drunkencynic's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- mike bites the dust Well, fuck. Remember Mike? The guy I had that near-perfect date with? A few minutes ago I told him to go away. Well, I was more polite about it. I'm sort of confused with myself because it seems like I should be euphoric about him, but I'm not. He annoys me. I've thought long and hard (goddamnit, I've gotta erase that saying from my vocabulary, it's too distracting) about whether or not I'm just trying to sabotage myself, but I've decided that no. If I don't enjoy hanging out with him, then I don't need to. Just because he's madly in love with me and wants me to be his girlfriend doesn't mean that I have to grit my teeth and humor him. Let me rewind a little. I did, in fact, go on that date to that really nice resturaunt. And yes, it was really nice. The dinner, that is. Mike was googly-eyed and told me I looked gorgeous every five seconds. Which I have no qualms about, of course. Except that I felt like I was on display. Mike happens to be a backwaiter at this very resturaunt (no, not backwater, backwaiter. It's like a busboy, only fancier), so everyone kept coming by every two seconds and going, "Hiiii, Mike," and he'd introduce me. Once a younger, male waiter whom I'd seen ogling and whispering to another waiter about me came up to the table, and Mike introduced me, "And this is my girlfriend, Sarah." Woah. Wait a minute. Hold the damn phone. Isn't that sort of status supposed to be a mutual agreement? I don't remember signing a contract here. In order for you to stop whining, "but why nooot?" I've compiled a list of the things I don't like about him. Little things, all of them, but important and nagging nonetheless. He smokes. Ah, yes, Thomas smoked, good of you to remember. I recall, towards the end of the relationship, feeling rather like an ashtray. Not a pleasant feeling. Moving on. He plays music loud. No, not loud, ("no, not just chew. POPPPP..." sorry. If you recognized that, good for you. If you didn't, I apologize) which I am definitely a fan of. You can't hear the music unless it's loud, I always say. No really, I do. But LOUD. EAR-DEAFENING. Jarringly loud. The kind of loud where you sit there trying to hold onto your hearing with all your might. After I got out of the car with him I'd be screaming at everyone and going, "What?" every other sentence like an old lady. And (and this is one of the worst offenses) the music that he plays so loudly? Rap music. R&B. I apologize to those of you who listen to that sort of thing, but is there any worse genre of music? No melody. No guitars. No poetry. No catchy refrain. Offensive, grammatically appalling, embarassingly immature RAP. I do realize that there are some acceptable forms of rap. Non-offensive, non-female bashing/degrading, non-violent, and some rap even has guitars in it (which of course makes it immediately more acceptable). But this is not the kind that Mike listens to. Augh. He called me his girlfriend. Before I was. After dinner he took me back to his apartment and get in my pants. And, when I protested that I wanted to move a little more slowly, agreed emphatically. Then tried to get in my pants again. Is very, very, very immature. Like a child. Worse than Thomas, even. I tend to idealize past relationships, but Thomas at least had the street-wise, can-pick-up-a-joke, with-it sort of thing going on. Mike couldn't pick up a joke if you hit him in the face with it. I'm sorry, but you either have to be with-it and witty, or cultured and book-read and intelligent (preferably both, but it's so rare). You cannot just be neither of those things. Mike was neither of those things. So being with him was 99% giggling nervously and dodging romantic overtures, and 1% laughing at him. Not my idea of fun, sorry. Two words. Video games. I said something about how my singing teacher has kidney stones (poor guy, I feel so sorry for him) and to drive the point home, mentioned how they say that kidney stones are comparable to giving birth. "Why, is she giving birth?" Mike asked. "No, he's a guy," I replied. "Then how can it be comparable to giving birth?" he asked. Somehow he didn't know what comparable meant. When I looked at him weirdly, he backtracked and said, "Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah, I know what you mean." I feel bad for bashing him, but I feel like I have to or else that sad, puppy-dog face he gave me when I told him it wasn't working will haunt me and make me do something I don't really want to do. Like call him.
3:12 p.m. - 2004-01-23 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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