felidae

I woke about an hour ago still on the nearest side of drunk to fail a hangover. I looked about me and scowled. My room was a swamp of clothes and empty bottles (or happily enough, semi-empty as I have now discovered) and my mouth felt like a drip tray. My stereo was still on, as was my TV, light and outfit. I hadnt even bothered to attend the bed and its duvet was wrapped around the bottom of my door perhaps why nobody else had woken at my racket. I fumbled blearily for a bottle of water before the events of the previous night hit, and after a few mercifully non-alcoholic swigs began to wonder what had waked me; to put it gently Im not one to see much before noon. Peering at the clock I groaned 4:30. In the morning. Bah. Pulling the covers away from the floor and over my head (yeeees, still dressed) I refused to acknowledge the light and prepared to return to a perfectly nice dream in which I DIDNT feel like a sumo wrestlers thong, then nearly shot out of my bondage pants at a very loud, irritating alarm. My phone was telling me I had a friend.

oh good. A friend. A 4:30 in the morning friend who had to share something so vital that it was worth launching me into the day before lunch. THANKS FRIEND! MAY BUZZARDS NOT FEAST ON YOUR GENITALIA! AT ALL!!!

I groped around for my phone, rummaging through the covers, pillows, back pockets of my pants, and, mysteriously, the back pockets of someone elses (let the pantsless wonder come contact me when he/she wakes up in a hedge), then finally found my phone on the mattress near where Id been sleeping. I must have set the stupid thing on loud so I could hear it when out. I peered blankly at the message:

Hey Prettygirl. Wanna call me?

After a heart-attack and a hefty cup of coffee (er, okay, Irish coffee), I shuffled aside enough of my conniptions to contemplate the text. Nobody but my Ex callsercalled me Prettygirl. The obligatory pet-name stage had been reached before our last breakup, which happened sometime towards the end of 2004.

Prettygirl and Thugpoet, and laugh if you will. Love does stupid things to a persons mind, and evidently that would include a total lack of dignity.

Anyway, I fidgeted. I fidgeted for an hour and another coffee (Irish, and work in a couple of hours be damned), then I called Her. I called Her on the phonecard Id bought almost six months ago when last wed spoken. The familiar voice came through:

.hEy

Drunk as a sack of rats drowning in whiskey, She confessed to a lack of judgement about leaving me, and being the girl I am I threw every last iota of guilt I had at Her. It didnt really matter. Ive spoken to Her nearly every night since then and I have a horrible feeling Im on the verge of making the same mistakes all over again.

Id walk away, but I dont want to. Id find a better option and go lose myself in that, but I cant. Id get drunk and confess, but I tried that and it didnt work. The stupid bitch is as stuck in my heart as She has been for the past six years or more, and its only distance that keeps me from accepting Shes less my Ex and more my Present with every passing hour.

Bah

Fun Felidae Fact: I HATE ALL WOMEN! except possibly Stormy*grins*