Don't blow me away...

Oh, dear. I know it's been quite a while since I last contributed to the detritus on the web by self-indulgently posting here, but... actually, there's no but. The problem is, I don't have any impetus to post except when I really feel emotionally.... well, fragile, and that happens pretty rarely these days, but this drunken Saturday late night is one of those times.

I don't know who reads this. I mean, it shouldn't matter, because the reason I started this blog was to have somewhere to vent without any repercussions, but as anyone reasonable should have expected, the circles I travel in are wide enough that I suspect a decent number of people I care about will potentially read this at some point. Whatever, despite the potential for disaster (which, of course, are very small, as I would assume anyone who'll read this in the next couple days are among the misguided souls who find my writing entertaining enough to include me on their RSS feeds, rather than people who I know IRL, as the more internet-savvy among you might say), here goes.

I've been kind of a whore lately. Again, I'm sorry, but as I'm writing this for myself, not you (whoever you might be), I don't feel the need to be really specific in my explanation of that awesome revelation. Suffice it to say that I was practically celibate during my semester abroad, for one reason or another, and... well, that affected me, I suppose. To be honest, I wasn't any less... well, sexually active, to be blunt, during the fall semester than I have been in almost all my semesters at college, but the total lack of control I had over the situation then did make me feel kind of... well, impotent in a way. I mean, impotent is the wrong word, but I don't have the right word, and don't think there's a right one. Excuse my lack of brevity for a second: I had a major crush (I know, middle school, right?) on someone I barely knew, then I got to know him better, became good friends with him, and maintained the crush (tears of sympathy are pouring down your face, I'm sure) despite the fact that I really did like him as a friend. Did and do. All while hooking up with other people on occasion. (Occasion meaning if you include making out as "hooking up," I hooked up with four people total. If not, I had two one-night stands and that's it.)

Now, since being back in the US, I've become a slut. And I don't mean that in a self-judging way, because I don't think that one's level of sexual activity should ever determine how one is seen. Jesus, I must be drunk, because, I'm using the third person to refer to myself. Anyway, fuck it, I would never judge myself by who I hook up with or how often I end up waking up next to someone. But the fact remains that, since I moved back to the best city in the world (and I say that with all the love in my heart for every city I've visited), I've hooked up with six people (plus one flirtation that may lead to a hookup in the near future). With some repeats. For those of you counting at home, that means an average of approximately 1.33(repeating) sexual encounters per week. Obviously, that's nowhere near what someone with a steady boyfriend might have experienced, but I don't have one of those.

And I'm not complaining about that. In fact, two of the six count, in my guesstimation, as people who want me as... their "boyfriend," for lack of a better word. I'm very, very happy to keep the six people I've hooked up with as permanently temporary, if you catch my drift (with one very notable exception, but he deserves his own emo blog post, so I won't get into it now). I'm not actively looking for a relationship, nor do I think that's in the cards right now. Actually, as dedicated readers of this blog might find interesting, the "hot friend" I once was incredibly in L-U-V with features as a repeat offender in my six recent hookups, and I personally am very happy to say that even though I love him as a friend, and will never not be attracted to him, I know for a fact that I'll never be as crazily obsessed with him as I was at one point.

Anyway, let's cut the crap. This is already a longer-than-average blog post, and I haven't even gotten to the point. The POINT is that I spent tonight with the aforementioned friend from abroad who I have a big ol' crush on, and I didn't so much as awkwardly hold his hand. The friend, who I suppose we can call the short friend for lack of a better adjective, is in town just this weekend before heading off to spend another semester abroad. Tonight was the only night we could spend together, and we spent it being platonic. Which, if I haven't stressed it enough before, is FINE. I'm totally fine with just being friends with him. What I'm not fine with is being just friends with him without having at least broached the idea that we might be more than that.

I love (no PASSION implied) this guy no matter what we are or aren't. However, I want him, it's as simple as that. And yet, it isn't simple. I'm more than capable of getting random, fairly attractive acquaintances to sleep with me. I don't mean that in any egotistical manner, it's just kind of a fact based on my recent experiences. BUT, and it's a big but, I am completely incapable of suggesting to someone I know well that I might be more than just a friendly figure. I really, really like this guy, but because I'd rather have him in my life as a friend (even if he is trekking off to another continent) than not at all, I just can't be the guy who randomly kisses him, or even awkwardly suggests the topic of s-e-x (preferably with me) to him. Every time we hang out, I tell myself that I won't pussy out this time, but I always do. I walked the whole way home from the apartment he's at to mine while chain-smoking (I don't actually smoke) and being really, really sad.

And it isn't the fact that we aren't, you know, cuddling in each other's arms or whatever, that makes me sad. I probably wouldn't even let that happen on the off chance that he'd want me after I confessed my crush to him. It's the fact that I'm completely incapable of making that first move and finding out what might happen that makes me feel like a total idiot. If he doesn't like me in the same way that I like him, that's fine, but I want to KNOW that. There's nothing I like less than being the friend he hangs out with a lot who secretly builds a shrine to him in my closet. (Disclaimer: unlike Helga on Hey Arnold!, I have no shrine in my closet.)

Anyway, now that I've written far too many words about the topic, I'm going to bed. By tomorrow night, he'll be a continent away, and while I'm not happy about that in any way, it's fine. What's not fine is my total inability to express my big-ass (prepare yourselves for this word) FEELINGS in any kind of...well, normal way.

Goodnight, y'all, and good luck.