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8:02 a.m. - 2006-05-08
Telling off balls is therapeutic.
(Disclaimer: Edited for the third time. Jeez I'm a crappy writer! I have to say, however, that I'm not changing the Olympic sized sentence near the end, because that's just the way it is.)

Well, know how I'm supposed to be dating Max as well as "other people"? I might have a shot at an "other people".

Six and I headed downtown Saturday afternoon, had dinner, had coffee and made fun of oddly dressed people, then headed off to bar-hop.

In the cab, on the way down, Max called, and was being his usual (so I have come to understand) obnoxious self. Making fun of me crying back in Miami, trying to be "above it all", but not really convincing at it, complaining about his ship and the limited time off... He's miserable, and depressed, and grumpy. And I told him he was a jerk, an asshole, and many other colorful descriptions of general ballness. And I told him if he wouldn't get his phone fixed, because it cuts off so badly, he would have to write me letters because I was sick of saying hi every other weekend and stopping there because his phone is broken and it sucks.

To give him credit, he hasn't been given on shore time every weekend, and he did call during the muster drill, when he was supposed to be showing "the white people how to use their life vests and jump off the ship while its sinking, but they'll just have to fend for themselves because I wanted to talk to you instead." At which I lost it and laughed until tears flowed down my face. I love irreverant humor.

Anyway, boy, did I feel the power of telling a ball he is a ball. Putting a ball who is on a high horse in his place is a very satisfying thing. Max always was a bit of a snot. Nose just a little too high up in the air. Don't get me wrong, he is cute, and nice, and cuddly, and warm, and sweet as well. But he is a ball, and thus has many ball attributes that will drive someone with boobs insane.

On with the story though. I had wandered out that day, feeling all ugly, and frumpy, and not caring one way or another if a ball would ever cross my path. (PMS is a bitch) I even skipped detailed make-up application and hair styling. I really didn't give a shit.

Sully eventually met up with us, and we headed off to his favorite bar after vacating the one that Six and I settled in, because he made a royal ass of himself (I swear it is early on-set alcohol induced Dimensia). This joint is smallish, and was populated with a couple of guys playing guitar and an assortment of balls whom I could have lived without acknowledging, because although I had "The Power", I was in a snippy mood and just wanted to be left alone with my vodka.

But this dude kept getting my attention, asking me things, telling me things, trying to get to know me. I kept my eyes on the TV watching a game (don't ask me what sport, I don't remember). That didn't work, so, I headed off to the bathroom. There was nothing wrong with him. He was good looking, my age, appeared single, wasn't a pervert or an ass. Just kind of normal. Except that he kept talking to me.

So, I gave in and talked back. And ended up enjoying the conversation. He never once oggled my boobs, or touched me, or talked about his penis. A nice, normal, getting to know you conversation.

Then Sully and Six remembered that we had to get back to The Bar to meet up with Six's parents and we had to leave. Dude asked if I'd be out next weekend, and of course, I won't be, but Six made him promise to meet up with her at our favorite bar next weekend to see The Band, then dragged me out of The Bar, because I was a bit vodka'd and sometimes I need to be led by the hand because I get fixated on things and sort of zone out, even if I display no outward signs of drunkenness. Like the fish with the shiny light in Nem0.

So, we'll see if he shows next weekend and pokes around for info about me. If not, that's OK, because it means he's Just Not That Into Me. I read the first chapter of that famous book, and its already working. I understand so much now about ball behavior. I get it. It makes life much, much easier. I can't wait to read the rest.

So, there you go. Make yourself ugly and scowl a lot, and get a man to pick you up.

It works, I guarantee it.


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