking saving accounts and things like retirement plans and mutual funds, we both frequently employ the use of change for cigarette purchase.

It's all so very high school.

We make each other laugh and laugh like idiots, though, over completely ridiculous crap that nobody else understands, and this to me seems to be the backbone of something promising, something good, but then maybe I give humor a little too much honor and respect when I should be revering qualities like bravery and the ability to do long division. Who knows?

I do know that I find myself being half of one of those couples (hate the word couple, so very icky, couple, couple, blech) that are all over each other all the damn time and are so fucking nauseatingly schmoopy-schmoopy that it makes you want to hurl into your handbag; and yes, it's a little disgusting, but I can't very well stop when the man just smells so good all the damn time, and I honestly do have a strong desire to sort of just crawl under his shirt and stay there, warm, just hanging out and maybe sucking on his neck a little here and there, stopping for sex breaks whenever appropriate (often).

Yes, it's overwhelmingly tacky and dangerously close to the Realm of Cheese. I'm aware of this. The point was brought even more closely to my attention when DC's friend A. rapped on the bar table the other night and said, "Excuse me, assholes, but there is a single person present who is not currently having a Loving Moment, do you mind??"

I had the good grace to look ashamed. DC did not.

Neurotic oft-engaged freak that I am, I am nervous about this recent chain of events, mostly because I am comfortable, and I'm not used to this comfortable shit. Comfortable is not a natural state of being in a relationship as far as I'm concerned.

Something should be wrong, and if something isn't wrong, it's because I haven't noticed it yet, and if I haven't noticed it yet, it's probably because it's something truly horrible that he's concealing from me, like six Mormon wives or some shit, or a Satanic cult in his basement complete with sacrifical goats.

I've even been able to sleep with the man, and I mean sleep as in REM cycles, not sleep as in "doing the grownup", which is nearly unheard of, since I usually loathe having another person in my bed once the condom has come off. Not only have we slept, we have slept on the same damn side of the bed. Either my medication is making me sleep much better, or I'm just much more comfortable.

This in turn makes me uncomfortable. I am waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I find that I miss him, too, when he is not here for a couple of days or so, and that is making me extremely uncomfortable, because why should I miss someone if only a couple of days have gone by?? That's ridiculous. I have even called a couple of times, and I am never a caller. I'm usually a callee, because I'm generally not a phone person.

None of this makes sense to me.

I have a paper journal that I write in nightly before I go to bed, and last night I flipped through the past few pages and saw "DC, DC, DC, DC, DC".

What the fuck?

I am just not the type of person to get all ga-ga-gooey over a dude. I talk about whomever I'm dating, sure, but usually whomever that person is does not rent a lot of space in my head. Still, here I am, going all kinds of junoir high over this guy, practically ready to take out my pink glitter pen and write his name all over my notebook in bubble letters inside of big hearts.

I mean, ew.

But one thing I must say, and I swear I will never utter another cheesy syllable again, is that nobody has ever called me Baby. I am really not much of a Baby. I'm more of a Hon, or a Sweetie, or a Babe (which is "Beb" in Chicagoese).

During sex, people toss out "Oh, Baby"s frequently, but other than that I don't think I've ever been a Baby.

I swear to God, when he calls me Baby, it does something to me that I could not possibly describe, even if I sat here for the next six hours trying to type it out.

I am an ass.

I'm also a tired ass, and with that, I am going to bed.

Happy Friday Night.

10:23 p.m. - 2004-06-04
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