Not just an excellent Beastie Boys song, but also the title of my autobiography, apparently.

I ignored Medellin for a while. He asked if I was mad at him. I said no, I’m just over people.

Then he sent his usual series of good morning, beautiful and good night, gorgeous texts.

The stuff girls dream of, right?

I don’t know. I think I was still put off from him sending me a photo of myself when he said I had blue eyes, I said I had green (I actually said, “Wrong girl”). I mean, again, wouldn’t any girl LOVE that. And here’s me like OK, how about no.

After a few days of silence, I would say I got good and drunk but I really only had one Guinness and four ounces of Cabernet.

But I texted that maybe this is the wine talking, but I really don’t have capacity for small or any kind of talk. Hope you have a great rest of your trip and safe travels home.

I actually also wrote, “Hope you have a great time in Europe this summer,” but I deleted it. At least, I hope I did. I haven’t been brave enough to read my text or take my phone out of Focus mode.

For my entire career, I’ve said I don’t have the bandwidth to take on someone. That includes friends. But I also have been so freaking hurt by so many people, it’s definitely a crutch.

I mean, shit, how many times have I used mom as an excuse to not hang out with someone? Of course, let’s be real, I didn’t want to hang out with them.

Some got the hint after a few years. (Seriously, it finally took someone voting for TFG twice to recognize that i don’t fucking want tRumpers in my goddamn life.) And don’t get me started how I marched against TFG and said person takes me to dinner. Like, not a day for TFGers yo. But, damn I like Mexican.

Anyway, when I sent my message, I felt relief. Like finally. I don’t have to worry about having to fit this person in. I don’t have to stop hoarding clothes that don’t fit and I don’t have to be sad at neglecting my mom, cats and job that I am perpetually behind at.

Then when I woke up, I was like shit.

I mean, nobody closed any doors. But I rebuffed enough advances, and ignored enough calls, that any normal person would be like OK bitch. Maybe there wouldn’t just be small talk if you’d fucking write something of substance to talk about.

I read somewhere that self-sabotage isn’t sabotage. It’s a defense mechanism. It’s having been hurt or seeing how you could be hurt and going, nah.

Still. I feel heavier. Like, I had one person outside this house who gave a shit about me and I said, nope!

And while I suck at emoting in the moment, I’m like this boy is just as breakable as you are, honey. He likes you. Sure, maybe he’d slice you up and put you in a trash bag in the sea behind Burdine’s. But, you know, maybe he’d buy you some of their bacon-wrapped shrimp first.

I mean, what do I want? Someone nearby-ish but not. Someone with a home in the Keys. Someone who makes good money. Someone who writes in perfect English. Someone a little younger.

WTF is wrong with me? Oh yeah, I’m old and fat and anxious and surrounded by sickness. Even though I know I’m a goddess, I also know that I can undervalue myself more easily than I’d like to admit.

I just find it so hilarious that I asked Tarot if I could find love this year. Tarot said yes. I asked if he could be someone important to me. Tarot said yes. And what the fuck do I do but send him away.

Plus, I lost over seven pounds while we were talking. Just for me. But I felt like, hey, I would like to feel better and more confident when I see this boy finally.

And guess who’s packed on two pounds of pasta and bread in the past couple days? Fat. Ass.

If that isn’t typical me — getting this close to what i want and sending it away — then I don’t know what is.

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