And with all this being said, I'm not falling for the coyote's trickery anymore...

Once upon a time, I was in law school. And while in law school I befriended this attractive fellow named Cliff. Cliff and I developed a strong platonic friendship. Or so I thought. 

Anyway, now as I'm sitting on my couch looking at the snow outside my window while drinking my morning coffee, I realize that Cliff is actually kind of a douchey coyote. No wait. He isn't kind of a douchey coyote. He IS a douchey coyote. And, I'm not saying that he is at 100% fault for our fall out; but more just like a solid 80%. 

I know that you must be thinking that I dodging my fair share of the blame, and that's fair. I mean after all, my generation has lost the discipline of self-accountability, right? But I assure you I haven't. If these blogs demonstrate anything, it's probably the amount of craziness that goes into me being tough on myself. So without further ado, here is the uncensored series of dodgy events that resulted in the fall out with Cliff. And judge for yourself. In fact, all constructive-critiques are encouraged. But just don't call me nasty names. I'm sensitive and it'll hurt my feelings. 

*** 

Several months ago, Jessica, Cliff's gf, threw Cliff a birthday party. This birthday party turned into a make-out party. Everyone was making out with everyone. Guys, chicks, couples, singles, it didn't matter. Everyone was making-out. Except me. Then twenty minutes and three shots later, I made out with two single guys. The first was a random guy while playing spin the bottle. Yes, apparently this make-out party did turn into a junior high party. Or so I think, I don't really know since I wasn't cool enough to be invited to those parties when I was 13.  The other guy was Ben. Ben and I are close friends and we've had a bit of sexual tension the last several years. Anyway, these makeouts were harmless as much as they could be: very brief and simply kissing.

At some point throughout the drunken-hazed and sex-crazed night, the wrong combination of people start making-out and couples start fighting. Everyone starts catching cabs and bailing to repair their relationships while I'm just left circling around Cliff's house looking for my purse. As I'm leaving, he grabs me and asks if I want to make-out. "Umm. No. But thanks for the offer?" After a bit of back and forth, he says okay and goes to sleep on the couch. I stumble out of the front door and somehow manage to catch a cab home. 

Exhibit one that things start to get kinda sort of weird in my platonic friendship with Cliff.

Cliff tells Jessica this. Jessica hits me up about it. And I verify it. No harm done? Guess not. Things continue on as they always were. At least for the next few months.

Now we are in the middle of summer. And during one fabulous July night, Jessica, Cliff, me, and another one of our friends Sean, all get pretty sauced at one of our regular bars. We are drinking, laughing, hanging, just having a good ole time. At some point, we all agree to relocate to another bar. However, Jessica and Cliff disagree about the bar. So Jessica and Sean go to one bar while Cliff and I go to another bar. We get drinks and sit in a booth. We start shooting the shit then Cliff gets a serious face. When Cliff gets a serious face it is usually because he is about to yell at me for something trivial, like disagreeing with about who is the best Beatle. Or something of that nature. So I ask him if everything is okay. He blurts out that he really wants to kiss me. I'm shocked. I haven't really thought about any of that since his birthday and was pretty much caught off guard. So I tell him I'm flattered and that I consider him a good friend. I reassure him that he is very attractive. And remind him that his gf is two blocks away. He declares that Jessica wouldn't mind and the two agreed to be in an open relationship. He persuades me to stop overthinking everything... so I kiss him. Yep. I know.

"Did you hear? Ugly Dress totally kissed Jessica's boyfriend. What a skank." I can hear the whispers echoing down the junior high gossip infested hallways from decades earlier.

Anyway, after we kiss, I freak out and tell him to tell Jessica to come to meet us. He does. Jessica and Sean join us. And Cliff tells Jessica. Jessica gives me the stink eye, as she should. I mean, I suck. I TOTALLY SUCK. I did just kiss her boyfriend. But not even a second later, she smiles, then laughs, and then tells us to kiss so she can see. Umm. What? I mean, WHAT? I don't think I heard you quite right? Nope, I did. She wants us to make-out in front of her. So what do we do? We kiss. Can this night get any weirder? I don't know. I didn't stay around long enough to find out. I just bolted and walked home contemplating my recent life decisions. I mean, when did I become the chick who makes out with my PLATONIC friends? When did I become the chick who kisses another chick's boyfriend? Or better yet, when did I become the chick to let myself get persuaded into making out with someone I didn't want to kiss? And, when did I become the chick who makes out in public at a bar? Oh, yeah. I started making-out with boys at bars in college. But what about all the other rhetorical self-imposed questions? I don't know. I just know that I wasn't proud of any of it. Open relationship or not, that means nothing to me. That's their thing, and I don't want any part of it.

So needless to say, exhibit two that things are now definitely not so platonic anymore with Cliff.

Let's keep going, shall we? Again, several months go by, and now Betty has party. Betty is a chick who comes in and out of the circle. Her social moods are just as unpredictable as the weather in the Pacific Northwest. Anyway, we all go to the party. We all go to a bar after the party. And at the end of the night four of us remain standing: Betty, Ben, Cliff, and me. And, I guess I forgot to mention that Jessica is out of town visiting her family. So the four of us return to Betty's house. I decide to leave to catch a cab home. Cliff insists that we share a cab. Yeah, yeah. You know by now something dodgy is going to happen AGAIN. And of course it does. I mean, I wouldn't be writing about this particular night if it didn't. So we share a cab. My stop is the first stop. I get out. Then he gets out. He tells me he just wants to listen to some music and hang out. I hesitate, but predictably say okay. So we do listen to some music and talk and laugh and hang for a few hours. I mean, we were BFFs. This is totally normal for us. Then when he leaves the room for a moment I start dancing to some Tupac. And to make the situation MORE cliche, I'm pretty sure I was dancing to Temptations by Tupac. 

SIDEBAR: If you don't know that song, I strong recommend you stop reading right now and search for it on spotify/rdio/grooveshark/pandora/youtube/whatever RIGHT NOW and then resume reading this immediately thereafter. 

Anyway, Cliff returns and comments on my dancing skills. And I will let you know, I know how to dance. And I like to dance. So I just laugh it off and take a seat. Then he decides to give me a lap dance. And insists I return the favor. And after some back and forth, we alternate lap dances. Clearly, this is no longer platonic friendship zone, I know. I totally participated in this. I hold myself accountable. I'm a terrible human being. The dancing situation escalates a number of times. And I keep putting out any major possible fires. He keeps telling me that he is in an open relationship. After some serious dirty dancing, I finally put out the fire for the last time. We go to sleep. Me on my bed. Him on my couch. In the morning, we laugh it off.

We didn't have sex, we didn't even kiss. But. It was all still so very tacky. For sure. Frankly, I'd stab a chick if she committed the same offenses against me. Then again, I would not be in an open relationship either. That's just me though.  

Nevertheless dear readers, that is the final exhibit marking the complete deterioration of the once platonic friendship and the beginning of the complete destruction of any sort of friendship with Cliff.

Now that you have the back story to all this, I will let you sit on it for a bit. Next time I will return and add some more details and insights. And give you the full low down of the aftermath and residue of all these events. Because of course, just like any juicy drama, some major shit went down.

But for now, all that is important to know is that Cliff is a douchey coyote. What does that even mean? Well, you see, in various Native American cultures, coyotes in folklores symbolize tricksters. He is a commonly seen character who lacks wisdom and yet is very clever. Coyotes disguise themselves to deceive and manipulating others. But in the end, coyotes aren't all bad because people sometimes may learn about their own weaknesses and foolishness from the coyote's trickery. So yeah, that's the deal with the coyote.

And with all this being said, I'm not falling for the coyote's trickery anymore...

And while I'm under the influence of numerous narcotics, I discuss the significance of the Obama-Castro handshake with the cardboard cut-out ...

Merry Christmas.

Now that we got that out of the way, let' start.

A few weeks ago, I was rushed into an emergency surgery. IT. WAS. NUTS. So, what happened exactly? I will start from the beginning and keep the long story long.

One Wednesday night I ran ten miles at the gym while watching the Blazers/Thunder game. Now basketball isn't really my thing, but in efforts to expand my dating pool, I've decided to start following basketball so I can woo all the gents during basketball season. I mean, football season is coming to an end and baseball is still some time away, so I'm left with basketball to fill in this void. But, yes, on this particular Wednesday night I ran ten very fast miles while watching this nail biting game. Blazers won. RIP CITY.

The following day at work my left side started hurting. However, with having my hometown high school friend, Tony, flying in that night, I didn't really give much thought to the pain as I figured I just pulled a muscle or something. Clearly, I was too busy doing what any good host would do: I was planning our Holiday Ale Festival activities. The next day at work I noticed that after I ate lunch, my side ache got worse. At this time, a colleague subtly suggested that I might have digestive issues. And without any further thought or assessment, I decided that I HAD digestive issues. With this self-diagnosis, I was kinda relieved that I figured it out.

After work, Tony & I proceeded with our Holiday Ale Fest plans and we had spectacular time. We sampled some beer, ran into some friends, broke up a fight, and I got beer spilled all over me while I was trying to break up that stupid fight. Did I mention that it was like 20 degrees? And that it snowed earlier? And yeah I am now soaked in cold gross candycane beer. But that didn't stop me from getting a chili cheese dog. I mean, nothing could get in the way of me getting my chili cheese dog. No fights, no beer spillage, and definitely no digestive issues. So I eat my chili cheese dog, we continue tasting some more ales, and I'm still soaked in candycane beer. We leave.

In a ton of pain still, I finally go to Zoom Care the following morning. Pretty much Zoom Care is to a hospital as a 7-11 is to a grocery store. One hundred and thirty five dollars later, the Zoom Care fake doctor tells me that she doesn't know what is wrong with me. In her expert opinion, I shouldn't eat and I should go to the emergency room immediately. No thanks. That advice is stupid. So what do I do? I go across the street and get some good southern style brunch. AFTER BRUNCH, I called my primary care physician aka my dad's best friend and detail him my symptoms and such. He details me back a plan of action to rule out that digestive self-diagnosis theory. In carrying out this plan, I went to the nearby grocery store to pickup some Miralax and milk of magnesium. As I have these laxatives in hand, I run into a former classmate. Lovely. Absolutely lovely. After the awkward catch-up, I purchase my laxatives and head home. I do as the doctor instructed and watch the new Star Trek movie as I wait out the process. And may I kindly remind you my poor friend Tony is with me this whole time.

Because the waiting process took several hours, we are now HOURS late to my friend's holiday party. Seriously, body what shitty timing you have. I have a friend in town and a holiday party to attend. But all I could do is wait. So the process happens and the pain is still there. Whatever. I'm over this business. It's Saturday night! I have a party to party at. We go. And we party like it is twothousandthirteen.

Blahblahblah. Partypartyparty. We go home.

Sunday. My pain is UNBEARABLE now. I update my dad's BFF on my medical whatnots and finally at this time he advised me to go hangout at the emergency room. Damn. Well this sucks. Looking through my planner, I'm trying to budget time to go to the ER. Tony is still with me. We still have some things on the agenda like go to the indie book store, get some donuts, happy hour, watch a flick at my favorite beer theater, and send Tony on his way back to California. All very important, you see. Looks like I'll be making a trip to the emergency room around 11pm.    

11pm, I go to the emergency room as scheduled. Five hours, two CT scans, and several naps later, the doctor tells me he has no clue what's wrong with me. He does assure me though that I don't have any digestive issues. Self-diagnosis fail. Having no clue what is wrong with me, he did notice a blob of some sort on my scan. He tells me that it is an abdominal mass. "Maybe it's cancer. But maybe not. You should go see this specialist this week and he can better help you." Really, dude? Maybe it's cancer but maybe not? Great, just freaking great. Now I'm flipping my lid and freaking the fuck out, you see.

Later that afternoon, my two girlfriends, Taylor & Kate, take me to the specialist. As we are waiting in the lobby, they both bust out their knitting gear and start knitting away. What? I get handbands and scarves out of it. Double what?  Some medical forms and minutes later, I get called. I follow the nurse back and go into the examination room. They do all the regularly stuff, check my vitals, ask me questions, take my pee, and such. The resident doctor comes in and asks me several more questions. I finally interrupt him and ask him what's been on my mind all day: DO I HAVE CANCER? He says maybe, he isn't sure. SERIOUSLY, DUDE? SERIOUSLY? You are a doctor in a bowtie. What do you know? He knows to ask me questions. And he asks me if I've ever been pregnant. No. The first day of my last menstrual period. Two weeks ago. If I'm sexually active. No. He then looks at me. Turns his head sideways and clarifies "no, no or kinda no." Umm. No, no or kinda no? What sort of question is that? Did my doctor really just ask me to clarify my sexual activities with a no, no or kinda no description. No, no. Thanks for the reminding me of my nonexistant sex life, ps. How about I ask you a more important question, how the fuck do you think it is okay to be wearing a ridiculous pee yellow with white polka dots bowtie? No, no or kinda no. Go fly a kite.

Bowtie finishes up his questions and leaves. Thank god. Several minutes later, the attending doctor, who is the real doctor now enters the examination room with bozo no, no or kind, no bowtie. Real doctor informs me that he's looked over my charts and scans and tells me that I just might have a runner's injury. Resident bowtie is now LAUGHING hysterically. I'm not shitting you. So, I look the attending straight in the eyes, and ask him SO I DON'T HAVE CANCER? He says, no. But he orders me a third CT just to be sure. Bowtie is STILL laughing. How this dude with his wardrobe choice and bedside manners is a doctor is beyond me. But whatever, I'm just stoked that cancer is now off the table.

Tuesday. My attending doctor calls me. And without any hesitation he tells me that I have an abdominal aneurysm. WAIT. A. MINUTE. I thought it was going to be a runner's injury. Yeah, he was shocked too. Way to give me a soft landing. "Hi, Ugly Dress --- so you actually have an abdominal aneursym the size of a tennis ball. It's alarming. You gotta get surgery."

I don't know much about aneurysms except that every patient in the television shows Grey's Anatomy and Scrubs who had an aneurysm died. So, naturally, I freak out and cry. The attending doctor manages to calm me down and actually explain what's the situation. Turns out that it is not as bad as the melodrama shows. .

Several hours later, we decide to get sushi. We includes my knitting hen girlfriends. As soon as I get to Jenny's house, the surgeon calls me and tells me that he just called my dad and that my dad is catching the first flight up because I need to go into surgery tonight. The first flight up is tomorrow morning. Umm. (1) Kinda weird a doctor who've I never met is telling me about my dad's itinerary and (2) way to tell me I need surgery. I ask what any responsible mindful person in my condition would ask: can I eat my sushi first. No. I cannot. Gotta get to the hospital stat. Gotta have surgery tonight. Got it. Sushi, mushi. Clearly, the hospital is the place to be. And bless Taylor & Kate's hearts for giving up their sushi plans to escort me to the hospital.

It's 8pm. We are now at the hospital. I check in. The administrator leads me to my room. As we are walking we pass a room with this old man crying for help. Literally. "Help me. Someone please help me. Please help me." The administrator instructs us not to worry about the crying old man. Totally. Twilight Zone-esque, I know.  

I get to my hospital room. And a nurse enters. First she prohibits me from eating or drinking anything. Yikes. Things have come a long way from no sushi. But she provides me with a mouth swab in case I get dry mouth. Awesome. I change into the hospital gown, get settled, and the whole medical team is doing their thing: vitals, blood work, charts, questions, blah, blah, blah.

Chrissy, Matty, and Matty's life-size cutout of himself join my hospital party right as I'm about to get carted away to get another CT. With three CTs within 18 hours, I'm a pro by now. 

FOURTH CT SCAN LATER, and I'm back to my hospital room. And It's the 6 of us: me, Taylor, Kate, Chrissy, Matty, and Matty's cut-out. They are all eating and drinking like hospital royalty. I guess I will just swab away like a mere peasant then. So the six of us hang out and watch the Mandela Memorial on TV. And DUDE. Obama and Castro shook hands! For reals. Wows.

Sometime during the Mandela Memorial, my interventional radiologist comes in and speaks a million miles a minute with this and that and I don't even know what. I stop him and introduce myself, then I ask him what an interventional radiologist is, then I ask him what the plan of action is, then I ask him when I can start running again, then I ask him to call my dad. All very important questions. I know.

Interventional radiology is like surgery but less invasive. He plans to go through my groin artery to my spleen artery and coil up the aneurysm leak. At this time I learned I really have a pseudo aneurysm because it already started leaking or something. I don't even know. My spleen is dying or dead. And that is why I was in pain. My dead spleen will remain in my body. My situation is very critical. And he already called his surgical crew. I will be summoned into the operating room as soon as the crew is ready. I will be conscious throughout the procedure/surgery/whatever but I will be pumped full of drugs. I can start running in about week, if all goes well. And he will call my dad. Okay, sure, I got it all I guess. Yeah right.

He leaves. We resume watching the Mandela Memorial.

It's 11:15pm, and the crew is ready for me. I say bye  to my friends and send them home. I go under the knife. I'm awake. And I'm high. Two hours later, the procedure is done.

I return to my room. The Mandela Memorial is still on TV. I'm bed ridden for the next 8 hours. The Matty cut-out is in the corner of the room spooking each staff who enters. It keeps me company. And while I'm under the influence of numerous narcotics, I discuss the significance of the Obama-Castro handshake with the cardboard cut-out.

And because I am not a heathen I will NOT be naked in the hot springs...

Think tanks. Yes. Think tanks. You know what I'm talking about, yeah? A group of really smart people who sit around a big expensive oak table and think. Usually, they think about whatever the name of their think tank organization is. Real examples include Center for Media and Democracy, Middle East Forum, and National Bureau of Economic Research. Sometimes they might have a sci-fi sounding name like the Project 2049 Institute or the Millennium Project. Whatever the name is, they sit around and just think. I think working in a think tank would be pretty awesome, actually. I mean, I'm a nerd and I think constantly. I just might not think so wisely sometimes. Or really most of the times. But still, I think. Descartes would probably love this now that I think about it. But let's get to the point shall we? After all, I do have a point and it is think tank syndrome. Think tank syndrome is when the group of brainiacs all think the same thing without having someone checking them on their bull shit thoughts. No one is there saying "wait a minute, that's outrageous" or "seriously, you think launching missiles at Cuba is REALLY a good idea?" or just simply "no, that's stupid."

Think tank syndrome.

Now. Recently, I've noticed this syndrome with my circle of friends. And I've taken it upon myself to be the one woman riot against it. Silently. I'm not actually doing anything. Or really saying anything. But still it's the thought that counts, right? 

Let me explain so that I kinda sorta maybe make sense rather than just aimlessly thought vomiting. My friends all now drink club soda. Or seltzer water. Or tonic water. Whatever. I don't even know the difference really. But they are all now obsessed with drinking fizzy carbonated water. We go to a bar, and as a group we order 6 beers and 5 club sodas. Not 6 club sodas. But 5. Because I'm not drinking the kool-aid on the club soda trend. That in itself, not so bad, I know. But now, each one's frig is always stocked with the green and white generic market brand club soda cans. Still not bad? Okay, sure. One of my friends, Jessica, is thinking about having a club soda tasting birthday party. My other friend Ben started a club soda blog. And another made a club soda keg which he will bring on our camping trips now, apparently. I mean, I'm all about sharing hobbies and interests and to be passionate about stuff. But, club soda?!  REALLY? I mean, REALLY?

This may not seem like a big deal to you. And really, it probably shouldn't be a big deal to me. But it is. Like, everyone is morphing into one blob. Into one club soda drinking blob.

Like I said, think tank syndrome. 

Not convinced? My circle has officially adopted the word "deranged." What do I mean officially adopted? I mean my ex-BFF Cliff insisted that "we should all use the word deranged more often. It can be used for everything. It can used to describe a mood, a person, doing something. It's a good word," he said. This is was an actual topic of discussion. For reals. I guess it might be true that the word can be widely used but do we really need to announce the coming of deranged? Oh, I forgot to mention, in the conversation it was explained that the word "awkward" has been overused and "deranged" should now replace it. Fuck that. And no thanks. I'm a loyalist and I'm just going to continue on my merry fucking awkward way.

I do realize that my obsession with my friends' beverage and vocabulary preferences is deranged. BUT I DON'T CARE. 

Thanksgiving is coming up in a few days. And most of my circle is going camping in the freezing cold. I don't really want to go. I'd much rather stuff my face comfortably with access to running water, a heater, and my hair straightener. Yet I'm going. You know why? Because I don't want to be left out. Can you pass me some of that kool-aid now, please?

To Top it off I spent $200 on camping crap at REI yesterday. I could have bought pair of shoes and Citizens jeans with that money. Thanksgiving weekend could be stuffing my face, drinking lots of wine, having straight hair, seeing the new Disney flick on the big screen, and buying new shoes & jeans. Just not on Black Friday. Not my style. But nope. No Thanksgiving flick for me this year. No Icee. No popcorn. No Disney. No straight hair. No plumbing. Nope. I'm going camping. In the freezing cold. But hey, at least my friend Ryan will bring his club soda keg. 

"Ugly Dress, you are outrageous."  

Well, for reals, there's the hot springs! And I've never been to the hot springs. That is exciting. Except for the fact that everyone will be naked in the hot springs. Sans me. I will not be naked. I will wear my Vegas one-piece. Yes, my Vegas one-piece. I name my clothes. Examples include preppy brunch shirt, hippy skirt, baseball mary-jane shoes, and my Vegas one-piece. So, what is my Vegas one-piece exactly? It's a black tarzan cut one-piece swimsuit that has bronze studs on the left side and over the shoulder strap on the right. I got it specifically for my girl's dirty thirty Vegas trip last April. It's quite sexy, in my biased opinion. Who cares that no boys talked to me while I was at the pool. I was too busy adoring my one-piece. That or too busy trying to hold in my margarita generated pee so I don't have to fuss with my one-piece in the restroom. I mean, after all, I don't pee in the pool because people who pee in the pool are heathens. Obviously. And I am not a heathen. Obviously. And because I am not a heathen I will NOT be naked in the hot springs...

And actually, all I know is that I'm not making out with him tonight...

So. Last night was a shit show. And by it was a shit show I really mean I was a shit show. Kinda. Well, actually, you tell me if I was a shit show. 

Last night this boy who I kinda have an innocent thing for gave me a ride to our team reunion party. You see, we were on the same marathon training team and last night we had a reunion party. Being a potluck party, we contributed booze, naturally. And I guess this boy who I have an innocent thing for needs a name: Steven. 

Anyway, at the potluck party, I exchanged pleasantries and small talk with my teammates. Caught up and laughed at each other's jokes. And discussed future marathon plans. I'm not always the best in proper social situations so I do what any responsible, mature, proper 30 year professional freak would do: I get drunk. And, I'm pretty sure I'm one of two people at the potluck party who is drunk. I say this to only emphasize how much I do stick out. Or maybe I totally don't stink out at all and it is in my head. Oh, wait. One of the girls there asked if I was stoned. Nope. Just drunk, lady. But thanks for checking. 

A few hours later the party shuts down. Steven and I say our goodbyes and leave. It's 9:30pm.   

What to do, what to do. I have this thing for him. I'm still trying to figure out if he is into me. I have no clue. I mean, maybe he is. He did text and ask me to go to the party with him. But maybe he just wants to be friends. I suppose I do keep pushing the friend vibe out there with him. How do I put the friend vibe out there, you may be asking. Well, whenever I text him I ",friend" it. Just to give you an example --> "So, what are doing tonight, friend?" See. Friend vibe. So why would I do that if I'm kinda into him. Not sure. Probably because I don't want to be vulnerable. Or don't want to be rejected. Or maybe I'm testing him. Who knows why I do over half the shit I do? I sure don't. To make matters even worse, I was talking to him about Cory last night. And Steven started asking questions about me and Cory. I know, total train wreck. Elementary dating 101 - don't talk about another guy to the guy you are kinda sorta maybe into. 

But I suppose that's the thing. I'm kinda maybe sorta into Steven. I mean, I guess I was way more into him a few weeks ago. But then we stopped hanging out. And it's out of sight, out of mind, right? And. Plus. He flaked on me during game 5 of the World Series. 

Anyway, back to the issue at hand. Potluck party over. I suggest we meet my friends at a bar near my apartment. He likes the idea.  And now I'm starting to maybe think that we might make out later tonight. Gotta figure this out now. We discuss drinking & driving responsibilities. Clearly. I'm drunk. He's telling me that he will only have a beer or two and take off. I casually mention how he can always leave his car behind and to cab it home. I could even pick him up in the morning to retrieve his car. But really I'm thinking: fuck; just get drunk and crash at my place; and while you are at it, make out with me already. 

We get to the bar and my near & dear friends Matty and Chrissy are there. They are engaged. Pretty much the most awesome couple EVER. Assholes. Thanks for reminding me of my miserable 30 nothing single being. So the four of us hang out. And I continue to get more drunk. Steven continues to drink responsibly. Within the hour the more of my circle arrives. The delinquent lawyer circle that is. Cliff and Jessica who are dating and Ben all come together. 

Cliff and I use to be super good friends. But not so much anymore. I'm sure he is talking shit on me. You know, because the world revolves around me. And Cliff spends all his time talking shit on me. He really has nothing better to do. Shut up, already Ugly Dress. You are so full of yourself sometimes.   

Steven is drinking responsibly, I'm sauced, more of my friends arrive. I get more sauced. Cliff is now in a deep conversation with Steven. Shit. Now I gotta put on my best drunk face and be charming with Cliff. Sometime during this deep conversation between my ex-BFF or something and my current makeout target, Kevin joins us. Now Kevin is my ex from law school. He is also one of my closest friends. In fact, he is sitting on my couch right now as we are watching Dazed & Confused. But let's not live in the present. Let's continue living in past. 

Steven and I are talking and giggling and all of a sudden, I freeze. I can no longer hold a conversation with him anymore. Just completely paralyzed. So, he takes the moment to get us another round. Not that I even need another drink. But who am I to say no to him? 

Now the group as a whole moves into a college football conversation.  And this conversation reminds me that earlier I perhaps indirectly insulted Steven's home state, which is my current residing state, when a California team beat this Pacific Northwest college football team. And. Damn. Now I'm in deep thought about how I may have insulted Steven earlier in the night when I was just trying to be funny. So, of course, not following the conversation, I loudly slur "Califormiya is betteeer than [state X]." The conversation falls silent. Chrissy just looks at me. And I'm sure everyone at the table is just thinking "what. the. fuck. ugly.dress." Including me. Not sure what just happened. I was just compelled to stick to my guns. What guns? Again who knows? Not me. Anyway. Jessica raises her glass and toasts to the great state X. I don't toast. I'm sticking to these mythical guns. 

Few minutes later Steven says his goodbyes to the crowd. Hugs me goodbye. And leaves. I advise him he shouldn't drive. Because of course he should make out with my drunk rude paranoid narcissist being. But he assures me that he can drive. And that he will text me when he gets home. And he does. He texts me "home" with a stupid fucking emoticon. I hate emoticons. But. I forgive Steven for using it. It's the least I can do after not toasting to his great home state.

One by one my friends leave. And at some point I realize I'm the last one at the bar. So. I stumble home on home. During the walk home, I rethink and reassess my situation with Steven. Did I blow it? Is he into me? Was he ever into me? Are we just friends? Did I talk about Cory too much? Am I overthinking the California is better the his state joke? Why am I so drunk? So many questions. And got nothing. And actually, all I know is that I'm not making out with him tonight...                    

And I’m calling off the wedding now …

About a decade ago, I worked with this handsome fellow. Let's call him Cory. I was madly infatuated with him. Hung onto every word that slipped through his lips. Got lost in his deep green eyes. And of course, I mean, OF COURSE, all his jokes were absolutely hilarious. I was twenty.

You see though, he dated the blonde haired, blue eyed, fake boobed cliche Midwest turned Southern California chicks. I am not blonde haired nor I am blue eyed. And as Shakira puts it: my breasts are small and humble so you don't confuse them with mountains. Anyway, I digress. The point is that I was mad about Cory. And Cory was not mad about me in the slightest.

Well, time passes and we drift apart. Go years without talking. Then we reconnect through AIM. Remember AIM? Yeaaaah. So, we reconnect and email sporadically for years. Finally, last year we start hanging out again. The first time we actually met up for a beer I was SO nervous that I was shaking violently when I grabbed my beer. I had to turn my back towards him to box him out from seeing my trembling beer holding hand. I know, I'm so lame. Even lamer: I spent quite a bit of time to look casual messy effortless cute. But, you know what? Casual messy effortless cute actually requires a lot of effort. Got to get the hair strands just right to shape your face. Wear the right amount of makeup, but make it look like you aren't wearing any makeup, really. Wear jeans. Skinny jeans with Toms? Or straight legs with flops? Hmm. I wonder if I should wear heels, actually. Heels do make my ass pop -- and ass popping is actually effortless if I wear heels. And dangling earrings, but no other jewelry. And. Perfume. Duh. But not too much, you know. You know that rule that if you can smell the perfume yourself then that means you are wearing too much? Damn. I totally smell the perfume on myself. I guess I gotta drive with the windows down to the bar so I air myself out. Okay, so finally I am effortlessly fake date ready to hang out with the boy I had the hots for when I was twenty who dated Hollywood wanna-bes double ds. And I am still small and humble. No wonder I shaked (shook?) so violently when I grabbed my beer. I over thought my effortless look to hysteria. But whatever. Moving on.

Oh, boy.

So, getting back to Cory. We hang out and it was great. We hang out more and it is more great. Then I move back to the great Pacific Northwest. And I leave all fantasies and daydreams and happily ever afters with Cory behind in California. However, we text from time to time. And we talk on the phone. And I still wonder if he is the one for me. And if there is even a one for me. And I spend hours over analyzing his texts. For instance, in my attempts to seek clarity in our friendship and assert a platonic relationship, which is actually for myself than for him, I text him "Despite the period of not being friends & now living in different state, you're a good/close friend, dude. I appreciate you & will totally send you an invite to my wedding." Setting personal boundaries, right? Like, this is me telling myself (and him, of course) that I am not madly into you again. I am now thirty years old. I am a sexy, confident, fabulous woman with small and humble breasts. And he responds " I totally feel the same way and if I ever do get married you will be there as well." One minute later he follows up with "Okay I'm home and I'm going to sleep. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

Okay. Seriously. What. The. Fuck.

Please note how I said I will send him an invite to my wedding. And now please contrast that with how he said that I will be there with him as well. Like, I clearly said I will invite him to my wedding. But he was clever, right? He left his response open-ended, vague, and ambiguous. Like, is he implying that I will be at the alter with him if he ever gets married? Am I supposed to be his bride to be? I have read this, and re-read this, and sought second, third, ninth opinions on this matter. Chicks and dudes. And. I have come up with no answer. Please feel free to share your thoughts on interpreting this mess for me.

I have nothing left to share about this. Except that I have imagined our wedding being an outside wedding. And it is sunny. I see grass. And white flowers. Okay. Enough of that, shut up already. It was only a text. A stupid text. And he is online dating. And I'm calling off the wedding now.

And I guess the writing was on the wall ...

Well, here is a little background on me. I moved from the Golden State of California to the Great Pacific Northwest to go to law school several years ago. I'm sure as time goes on, I will revisit some of the crazies before law school --- like the time my then boyfriend proposed to me & I ran away --- in addition to my crazies during law school --- like the time I flipped my shit in my pjs in the pouring rain outside my apartment building after I smoked a j. Yes, in time those crazies will be out, I'm sure. But for now, it's fitting & quite hilarious that my profession, attorney, has made it pretty high on this top ten list. 

http://theweek.com/article/index/251957/which-professions-have-the-most-psychopaths

And I guess the writing was on the wall.

And it starts ...

And it starts …

I over-think & over-analyze everything. And, recently I realized that I'm very self-involved because I think the world revolves around me. Obviously, I know it doesn't even though it really should. Moving on. In efforts to release my inner crazies, I've decided that I'm just going to write about them & share them with the world. Apparently, I've also decided that I'm interesting enough that someone will care to read these writings. Oh, but I am. Just you wait. Or don't. Whatever.

Domani.

And it starts.