un-fucking-believable

Mother of god.

To recap the past 24 hours:

The Greek and I did indeed get to share a glass of wine before he left, along with friends who were in a Halloweenie festive mood. The "and....um....uh" turned out to be some really great conversation after the friends moved on for the night, about art and life and our personal demons--all the good shit that makes me want to move somewhere like, oh, I dunno, Seattle and spend my days at a cafe drinking wine and smoking cigarettes and writing great literature.

Not that he didn't try to talk me into fucking him in the parking lot behind the friendly neighborhood tavern, but hey, I live here, he doesn't. I'm in that place waaayyy too much to have that kind of story floating around.

Wow, I DO have inhibitions! Who knew?

Anyhoo, what with the Greek hangover and all, I decided to blow off responsibility for at least another day and skip tonight's meeting of the group I volunteer in with Bob Sanders. I wasn't really in the mood to deal with that.

Of course, the group called me to see if I was going to be there. Dammit.

As I pulled into the parking lot, I remembered that I was supposed to be bringing minutes from the last meeting to discuss, the ones with, oh, the group's mission statement and goals and objectives, you know, mildly important things like that.

I went in and sat down. Someone asked about the goals from the last meeting, then everyone looked at me.

I searched my mind frantically for a plausible and rock-solid excuse. Something like, "I've been called in by the head of the C.I.A. to work on a top-secret project. I'd love to tell you more, but I'd have to kill you. I'm fresh from a meeting with several heads of state, and that's why I don't have the minutes."

Nope. "I.....uhh.....I've had...um...... *sigh*.... I've had my head up my ass."

I'm pretty sure when they form the board, they will create a "Court Jester" position just for me.

As I was suffering through the rest of the meeting, I got a text message. From V.P. That's right, Pregnant Girlfriend Guy.

At least he texted. If he'd called, my phone (which I of course forgot to turn off) would have blared "Let's Get It On" at top volume, and I would have had to resign from the group immediately.

"Hey...I sent out a press release today...it should be big tomorrow...need some feedback...this is V. The one you had the most ridiculous sex with."

WTF? Seriously?? Does he have some kind of fucking radar? He entered my life last spring within days of when the Greek did. One week I was being wholly indecent in the front seat of PGG's SUV in a bar parking lot, the next week I was spending the most mind-blowing 24 hours of my life at the farm with the Greek. Is my life on some kind of fucked-up, twisted loop of foreign men with sexy bodies and the minds of 14-year-olds?

So I responded, "Why yes, I remember you...Looking forward to seeing the big news."

And then, "Is it good memories?"

Well, let's see. Good memories of what? The admittedly ridiculously good sex, or of the screaming matches in the parking lot of his apartment? The smooth, brown, sculpted chest, or the jealousy and possessiveness? The Sunday afternoons playing tennis and eating sushi, or the buckets of tears?

I opted for honesty. "Of the ridiculously good sex, yes."

Mistake. Subtlety is obviously not his strong suit.

PGG: "Where are you? Want some fun?"

No fucking way. I don't need this shit.

B.I.G.: "Fun for me tonight is jammies and puppies. I'm sure you'll find something to do."

PGG: "Like you?"

Mother fucker, he's persistent! Like a goddamn yapping chihuahua!

B.I.G. "Probably not a good idea."

Finally, silence. Sweet Jesus, it's been 14 months since I dumped him! Since then I've run into him exactly 3 times, once with a perky brunette on his arm. Isn't there some sort of statute of limitations on a booty call??

In addition to inhibitions, I apparently also have some brains. It's just been a regular fucking day of mother fucking self-discovery.