Christmas Eve eve

Christmas Eve eve (that would be last Saturday for anyone counting), I drove up to school to see my bestest roommate and runner-up for the love of my life: Satchel. Satchel proved third time's a charm for living with men. Of course it helped that we split the rent and had our own bedrooms. And never had sex. Satchel is my platonic life partner and he was back in town and throwing a party.

I called Conor to let him know about the shindig and he was really excited about having me come up. He quickly offered me his spare bedroom and invited me beforehand for dinner.

"Caroline's cooking," he said.

What he didn't tell me was that they were having Caroline's family over to celebrate Christmas. I found myself at my ex boyfriend's Christmas celebration with his girlfriend's family. I don't know if they felt awkward or not, but I felt it was a new personal low for me. The worst part is that I kept thinking, he dumped me for this? Her family is so white trash: they wore camouflage to Christmas dinner and joked about who was in jail most recently. Caroline's mother won.

During Conor's tour of his new house, he pointed out the spare bedroom he made up for me and said, "Looks like my old apartment, doesn't it?" So I would be spending the night in a replica of Conor's old apartment. Yup, I am pathetic.

I told Conor we should take two cars to Satchel's party. The evening was such an emotional low that I didn't know I would come back and sleep in the bedroom next to Conor's and his live-in girlfriend. Additionally, if I didn't know that many people at Satchel's I would only stay a couple of hours before trucking it back to the city. But they insisted it would be alright and I got to pick up Caroline's brother on the way.

I walked in the door and screamed, "Love of my life!" while jumping into Satchel's arms. And immediately locked eyes with Brad, a boy who never called again after I threw up on him five years ago. Shit. It turned out I knew a lot of Satchel's friends and was immediately placed at the drinking game table with some very cute boys.

Satchel came over and put his hand on my shoulder. I looked at him and whispered, "Your friend David is cute. Very cute." I made eyes at David and Satchel and I laughed.

"Well he's single and graduated from school and is a very nice guy."

"Shit. Those are higher standards then I've had in the last three months." We laughed again.

I had been playing a drinking game for the past 45 minutes, so I didn't know how discreet I was, or if Satchel told David about my revelation, but when the cameras began flashing, I was in more than a few of his. As the night continued, there was ass grabbing and light spanking as we passed each other into the kitchen for more beer. Then he was two seats away from me at the drinking game table. Then he was next to me. Then his hand was on my knee.

I froze. I didn't know what to do next. It seemed like I've been on nothing but blind dates for the past several months and during that time, I've forgotten how to flirt. My instinct was to put my hand on top of his, but it seemed like a lame maneuver. I rested it there for a minute, squeezed, then pulled away. His hand remained on my knee. Good.

Conor called me into the kitchen. Caroline wants to go home. Tough. There's a cute boy putting his hand on my knee in the other room, I'm not leaving. This is exactly why I wanted to take two cars. Conor was afraid to tell Caroline that I wasn't ready to leave because he feared she would get angry with him. I brought up the last time I was in town with Nick, who he hadn't seen in two or three years. Caroline informed him that no more people were coming over to his house and then she locked him out of his room. Again Conor hadn't seen Satchel in two years and Caroline wanted them to go home.

Per Conor's request, I broke the news to Caroline that I wasn't ready to leave. "What about your brother? Can he pick you up?"

"No, he's drunk already," she snapped. I was taken aback at the tone of her voice.

"Well what about his friends? Can anyone come and get you?"

"No."

"Well, sorry, but I'm not leaving yet."

I turned back to the Boy Whose Hand is on My Knee. Behind me, I heard another girl ask Caroline what's wrong.

"My driver is off playing drinking games." Jesus Christ.

Five minutes had passed and Conor called me into the kitchen again. He wants to take my truck home. My truck. His girlfriend. Satchel jumped in saying David could drive me back to Conor's. He hollered down the hall to David, "Hey D, can you take Sarah back to her car later?"

"Sure."

I turned to Conor. "Conor, it's my truck."

"I know, I'm sorry. But she's mad at me now."

"She is being utterly ridiculous. When I've become stranded at parties, I've always called someone or walked. Or slept it off on the couch. Or a bedroom. Or in the back seat of your car." Conor laughed. I had done the latter the past Cinco de Mayo while he was drinking in a hotel with Caroline. "Conor," I reached up and brushed his hair back, "Are you happy? I mean with Caroline?"

"We just moved in together." He avoided answering my question. Conor cannot be alone. He is the neediest boy I've ever met. He used to call at 4 AM and I'd come over and find him passed out on his living room floor next to a shot glass and an empty bottle of whisky. At the time I had mistaken it for liking me and needing me, but with time I realized he just couldn't be alone. Conor will stick a relationship out, even if it's bad, unless he can lily hop into another relationship. Well, that or he really does like her and doesn't want to tell me.

He ran his hand under my chin and cupped it, " I love you."

"I love you too, Conor." I leaned in to embrace him and we kissed lightly.

"I should have told you that years ago." I hate that all my movie moments are with Conor. I wish that they were with someone who actually wants me, not someone who's making sure he's still desirable.

I shoved my car keys in his hand. "Yes, you should have," and I walked out of the kitchen and headed back to my drinking game, where I would now be losing intentionally.

Forget You,

you "Aussies." With your "summertime." And your "short pants." Your merry "beach Christmases."

Think y'all are so "special," do you? Well, I'm off to my beach house too. Sure I'll be wearing my "new winter coat," but the tide will look the same. I just "won't be able to go in without getting sick."

Be back on the 30th. Be jealous.

A Christmas Tradition

It all started when some of Santa's elves got sick. The trainee elves did not produce toys as fast as the regular ones and Santa began to feel the pre-Christmas pressure.

Then Mrs. Claus announced that her mother was coming to visit, which stressed Santa even more.

Next day when he went to harness the reindeer, he found that three of them were about to give birth and two others had jumped the fence and were out, Heaven knows where.

Then when he began to load the sleigh, one of the floorboards cracked, the toy bag fell to the ground and scattered all the toys.

So, frustrated, Santa went into the house for a cup of apple cider and a shot of rum.

When he went to the cupboard, he discovered the elves had almost finished the cider and hidden the liquor. In his frustration, he accidentally dropped the cider jug, and it broke into hundreds of little glass pieces all over the kitchen floor.

He went to get the broom and found the mice had eaten all the straw off the end of the broom.

Just then the doorbell rang, and an irritated Santa marched to the door,
yanked it open, and there stood a little angel with a great big Christmas tree.

The angel said very cheerfully, "Merry Christmas, Santa. Isn't this a lovely day? I have a beautiful tree for you. Where would you like me to stick it?"

And so began the tradition of the little angel on top of the Christmas tree.

Merry Christmas to all my bloggers!

Crunch This

I called the gym to renew my membership. I was speaking to what I could only assume was a perky, caffeinated, 30-something with abs that made the skin on her stomach look wrinkly.

"Okay, Hon, well let me just look you up in our system."

"Okay," I put another chocolate cookie in my mouth and chewed. I figure because it's a soft cookie, she can't hear me cheat.

"So did you get married in the past year?"

I choked on my cookie. Is that what is supposed to happen after you join the swanky gym in the swanky part of town for a year? You get married? Was this a guaranteed result that I had somehow missed?

Does this mean I get some sort of refund?

Meeting

It was a holiday for the underpaid
Everybody got a haircut and lemonade
-- Angie Aparo, "Spaceship"

"Will you come into my office, please?"

Oh fuck.

"Shut the door behind you."

Double fuck. Fuckity fuck.

"Fuck."

"What did you say?"

"Nothing."

She picks up an envelope off her desk and tries to hand it to me. "Open this, please."

I just eye it suspiciously, refusing to touch it. "Is it pink?"

She laughs, "No. We're offering you a raise." She extends her reach again.

This time I grab the envelope.

Let's get physical

After having an off-blog conversation with another blogger about the fear that I want too much and have unrealistic expectations regarding men, he gave me an exercise to help ground me and define what I want. I don't know if he ever expected me to follow through on it, but I continued to work on it whenever I felt overwhelmed.

He told me to list 15 qualities I want in a man, no matter how shallow they may be. So I did:

1. Professional
2. Creative
3. Intelligent
4. Witty
5. Like dogs
6. Gently teases
7. Confident
8. Respectful
9. Larger than me
10. Reads
11. Affectionate
12. Protective
13. Financially stable
14. Kind
15. Physically fit

Then he told me to break it down into three groups of five with the first group being the most important and the third being the most expendable. So I did:

• Like dogs
• Intelligent
  
• Professional
• Respectful
• Affectionate

• Protective
• Witty
• Reads
• Larger than me
• Kind

• Gently teases
• Confident
• Physically fit
• Financially stable
• Creative

I was sort of hoping that Intelligent blankets Reads and Professional blankets Financially stable. He said the point of the exercise is to find someone who has all of the top five and as many as the second grouping as possible. The rest are just benefits. The exercise has helped me define in more concrete terms what I want. It's made me feel a bit better about things.

For me it's important to find someone that like animals. It shows that they are willing to love something more than themselves. A good vocabulary turns me on; knowing his homophones is like talking dirty to me. One time a guy said "convoluted" to me and my mind flashed to bad things I wanted to do to him, all because he could use that word in a sentence. He has to have a career because if I can do it, anyone can.

Oh god, I'm such a cliche. I want an intelligent and affectionate man. Who doesn't?

Decoding Sarah

If I were being truly gut-wrenchingly honest with myself:

"I don't want to get married" really means "No one wants to marry me. Why won't anyone love me? Why?"

Alternately, it also means "This asshole is creepy."

"I don't want to have children" really means "I don't have a husband that would support me so I could be a stay at home mom and do this parenting thing properly."

Alternately, it also means "I'm afraid of becoming my mother."

"Grey's Anatomy is my favorite show" really means "I like watching Derek turn down Meredith in all these painful and humiliating ways because that happens to me all. The. Time."

Alternately, it also means "I loved Patrick Dempsey since Can't Buy Me Love. Never has nerddom been so hot. So hot."

"I'm lonely" really means "I want a figment of my imagination. I will inevitably be disappointed by the living breathing version and spooning on my couch will never be comfortable because it's just too small."

Alternately, it also means... well, that's just what it means.

Prove Me Wrong

----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: Sarah
Date: Dec 16 2006 8:22 AM

You know how they say that Shakespeare wrote about every possible plot in history? That's there's nothing Shakespeare hasn't written about?

While I disagree on the premise because those who subscribe to the "WS came up with every possible plot" school play loose with "plot" anyway, tell me this:

Charles Dickens - A Christmas Carol. Guy who realizes that family is more important that work. Is there anywhere in Shakespeare that this is mentioned?

The only thing I can think of is the apparition in Hamlet versus Jacob and Marley. Both use apparitions to convey warnings.


----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: Poet
Date: Dec 16 2006 6:27 PM

King Lear... also, Macbeth makes a pretty strong case against professional ambition... The Tempest: Prospero's books or Miranda's happiness... Henry IV: Henry's unpopular loyalty to Falstaff...

Billy never comes out and states his themes: he's more artful. But the balance between personal and private (of which work v. family is a part) is pretty constantly in his plays.


----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: Sarah
Date: Dec 16 2006 2:29 PM

But King Lear didn't go nutzo because he lost his family. He went nutzo because he lost his kingdom, ie job. He eventually makes the realization, but doesn't get the happy ending Scrooge gets. Then again, the entire title is "The Tragedy of King Lear," not The Comedy of where everything works out okay.

Also Scrooge doesn't get his agnorisis until he sees the future and consequently learns of his own mortality, which is pretty selfish in and of itself. Lear's knowledge of mortality is what made him give up the kingdom...

Are these the same lines of thinking you had?

And by Jacob AND Marley, I meant Jacob Marley. I was thinking of the Muppets version where there's two ghosts-- the peanut gallery old men...


----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: Poet
Date: Dec 16 2006 10:54 PM

Lear doesn't get a happy ending because there are no happy consequences for his actions. Personally, I think the honesty of Lear's conclusion...blind, stumbling the plains, etc...is what prevents the play from being sentimental in the way Dickens is. If sentimentality is understood to be the exhibition of an inappropriate amount or type of emotion (a la J.C. Ransom), then Scrooge's ending is overtly sentimental. Furthermore a deus ex machina is required to get to the happy ending, highlighting the inaccuracy of the story's direction. Of course, Dickens was going less for accuracy than for a Christian morality tale: and, whatever one thinks of Christianity, one has to concede that it is inaccurate to the reality of this world, which generally holds the dead don't rise again, etc.

I'm skeptical about the benefits of comparing works with different goals (apples and oranges, yada yada), but, if I were to compare the stories, I might start with peeking at the language...looking for what corresponds and what does not....how are Scrooge and Lear alike or unlike predicated upon their diction, tone, etc. When it comes down to it, Lear exists in a different world...possesses a different ontology, and a different vocabulary. For that reason, I don't know how fertile the comparison might be: usually a contemporary of the subject character might yield more accurate results, preventing the problem of temporal readings, idiom, etc from rearing its hydra-style heads.


----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: Sarah
Date: Dec 16 2006 7:52 PM

I think that was the most intelligent use of MySpace. Ever.

Flushing

The staccato of my right turn signal illuminates the quarrel behind me.

Flash. She's yelling at him.

Flash. He bends over and looks for something between the seats.

Flash. She looks as well, but then stops to holler some more.

Flash. He looks out the window.

Flash. She flips the visor to reapply some lipstick.

Flash. She yells some more.

Flash. He looks out the window.

Flash. He looks out the window.

Flash. He looks out the window.

I wanted to tell them whatever was lost in their Land Rover wasn't worth all the anger. That when she yells like that, her face contorts unflatteringly. That he leans away from her, putting as much physical distance between them that seat belts will allow. I wanted to say it's Friday night and I'm going home alone while they are out together.

I often forget about the downside of having a significant other: the fighting. I have had some knock down fights in my day. The screaming. The frustration of not being understood. The contempt. The low blows.

The traffic light turned green and I drove home, excited over my evening of laundry and season one of Coupling which arrived in the mail yesterday. They turned left and will look forward to an evening of frustration and contempt.

Actually, it's kind of nice not having someone around to tell me what a piece of shit I am.

One-liner

I looked at my dog and belched.

It was so loud, my eyes widened while it reverberated through my loft.

She, on the other hand, stuck her nose in my face and smelled.

While smelling, she let out a small doggie burp.

"All right!" and I held my hand up.

She met my high-five.

It was the perfect moment between man and beast.

Er, girl and dog.

Er, beast and dog.

And this, folks, is why I live alone.

Links Update

I have updated my links list. If you linked to me and I missed linking you back, please leave a comment. I did my best from wholinkstome.com, but I'm positive I missed a few folks.

If you would just like a link in general, holler. I'm looking for new blogs to read. Also, if your link is broken or if you are listed incorrectly or would like to be listed differently, please let me know. But understand ahead of time I refuse to list anyone as "Cock Master" or something similar. :)

Beware Funny Ladies

This is an article from Vanity Fair. It's called "Why Women Aren't Funny." It's also about me having a coronary from anger.

It's not just you-- this guy is basing his argument on women's lack of funny on their ability to bear children. That bearing children makes women less funny. Because, apparently, it's what we Do. It's what we're Supposed to Do. This is especially true because that paragon of human understanding and gender equality Rudyard Kipling has extensively reminded us that women are only good for bearing children.

Hmm.

Although I am not "hefty, dykey, or Jewish," I must be innately funnier than someone who has already reproduced because I haven't felt the responsibility of bringing life into this world and hence haven't lost all of my more humorous faculties. Nor have I fully become a woman.

And on that note, fatties, dykes, and Jewish girls may be funny, but they're not really women. Because women are Supposed to bear children, and what are we if we're not? Clearly no man will fuck and therefore enable a fat, dykey, Jewish woman to have a baby, and ergo she'll never fully manifest her feminine destiny, which totally makes her a man.

Well, hallelujah. We now know that women comedians and improvisers aren't constrained in any way by social constructs, nor are we raised to think that only boys can be funny. And it's true that funny girls are automatically less feminine because they're funny (again because they're men). And perhaps it may look like more class clowns are boys rather than girls, but truthfully, those boys are just trying to mate and since teachers want more children to teach, they allow boys to do their mating dance more than they allow girls to smart off.

Jesus Christ, this article makes me angry.

And here's the thing-- I can and do agree that women fail at comedy way, WAY more than men do. But is it because we have children? Or because men have to be funny to get a woman's attention? No. Sociologically speaking, girls aren't allowed to be smart asses, because we're not supposed to speak our minds, because we apologize when we say something inappropriate, and because we're still supposed to just sit there and look pretty.

Because no matter what strides have been made on the women's liberation front in the past 40 years, it doesn't make any difference because we're still just tits as far as comedy is concerned.

Noah's Ark, only drunker and with keg stands

I attended my second Christmas party of the season Friday night. I ventured away from the city and tested the suburb party waters. The longer I spend in the city, the more I feel like I belong. I prefer skyscrapers to strip malls, Zagat rated to extra value meals, and the ease and security in knowing I live at most six miles from anything-- the Capitol, work, art museums and zoos-- it's all five minutes away. I don't even mind paying for parking anymore. E has to entice me to leave the city: free booze and a DD just happened to be the magic answer that night.

At the party we hug and kiss hello everyone we know, which happened to be a short list as we were friends of friends. I make friends easily so I wasn't daunted that we didn't know most of the people there. I was actually excited about the idea.

Until we met everyone.

"Hi, I'm Carol and this is Bob."

"Hi, I'm Richard and this is Denise."

"Hi, I'm Andy and this is Beth."

Um, when exactly did people come in pairs? When exactly did I become one of three single people in a house full of marrieds!? E and I and a girl from Alabama. All standing by the trash. Right where we belonged.

I'm too young to be the only single person in a room. Or am I? When we walked in the door, a girl-- who had the remarkable talent of actually trashing out a Banana Republic dress by adding porn heels and black lace-- squealed at me and and cooed, "This is my house!" She was younger than me and clearly playing house. I should be so lucky to ever own a house like that, much less a starter home with my new husband where I was the Bridezilla of the Year as rumored by dirty whispers anytime she left the room.

I thought I had a few more years before this started happening. I wasn't ready for it. Not just yet.

Could I get that on a t-shirt somewhere?

I have just added the following to my online profile:

Musicians need not apply-- please keep your shitty band to yourself.

This will accomplish a few things:

• Keeping those shitty musicians away from me. Writing their rent checks isn't sexy, no matter how many song dedications you get.
• Those that read this and think I'm bitchy will also not contact me. If they don't find this funny, they will not understand me nor my sense of humor at all. Call it a preemptive strike.
• Those that did read this and laugh are people that I actually want to talk to.

I like using my online profile as a social experiment. It's fun when the mood strikes me and I change my profile to read something small and weird about me and see if it's accepted or not.

Plus it helps that my service is free, so I'm not wasting money on my eccentricities.

God bless you!

When I first bought The Big Lebowski DVD in 2001, I ran to my then-boyfriend's DVD player, popped it in, and watched the scene where The Dude drops his joint in his lap, squeals like a girl, pours beer in his lap to extinguish the J, and consequently crashes his car into a garbage can. I replayed that scene for at least twenty minutes while rolling on the floor laughing. My boyfriend just laughed at me in amusement.

I had the same reaction to this video. Thanks Two Drink Girl.



Yup, it's still funny.

Awakening

She woke up from her nap cradled between the arms of her brown leather reading chair. She hadn't meant to fall asleep-- she was worried it would mess up her hair which had already been perfectly curled-- but the pacific combination of the afternoon sun and the French film on TV quarreled with her.

She yawned and swung her legs off the arm of the chair and padded her way to the coat closet where her party dress hung on the doorknob. The sun which had previously lulled her to sleep had already put itself to bed. Nothing about the day was warm anymore as she shivered and dropped her jeans in the hallway and stepped out of them. Living alone afforded her such luxuries. She bent forward and tugged her hoodie off, spending a moment to examine her toenails and deciding they needed one more coat if time alloted.

In front of her coat closet, she tied the long black ribbon-- the only thing that held up her party dress-- at the nape of her neck. She raised a hand to her head and mussed up a few curls as she walked to her closet and awoke her party stilletos from their box.

Crossing back into the living room to the guilty culprit, her brown leather armchair, she paused as she caught herself in the mirror's reflection. Out of the corner of her eye, she didn't recognize herself. Now facing the mirror, she still had difficulty with the image before her. The image was beautiful.

She wasn't used to beautiful. She was used to "cute." She was used to "average, but with a great personality." But the image in the mirror wouldn't allow for such words. The hair was perfect, the dress was perfect, the complexion, thankfully, was perfect. For the first time in her life, she thought of herself as beautiful.

"Right now, in this moment, this is the best I have ever looked in my life," she said to herself.

At the party, everyone confirmed her suspicions. Her very gay boss grabbed her, pronounced her belle of the ball, and twirled her-- a favorite activity she usually reserved for behind closed blinds. Men looked her her differently, as if they were hungry. That is what desire must look like, she thought. Desire looks like hunger.

Armed with confidence and heady from spirits, she left and made her way to where old money lives and new money parties. Inside her favorite bar, she was flanked with winks and drink offers. She accepted the winks and turned down the drinks. Never in her life had she been approached by so many attractive men during such a short time span. One man in particular was kind and introduced her around to his circle of friends.

It was the exact moment her confidence waned. The other girls took her hand and smiled, but she didn't match their appearance. She wasn't tan, her hair wasn't platinum, and her skirt covered the entirety of her ass in addition to most of her thighs. But she suspected one wouldn't use the word thighs around the other girls, they solely had legs.

She excused herself from the group. He reached out and extended his hand to her and she took it and squeezed it until the space between them refilled with new people as she made her way through the crowds to the restroom. Instead of using the bathroom, she shook the last few ices cubes in her highball glass and drank the rest of the fiery liquid while staring at herself in the wall-length mirror. She shook the cubes again and set the glass down on the marble counter.

"You're ugly," she spoke harshly.

And she was awake.

Party at My Place

So, one of my neighbors is currently toking.

Scratch that. One of my neighbors is currently blazing the chronic.

I stepped outside for my dog's evening walk and almost fell over. It smells like someone has been smoking for a week and just now decided to open a window. It smells like I am currently in that room where they have been smoking for a week.

Passing the other dog walkers, we all wave our mittens in front of our faces and declare, "Phew!" The dogs, however, seem happier. Mine is on my balcony with her cookie, smelling the cold night air and is... becoming paranoid.

Maybe I should invite my parents over.

Where the hell are all the normal people?

I just received this IM from Married Work Guy:


Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Losing My Words

"I'm not a scumbag."

I took a sip and looked at him. I didn't really know what to say to that. I met him in a bar. There was a guy passed out on the other side of the table we were sitting at. Chances are he's a scumbag. Instead of responding, I remained silent.

"When I first came up to you, you narrowed your eyes, took a long drink, and asked me evenly, 'So what are you, the wingman?'"

I nodded.

"I told you I'm nobody's wingman. I do what I want to do."

I nodded again. The line made me laugh-- he won points for that.

"I went to the bathroom and you started talking to another group. I came back and asked you why. You said you didn't think I was coming back."

I didn't remember this, but I was on gin and tonic number six. It sounded exactly like something I would say, so I chose to believe him.

"When I kissed you, you pushed me away. You liked that I kissed you though."

I didn't think I pushed him away. Did I? Was it subconscious?

"I have been nothing but decent to you, and you are acting like I'm a scumbag. I just want your number. An e-mail address. No pressure."

Before I could respond, E charged up, "Is he being a douche?" She looked at him accusingly, "Are you being a douche?"

"No," I cut in. "He's been nothing but decent." I used his words; I still didn't have any of my own. Pacified, E returned to her own man of the night.

"I'm not a scumbag," he repeated.

Anxiety rose up in me, overtaking my entire body. I couldn't even give him my e-mail address.

***

Sunday morning I was sitting in the dining room of my mother's house. My mother was sitting Indian-style on the carpet, crying in front of an open window. My step-father had lied to her again. This was nothing new: I found my childhood diary a month before and apparently I've been writing since I was nine years old that my mother wanted to leave my step-father.

"I'm a prisoner in my own house," she cried.

My mother has always had a flair for drama.

"I paid for this house. If I leave him, then he'll get half. Half of my house. I love my house. It's the prettiest prison I could have."

Again. Flair.

"Maybe I'll just use reverse psychology on him. I'll feed him fatty foods and buy him cigarettes. That way he'll get cancer and die."

While I almost fell out of my chair for what my mother just admitted to me, she seemed to like the idea, "My friends' husbands lost the battle to cancer in about three months. That's not very long."

I debated saying she would feel really terrible if he did actually get cancer and die. That watching someone suffer is never fun. But I was curious to see how far she would take things.

"I think he has sleep apnea. Do you know what that is? He isn't getting enough oxygen when he sleeps. He could stop breathing and die from that. That would be quick."

No wonder. No wonder I end things over mouth-breathing and lava lamps and bad kissing. No wonder I spend more time testing men than I do trusting them. No wonder the idea of getting hurt by them gives me anxiety attacks. No wonder I am such a mess.

No effing wonder.