F*ck Off Text and My PJ Pathetic Life

Last night I got a long text from Musician Dude about how I don’t appreciate a good thing when I see it. Yep, that asshole will not give up. Basically, he felt that by having gone out with him more than once, I led him on in believing things between us would be serious. (Never mind that the last time I saw him was months and months ago.) Oh, and also how my not putting out for him was all my fault. Which is true. It was definitely my fault. Who else’s would it be? Amazing conclusion, genius boy. Then he got all weird and scary-angry. He brought up his band (still not impressed, dick hole). Then his money (he obviously has no clue where my level of ‘don’t-give-a-shit-about-money’ is). Then his connection to law enforcement (NO idea what the hell that was about). Here was our last correspondence.

Me: I am guessing this tantrum of yours is because you’re not used to being told no. I said before that I was not pissed at you but now I kind of am. I am not sure how to convey to you that I have zero interest in seeing you again. Maybe a ‘fuck off’ or a ‘quit fucking texting me’? Either way, your anger is strange and your persistence is annoying. Please stop.

Musician Dude: This is the kind of myopic nonsense I can’t stand.
Me: Yeah. I don’t have a clue what that means.
Musician Dude: But there are times… for you and me when all such things agree.

Did he just quote Rush at me? Yes, yes he did. That was a whole new level of douche baggery. And still made no sense.

Welcome to men in Dallas. I know I always say it, as if bad men are regional, but I am beginning to believe I am on to something here. Here’s the difference; you be the judge.

Men from California: Open doors for you.

Men from Texas: Walk in ahead of you. Far ahead of you.

Men from California: Impress you with kindness (even if it’s bullshit).

Men from Texas: Impress you with shallow things (money, fame, sports, job).

Men from California: Aren’t not afraid to be themselves.
Men from Texas: Are just like everyone else in Texas.

Men from California: Flowers. Compliments. Intelligent conversation.

Men from Texas: Beer. Off-handed insults. Vapid conversation.

I’m not even disappointed. I’m amused. Plus, it makes it easy to sort the locals from the transplants. A good skill to have down here.

In non-men related news, I have realized that I have reached a whole new level of pathetic-ness. I woke up this morning with an idea I couldn’t shake. I need new pajamas! Something fuzzy but lightweight. Something obnoxious with monkeys or sheep on them. Something pink or purple-y. What’s so pathetic about wanting pajamas, you ask? Well, the fact that I can't stop thinking about this idea, that I am giddy excited about this plan, or that I intend celebrate my purchase with wine and movies. Or because I am also planning on getting matching slippers. Boom!

Here’s a glimpse into my sad pajama-needing life.

Guy Friend From Michigan (GFFM): Any big plans tonight?

Me: Fuck yeah! I am getting new pj’s.
GFFM: And then?
Me: Wearing them!
GFFM: To where?
Me: Wherever I want!
GFFM: You have no plans do you?
Me: No.
GFFM: You realize you are more excited about pj’s than you have been about anything else in the last… oh, I don’t know… YEAR!
Me: But, they will be fuzzy and pink and wonderful. :(
GFFM: They’re fucking pajamas. Go out to a bar and get drunk like a normal person.
Me: Ok.
GFFM: You aren’t going to are you? You’re going to go buy pj’s and stay excited and be perfectly fine staying home in them?
Me: Maybe.
GFFM: You need to come back here. I’m starting to worry about you.
Me: I think I’ve always been this way. Location doesn’t change my insanity level.
GFFM: If I were there, I would not let this happen to you.
Me: Yes you would.
GFFM: You’re right. But I want the record to show that I am disappointed in you and I already hate your pajamas.
Me: Duly noted.