"Did he quit dating and become a man of the cloth? Did he blog too many times at work, get fired, grow a beard and start drinking sour milk in the hot San Diego sun? Is he married, thus ruining all my wildest fantasies of an illicit NY encounter with him that would soon be converted to a romantic comedy featuring up and coming actor Andrew Garfield opposite Natalie Portman?"
These are all good questions I've receieved in the past few months. And yes, while it is true that I will be starring alongside Natalie Portman in an upcoming movie, none of these are quite the full truth.
The real answer lies in a mish mash of life, luck, and a touch of feeling sorry for myself. When I was last typing, I was entering into what seemed like an exciting long-distance fling with the Tattoo Chick, with the admitted hope of something more. What I didn't realize was that I was actually heading into a nerve-wracking insanity-inducing mind fuck that left me looking like Zach Galinifakis on a cocaine binge.
Let me surmise the past 3 months or so in a series of fragmented internal Mikey thoughts like so:
"No, it's not too late, I can just leave at 5:00 in the morning and pour a Red Bull directly on my pupils. - Is that my text message bill or did I swap with a 14 year old cheerleader? - Her liver must have more wrinkles than Betty White. - What is the minimum amount of piercings/tattoos I need to enter this bar? - PETA is right, vegans do do it better - No, it's totally cool, I don't mind traveling an hour and half to have you back out on the movie! - If I disagree with you about education reform will that make you more or less horny?"
In essence: A lot of spontaneity. Zero reliability.
Throw in the fact that the whole time I was doubling down on the waiting to have sex thing from her and this was like holding a beauty pageant with Mike Tyson as a judge and expecting nothing crazy to happen. When we finally did have Philly lovin there was only two options that could result: Up the stakes and be in some type of relationship or flame out. I chose the former, and she chose to Dear John me.
In all honesty, this type of stuff happens when two people have different expectations for what's going on. Some (read: all my friends) may say I should have seen the writing on the wall. Maybe when I noticed the self-made tattoo on her foot done while she was in class - or her breakfast diet of wine, tofu and coffee. But listen, she was exciting - and she wore Mickey Mouse pjs damnit! You can't expect me to come to any reasonable conclusion until weeks afterward, which forced me to pretty much become a whiny bitch and grow both my hair and beard out to disturbing levels in the meantime.
Whenever you see a guy not shaving for like weeks and weeks, it's not that he's got a bet with his friends (unless it's a moustache. That's always a bet). It's because he's depressed about a chick and this is his silent way of saying F-you to girls. It's the equivalent of getting our nails done, but it lasts a lot longer and we don't go around every 15 minutes screaming, "Jenn's back on the prowl, watch out bitchesss! I'mma get my nails done and find me a REAL man!" It's a lot more subtle with men.
Well, ladies, I am glad to say that all four of you can stop e-mailing me. As I write this little entry, I can feel my soft supple baby's ass skin.
MIKEY'S BACK!
Well, ladies, I am glad to say that all four of you can stop e-mailing me. As I write this little entry, I can feel my soft supple baby's ass skin.
MIKEY'S BACK!
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