The Case of the Older Man

It's safe to say that when one must edit the "story of how we met" depending on the company, it's a good forecast of a defunct relationship as well. But who am I to judge.

I met him on the streets of the Meatpacking district while V and I were completely infused with a smattering of chemicals and an adrenaline rush for the next after-party. Our new company sported an accent and a cute little smile, almost the only two things I could remember from that night. Thanks to the recession, we could find no after-party and found our separate cabs home, but not before he could ask for my number and send me on my way.
And I think this is the moment in my life where I actually decided to pull a Carrie Bradshaw and work on an experiment about the age-old differences in man vs. woman on the "casual relationship." Needless to say, my experiment went the same way as Carrie's.
I wish this story had a cute ending for my non-audience, but sadly after six months of sporadic semi-romantic trysting, I believe the end has arrived. It was predicted ages ago, but girls like me, we hold on to inklings of hope even when we've become completely cynical about everything else in our lives. I think they did a study on this blaming Disney...
Anyway, in a silly stupor, I almost deleted his number last night. I decided that wasn't the mature route, but really now, when have I ever taken the high road in times like these? hmm, never.

Case closed. Maybe.

I can't sleep

Some hours after a failed attempt at a semblance of a good night's rest later, here I am. A blog I've neglected for months, b/c I really couldn't bear to indulge my non-existent audience about my sad ridiculous lame life.
I had this pseudo-nightmare just now (pseudo, b/c I didn't actually fall asleep, see above) and nightmare, b/c it ended once I realized the mind tangent I had just gone on made me start to cry. It's absolutely lame, but I was thinking about my future self as a lonely 30-something year old living in a studio apartment in Murray Hill by myself with no idea how to fix my tv. All I could think was, goodness that really could happen to me soon (b/c I'm moving into that studio in just a few short months, and I really have no idea how to make technological products work for me). Then it morphed into insipid thoughts of my absolute fear of never ever finding just one boy that I have no apprehensions about. This is really all my parents' fault. They're stressed I didn't find someone in college and now that I've graduated, all of the boys have up and left, leaving single women like me to die lonely.
Oh and also, my pent up sadness missing my old roomies. This would be a shout out to Russell and Evan. I love you boys!
I also had this psychotic "daydream" if you will, about me getting the reading job with the blind managing director at NB. I interviewed today (which entailed me speeding through a vastly uninteresting op ed about the IMF selling gold) and have absolutely no clue at all how it went. I don't know how to gauge that. Is she going to pick someone else over me, b/c I stumbled over the IMF president's name? (which really is ridiculous, google if you must) Was my voice not monotone enough? I think I dropped half an octave from my normal tone... someone told me once that I had a very nice voice... that I sounded like someone who should sing very well. I rectified that situation quickly. There were also the handful of times that people told me I sound like Lindsay Lohan or LiLo or whatever she's referred to these days. hm... I guess we'll see tomorrow where my future as a reader for the blind goes.
I think I'm finally sleepy. I hope I don't have any more nightmares...

Before the Aftermath

I think it all started when I became a city girl one day. It crept up on me as the years went by. I had to relive embarrassing stories about my city life that only my non-city friends could relish and enjoy... Like the time that random boy asked me out on Third Ave, or the time I cried melodramatically at 4am in Union Square, or even the one about how I finally got my first drink bought for me by a gay man. All very humdrum and so very city standard. What makes them entertaining? Maybe it's the hilariosity of how my city life is never so predictable as my Manor life once was, or maybe it's the Sex and the City-esque moments of my life where I continue to ask the same questions of my girlfriends but never seem to find the answers, or maybe it's just the aftermath. The plain and simple moments in my life where I overdramatize my drunken weekends and pretend for a moment's pleasure that I'm interesting and that my frivalous Fridays spent overindulging are something more than just a melodramatic entry in my twenty-something life.
I guess we'll see.