Undoing. September 28, 2006

My trust issues will ultimately ruin this relationship. Instead of my greatest fear, it will be the fear of my greatest fear that will be our ultimate undoing. And it will be, as far as I can tell, all my fault.

He’s never truly given me a reason not to trust him. Sure, he doesn’t always help the cause (see, most recently,below) but overall he’s proved himself to be a moral, trustworthy person.

I have never been burned badly before. Have never been cheated on, as far as I know. Have never sat around in a bathrobe for months on end, drinking wine straight from the bottle and throwing darts at a photo of the offending male’s head. And yet, my trust issues, they continue to taunt me even as I semi-successfully navigate my way through a wonderful, surprising, supportive relationship.

The trust issues provoke negative thoughts and assumptions to the point that I am able to convince myself of far-fetched things, such as an imagined affairs with various women in his life. Rooted not, of course, in any sort of reality but instead in my most vulnerable place, where I’m still the girl who doesn’t feel she deserves a healthy relationship and is therefore certain that she will find the wizard behind the curtain if she just keeps looking hard enough.

Almost every night this week I have woken up angry at the Boy because almost every night this week I have dreamt that he has either cheated on me or lied to me or otherwise wronged me. Apropos of absolutely nothing he has actually said or done.

I don’t want to be this way. He sure as hell doesn’t want me to be this way. I’m pushing, pushing, pushing and ultimately I’m going to push him to his breaking point. He’s not going to want me anymore, because who would want someone who doesn’t trust them? The rest of your life is a long time not to be trusted.

I’m angry at myself and I’m angry at him for not making me feel safer. For doing some inconsiderate things that feed my active imagination. But mostly, it is me, it is my fault. I can either choose to trust or choose not to. The risk of getting hurt – the risk any of us in a serious relationship must take - doesn’t change either way.

I don’t want to undo the one thing in my life that makes me the most happy. If it unravels, then I will surely unravel right along with it. And I will have no one to blame but myself.

Last Night. September 28, 2006

You ride the 7 train this morning, feeling grey and stormy on a perfectly bright day. You choose Aimee Mann, because she understands.

The man standing above where you’re sitting looks down at you and says, “Smile, it can’t be that bad.”

Last night you were at his apartment for three hours, twiddling your thumbs, waiting for him to come home. Relationships take sacrifice, you reminded yourself while absently flipping through last month’s GQ and paying partial attention to the Yankee game.

He called at 12:30am, later than usual.

“I’m on my way. It was a three and a half hour game,” he said. You heard cars in the background.

“I know. I saw it.” You couldn’t hide the bitter. You hung up and rolled onto your side, stared at the wall.

When he arrived, you feigned sleep. You didn’t know why, it just seemed easier. He crawled into bed and gently woke you up with soft strokes of your hair and soft kisses on your cheek.

“Hi there,” he said.

He apologized for being so late and told you that after work (in the Bronx) and before coming home (to Queens) he made a stop at his office (in Manhattan, a whole seven blocks away from your apartment building.)

He had to pick something up, something he could’ve picked up today – his day off – but he didn’t want to risk an office mix-up, a mistake that would mean he had to chase after the important package.

You immediately shut down. It was close to 1am and you were tired and your boyfriend just told you that he made a pit stop in your borough meaning that you could’ve stayed at your place and had a drink with your friends and cuddled up in your bed while waiting for him.

The fact that he didn’t call you, to tell you? Even if it was perhaps too late to change course because you were already in Queens? Set off your internal Is My Boyfriend a Lying, Inconsiderate Bastard? Radar. You’ve had some experience with lying, inconsiderate bastards before. Your radar is very finely tuned.

“I didn’t want to upset you. I knew you’d be mad,” was his excuse. “I figured it was just easier to explain once I got home.”

All of a sudden, to borrow a word from him, you found yourself “escalating” the situation. Calling into question the entire relationship, as you are wont to do when it is late and you are tired and angry.

“What else do you not tell me about because you’re afraid I’ll be pissed?”

Suddenly you were in a full blown fight about trust. He let it slip that, if there’s anyone that’s been shady in the relationship, it’s been you. You, he said, the one who was “overly friendly” with your ex at the housewarming party last weekend.

Yes, he opened that can of worms, though you were secretly proud of him for opening up and letting it out. You prepared yourself for a long night. And tears. You ended up speaking in elevated tones, using a smattering of curse words and empty threats, until 3:30am.

This morning, you both woke up with aching heads. The pounding still hasn’t subsided. You’re drinking espresso, which probably doesn’t help. You’re still hurting, even though he gently shook you awake at 5am and said “I love you, this is stupid.” Even after you exchanged some smiles before you left for work and promised to be better at taking each others feelings into consideration.

You know this isn’t a big deal. This is not (or shouldn’t be) relationship-threatening. But still, you find yourself almost looking forward to the fact that he will be traveling almost all of October. You look forward to focusing on yourself and taking a step back from a relationship that has become the center of your world and has the ability to turn you into a puddle at the slightest negative turn of events.

You think that perhaps you should re-arrange some priorities. You think that perhaps the two of you need to discuss some things. You think that perhaps this whole thing will be good for your relationship, in the long run.

You think that perhaps you could use a nap right about now.

Crap, I think I actually forgot the underwear now that I think about it. September 27, 2006

Sometime this morning, as I lugged an overstuffed shopping bag full of clothes, shoes, underwear & toiletries for tomorrow to the subway, it hit me that I don’t even want to go to Queens tonight. I don’t want to sit around the Boy’s apartment, fighting the urge to snoop through his things out of nothing but acute boredom, for three hours until he finally arrives home after midnight. I don’t want to miss tonight’s Project Runway because it is on my DVR, not his. I don’t want to not go out with a friend in town from Los Angeles because I’m afraid of the long, dark walk to the Boy’s building past a certain time. I don’t want to stay up way past my weekday bedtime because he’s wired from work and wants to talk and fuck. I don’t want to subsequently wake up tomorrow morning feeling tired and groggy. I don’t want to tack on an extra 40 minute subway ride (including a vicious transfer) to my morning commute.

If that sounds selfish, it’s because it is.

But I feel like - between my job and my boy - I’m fighting for some selfishness these days.

There’s nothing I can do about the job. If they want me to be here for twelve hours a few nights a week or show up on a weekend, there’s nothing I can do about it. Those people sign my checks. I enjoy receiving my checks. Hence, I will do what they say.

As for the Boy, it just feels very “all about him” lately. All about his stress at work, and his stress with [very big project that I cannot go into detail about because this is an anonymous blog but maybe I can just say the words six-figure advance?] and his stress with law school applications.

My problems, in light of his, seem to get pushed to the wayside. This is a recent development and one that I know will not be permanent. Part of me has no problem holding him at night and stroking his hair and telling him that it’s all going to be okay and not bringing up things that are on constantly on my mind (turning 25, my job, TURNING 25, my grandfather’s health, turning 25).

However, another part of me – the selfish part that has been crying out “Hey! HEY! HEEEEEY! What about me, lady?” for quite a while now – just wants to have a few glasses of red wine with a friend tonight. And then return home to my delicious bed and Project Runway with no commercials. And then go to sleep in my own bed, uninterrupted by my doorman calling in the middle of the night to announce the Boy’s arrival.

It will hurt his feelings if I don’t go to his place tonight. Especially because, last night, he drove 40 minutes out of his way, well after midnight, after a long day at work just to sleep next to me.

So, I will dutifully cart my things to Queens and I will smother his face in kisses when he comes home tonight and I will tell him how proud of him I am and how things are only going to get better, for the both of us.

There will be plenty of red wine to drink tomorrow night. And the next night. And every night leading up to my birthday on Sunday. Tonight, it’s important that I put on my “#1 Girlfriend” hat and support the guy that I love. (But seriously, he needs to get his ass out of Queens sometime soon.)

25 September 26, 2006

In less than a week I will turn 25. I am not taking it well.

I am no longer on the cusp; 25 represents full-blown adulthood, bitches.

It has me thinking. About, you know, my place in the world and what it is that I’m meant to be and do and whether or not my metabolism is slowing down because, what the fuck, that’s not supposed to happen until at LEAST 30.

So, the things about me that can be considered adult:

My apartment: a luxury building with a doorman and a splashy lobby. I always feel like a fraud amongst my well-heeled neighbors when I teeter to the elevators in too high heels and a too short skirt after too many glasses of wine late on a Tuesday night. Not to mention the fact that my apartment has many “adult” accoutrements such as the dishwasher and the luxurious overstuffed couch and the huge flat screen TV and the view of the water and the stainless steel All-Clad pots handed down to me by my mother, who decided that she’d rather go exclusively with Le Creuset in her newly renovated kitchen.

My wardrobe: I pay attention to detail in a way I never did a few years ago, when I was a jeans-and-tee-shirt-and-Pumas college girl who occasionally threw on a slutty top and expensive jeans and dangly earrings and called it fashion. I now appreciate the hardware on a particular bag, the stitching and embroidery on a perfect fall coat, the buttery leather and ribbon detail of a pair of heels, the way my grandmother’s double-strand pearls look when knotted in the front. Put-together. Not high fashion, but light years away from “wash and go,” as I used to be.

My relationship: My very first Serious and Adult-Like Relationship where words such as “marriage” and “our children” and “I love you” are taken very seriously and yet are ultimately – and surprisingly - very easy to throw around. For once I am not lusting after the Bad Boy with the Bad Tendencies and the Bad Way of Making Me Feel Time and Time Again. This guy, he loves me and he treats me well and he takes care of me and he respects me and he supports me and we have fun together and lots of wonderful sex. Isn’t that, like, the definition of an adult relationship?

My job: The very nature of the hours (read: a lot, as in twelve hour days and weekends) scream “adult” and “professional” and “important” and “busy.” On paper it sounds glamorous and fun and maybe even a little prestigious which, of course, all adds up to ADULT.

Things about me that are not-so-much very adult:

Well. This is easy. Me. I’m not an adult. Oh, you didn’t know? I’m just playing dress-up in expensive clothes and running around the city drinking fine wine and kissing a gorgeous boy and returning to a lovely apartment with luxurious sheets and a bedtime I set for myself.

I’m turning 25 but I feel like I’m still 15, venturing out into the world step by painstaking step but still longing for the comfort and security of childhood. This whole world I’ve spun for myself – a relationship I believe in, a challenging job that I hope will someday lead to great things, expensive material goods that I can afford all on my very own – feels like a fantasy. A good fantasy but still, a fantasy.

I know, I know, I’m getting too introspective (and, let’s face it, cliché) for my own good. I blame this current tailspin on another year passing without my permission. 25 will come and 25 will go and once I awaken from a wine-induced haze, I will realize that life goes on and no, my metabolism has not stopped dead in its tracks. YET.

So, uh, obviously I didn’t die from e.coli. A miracle, I assure you. September 24, 2006

Who the hell updates during the weekend? No one, that’s who. Unless you’re me, sitting at work on a Sunday at around 1:30pm, feeling one part stir crazy, two parts martyr and whole lot of bitter.

I walked here from my apartment, thinking that I should at least get a little exercise and also to prolong the inevitable. Along the way I bought 3 different pairs of shoes at 2 different shoe stores. A little retail therapy goes a long way. Don’t think I haven’t pulled out the shoes every half hour, just to admire them and also maybe to remind myself that this job – the one I am at on a Sunday – allows me to afford such shoes and therefore, maybe I should cut back a little on the bitter.

But then I look at my roommate, with her 9-5 job and all the prestige and perks and, you know, HEALTH BENEFITS AND OVERTIME PAY, and it’s right back to bitter.

This weekend, up until now of course, has been a delight. For the most part. Yesterday was a little bumpy in terms of an uncomfortable situation between me, the Boy and the Ex Who Kissed Me Last November, but the Boy and I got through it like the in-love superstars we are and also, I bought him an Oreo Blizzard from Dairy Queen. I’m sure that helped.

We were invited to the housewarming party of a friend of mine from high school who recently moved down to an idyllic Jersey Shore town (lovely for summer but what the hell is he going to do in the dead of January?). I didn’t think the Ex, who has a lot to do these days with all that law school plus part-time job stuff, would bother to make the 2-hour trek down. Apparently I don’t know him as well as I used to. He’s not nearly as lazy and anti-social as he was when we dated throughout high school and a little bit of college.

The Boy and I were standing over the sangria (natch), when we heard someone scream “Ex is here! Heeeey, Ex!” I sensed the Boy immediately tense up; he shot me a quizzical look. “I didn’t know, I’m sorry,” I whispered and squeezed his hand. The truth. He nodded.

The Ex, cocky as ever, came right up to me and planted a kiss on my cheek. “Hey, Ex. You remember the Boy?” They shook hands and that was that. The rest of the evening was spent executing a calculated choreography. If the Boy was in one room and I noticed the Ex about to enter, I would whisk the Boy away under the pretense of “Let’s get another toffee cookie!” or the like. (There were a lot of toffee cookies eaten yesterday for this reason; I am not complaining.)

The Boy was a bit quiet on the ride home. That’s when I convinced him to pull over at one of the ubiquitous Dairy Queen’s so that I could go to the bathroom. I came out with a Blizzard peace offering and, damn, is that man easy to please. As I fed him ice cream all the way up the Garden State Parkway, he opened up to me and admitted that he’d rather have been anywhere else in the world other than in the same house as the Ex. I told him he handled it like a pro. Which he did.

There’s no moral or conclusion or cute wrap-up to this post seeing as I should probably get back to work so as not to be here past the Giants game because making me come into work on a Sunday is one thing. Making me miss the Giants game because I am at work on a Sunday is QUITE another.

Things. Because you honestly cannot expect a coherent post when I am sitting over here DYING from E.COLI. September 22, 2006

-I accidentally ate some fresh spinach in a salad for lunch and now I have some abdominal cramping and yes, I am aware that the cramping does not usually start for twelve to twenty-four hours but I am convinced that I currently have a SUPER E.COLI 134829 STRAIN (you know, the one not yet discovered) coursing through my body and WILL PROBABLY BE DEAD BY THE END OF THE DAY. You should probably say your goodbyes now.

-Or, you know, it could’ve just been arugula, as suggested to me by a co-worker. They, uh, look pretty similar. But still, the CRAMPING IN THE ABDOMINAL, it continues.

- I don’t think I’m cut out for work. Any kind of work. Except maybe the kind where you can roll in at 11am, leave at 3pm, drink and blog on the job, take leisurely, expensed lunches and receive a big fat pay check at the end of the week. Maybe that kind. (If you know of how to get that kind, please advise.) I don’t have very many other options, however. It’s either a job, which means money or no job, which means no money. And until the Boy turns into the sugar daddy I just know he can be, I’m a little stuck with the 9-5 (or, you know, the 10-10).

-The easiest way out of having to actually go to a job would be, of course, to get knocked up and then spend my days at home, tending to a small bundle of joy who will take perfectly timed naps according to my daytime TV schedule (Regis & Kelly, Ellen, The View, Oprah). Except, I seem to spend a lot of time reading Mommy Blogs and they seem to paint quite a different picture: HOLY CRAP MOTHERHOOD IS SCARY AND KIND OF SUCKS AND MY KID WON’T STOP SCREAMING OR THROWING THINGS AND YEAH SOMETIME’S S/HE’S CUTE BUT MOST OF THE TIME I JUST WANT TO RUN, RUN FOR THE HILLS.

-Every morning this week I have woken up thinking “Yes! Friday!” and every morning this week I have been disappointed to realize, moments later, “No! It’s only Monday / Tuesday / Wednesday / Thursday.” I can’t think of a worse feeling. Except perhaps for realizing that you just ate fresh spinach, despite the multiple government warnings, and that you are, in fact, going to die for your attempt at a healthy lunch.

-I missed Grey’s Anatomy last night because I FORGOT it was on (I know, I know, my Female Gender Membership card is so getting revoked) and, half-way through an episode of 24 from season two, I realized and smacked my forehead and then begged the Boy to switch to ABC. His response was something along the lines of, “Jack Bauer just agreed to a suicide mission in order to save Los Angeles and perhaps the free world from being blown to smithereens by a nuclear bomb and you want me to just turn it off so that you can watch a show about doctors and their FEELINGS? No.”

-Just in case you were wondering, the abdominal cramping continues despite the fact that I just ate 3 Tums. Now not only is my abdominal cramping but my mouth also tastes like chalk. The situation, it is dire.

9:54pm September 21, 2006

Hi! Guess what! It’s 9:54pm and I’m still at work and I’m kinda, sorta semi-delirious from a vicious combination of lack of sleep and too much Diet Coke and the fact that I made like Nicole Richie today and ate little more than air. That said, I’m kinda, sorta feeling a little low right now. 25 is approaching awfully fast and the Boy is about to disappear into PostSeasonLand from which he will not re-emerge until November and there is no vacation to look forward to, or even a sunny day on the beach or in the park because, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but SUMMER IS DEAD, SAYONARA so basically what I’m saying is, here is a list of things I have to be happy about because, you know, I have to remind myself sometimes that just because my bikinis are packed away and soon enough I will be wearing snow boots and cursing the weather gods, I still have plenty to be excited about.

So. Fall. What have you got to offer?

-The Giants! Who pulled off miracle of miracles this past Sunday and Eli, while I don’t enjoy the panic attacks, I do enjoy the excitement and the fact that watching a game while eating wings is practically mandatory.

-My birthday! Let’s forget about the whole “quarter century, holy fuck, WHAT AM I DOING WITH MY LIFE?” and discuss the perfect excuse to round up a bunch of my friends and half-heartedly offer to buy my own drinks while they all shoo my dollar bills away and say “the birthday girl drinks on US.” Also, cards! So it’s not only Val-U-Packs and “0% APR! ACT NOW!” when I open the mailbox.

-New clothes! In fact I just spend the better part of an hour on various shopping websites, mentally putting together my perfect fall wardrobe that will be purchased just as soon as I win that Mega Millions. Any day now…

-New shows! In fact I just spent the rest of that hour making a list of what to DVR on Monday (Studio 60), Tuesday (Gilmore Girls), Wednesday (America’s Next Top Model), Thursday (Grey’s! GREY’s!), etc. And yes, it made me giddy.

-The Boy’s birthday! Who’s an awesome girlfriend? Um. That would be me. Tickets to the Pats game have already been purchased (and thus a credit card has already been maxed out). But the seats, the seats are pretty damn beautiful. And I don’t even like the Pats (see above).

See, Clink (oh god, I’m talking to myself, another sign that I am getting OLD and therefore CRAZY omigod, 25), things aren’t so bad. Also, the fact that the warm weather has slowly begun to fade into “hmm, maybe flip flops are no longer appropriate” means that you won’t have to work (read: diet, starve) so hard to look good in clothes. Because, you know, fall clothes cover so much more! And that, my friends, may be the best reason of all to welcome autumn.

The room, it is still spinning. September 19, 2006

Yeah, so Project Drop a Couple Pounds So That You Look Cute at the Boy’s Friend’s Engagement Party isn’t going so well.

Mainly because last night I drank too much (open bar) and ate too little (servers who seemed to be intentionally avoiding me with their trays of food) and ended up puking up about 7 glasses of shiraz into a Whole Foods bag while sitting on my bed, talking to the Boy on the phone, begging him to please make the room stop spinning, please please, for the love of all things holy. His response was something along the lines of “I’m on my way. In the meantime, uh, put one foot on the floor” and “I guess I’m not getting laid tonight.”

Obviously, the only way to make myself feel better at work today was with a cream cheese smothered bagel for breakfast, two cheeseburgers from McDonalds for lunch and gallons of Coke.

Except, I don’t really feel much better.

In fact, I kind of feel like crawling underneath my desk and using my jacket as a makeshift pillow and falling into a deep, glorious sleep except, you know, that’s not exactly what they pay me for and may raise some red flags about my work ethic.

I haven’t felt this hungover since college. Specifically since the Senior Pub Crawl, when that guy Joe from my writing class decided to open a tab at the last bar with his parents’ credit card because “they’re going to cut it up when I graduate next week, so FUCK THEM! DRINKS ON ME!” Without getting into specifics, it did not end well.

I’m a bit embarrassed about just how hung over I am. As a girl on the cusp of 25, I should be able to go to a work function, have two glasses of wine and return home at a reasonable hour so as to be refreshed for the busiest day of the week at work. But no, of course not, apparently I’m still clinging to the college mentality of an open bar meaning I have to attempt to drink enough alcohol to kill a small puppy because, hey, it’s FREE.

Starting tomorrow (I am the queen of “tomorrow I will…” or “this is the last time”), it’s strict diet time. As in coffee - will - replace - one - meal as the last thing I want is to start “is she pregnant?” rumors amongst the Boy’s friends next weekend. Because, you know, a few more trips to the golden arches and it just may come to that.

All Zach Braff’s Fault September 18, 2006

In retrospect, we should’ve known better. Two girls in very serious relationships who are perhaps not as secure as they pretend to be seeing a movie about a guy who cheats on a wonderful girl because he gets “scared and panicked” about having the rest of his life planned out = disaster.

It was no coincidence that, afterwards at dinner, we each drank 3 glasses of wine in alarmingly quick succession.

Don’t be fooled by the “hey, come see this little romantic movie with a great soundtrack” buzz. “The Last Kiss” is a horror film. During particularly disturbing scenes, many of the women in the audience (no exception here) clasped their hands over their mouths or shielded their eyes as in, omigod I can’t watch! Tell me when it’s over!

The premise, for those of you lucky enough to be blissfully unaware of the film, is that Zach Braff is an awesome, funny guy in love with his awesome, pregnant girlfriend. However, not content to just be happy, everyone’s favorite Scrub goes through the stereotypical “is this it? Is this all there is?” crisis and ends up in the arms of a petite brunette college student with a severe aversion to bras. Cue emotional rollercoaster and leaving the theater with tear-stained cheeks and an “everyone cheats, I’m becoming a nun” outlook on relationships.

I know my boyfriend is not Zach Braff’s character (my boyfriend happens to be much cuter), and I know that this is a work of fiction, seeing as there was no “based on a true story” disclaimer before the opening credits. However, it was all a little too realistic. I liken it to watching The Office, in all its cringe worthy glory, except there is absolutely nothing funny about cheating on gorgeous, pregnant, funny, smart, did I mention pregnant? Jacinda Barrett with the midget brunette from The OC.

By the time the Boy got home last night, I was angry at him. For being male, for being someone who could potentially cheat on me. (Yes, I realize that this is absolutely absurd.) I tried my hardest to remind myself that just because I saw a movie about cheating DOES NOT MEAN THE BOY IS CHEATING, YOU STUPID GIRL, NOW JUST KISS HIM AND ASK HIM HOW HIS DAY WAS.

I thought I was absolutely batshit insane (you: Uh, Clink, we believe that you being insane has long since been established) until I walked into work this morning and several of my female co-workers had also seen the film and admitted that, afterwards, they too felt emotional and insecure. Also, everyone agreed that they too would grab a butcher knife should the “I slept with another woman” situation ever occur. (Ha! I’m not the only one, so whoever was going to leave the ‘you’re pathetic and crazy and why does the Boy even still date you?’ comment, please note.)

However, I will say (quite unreasonably, seeing as I appear to be having a hard time separating the actors from their characters): fuck you Zach Braff. As I declared upon exiting the theater last night, I will never watch Scrubs again.

Unbridled Narcissism September 14, 2006

Living with the Roommate hasn’t been as bad as I thought it would be. For one, she has surprisingly maintained a respectable distance from my boyfriend, which means that I haven’t had to rip her shiny black hair out (yet). Also, it’s nice to come home and have someone to drink with because, you know, drinking alone has such a stigma attached to it.

However, her narcissism, it knows no bounds. I have never met someone more self-involved or egotistical in my entire life. And I work in TV.

Our conversations go something along the lines of:

Clink: Oh, so the Boy said the cutest thing the other day. We were talking about how much our single friends struggle with finding someone and he goes, “I’m so lucky that I’ve already found the perfect girl.” Isn’t that so sweet?

Roommate: That’s so funny! Because the other night I was at this bar and this guy was like, totally checking me out and finally he comes over to me and is like “wow, you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen in this city.”

Clink: Heh. Uh, that’s funny. But really has nothing to do with—

Roommate: Yeah, so me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me.

Clink: Actually I —

Roommate: Did you say something? Anyway, me me me. MEEEEEE!!! ME ME ME ME ME ME ME. Me. Me.

Roommate: More me.

Roommate: Even more me.

Clink: I give up.

Roommate: Yeah, so me. An unbelievable amount of ME.

Clink: (Chugs wine, contemplates suicide.)

She’s very fond of herself, brought about by the lethal combination of being relatively attractive and an only child. The world revolves around her and her unparalleled beauty, DUH.

Every day she has a new story about which guy at work wants her, which one of her many male friends wants her, which random dude who checked her out while she was crossing the street TOTALLY WANTS HER.

In fact she is currently embroiled in drama with her ex-boyfriend and his new girlfriend because she can’t handle the fact that a new girlfriend means her ex MAY NOT TOTALLY WANT HER. Her ex-boyfriend, whose heart she broke into about five million little pieces by dumping him after he had flown 3,000 miles across the Atlantic to visit her while we were studying abroad, I might add.

He eventually picked up the pieces and met a nice, pretty, HUMBLE girl who he has been dating for a few months. Well, Roommate is having NONE of that, because according to the laws of Roommate’s universe, all men should be pining after her and HER ALONE and ex-boyfriends are most certainly NOT allowed to move on. If they do, the world may actually just stop spinning and THEN what?

So now she is intent on breaking up his perfectly balanced relationship by writing her ex-boyfriend emails about the “big mistake” she made and how she still thinks about him “all the time.”

When I asked her whether or not she wanted to get back together with him, she shrugged and giggled an evil giggle and said, “Not really. But fucking with him is kind of fun. He basically still does whatever I want, nothing has changed.”

She has already booked a flight to visit him in London (where he is working temporarily) in October under the pretense of “a much-needed getaway, and London was the cheapest airfare.” Which, of course, is bullshit.

Sigh. I didn’t think it was possible for someone like that to exist either, until we moved in together and I got a front row seat to the Unbridled Narcissism Show.

But other than all that she’s actually pretty fun! No really! I mean, whatever! I don’t have to drink alone! That counts for something, right? Right? RIGHT?