"Apparently he's not gay," I said offhandedly, continuing the construction of my niece's Barbie Dream House. "He's dating an old high school friend of mine. A girl. Crazy."

I didn't look up, but could feel her looking at me, studying my face, searching for a sign of the emotion I wasn't showing. "So are we going out to lunch, then?" I glanced up at her as I changed the subject, regretting my decision to ever bring him up in the first place.

It'd been months — no, years — since him. The dates and photographs, meals and movies, then the awkward and halted goodbyes and a secret hope that some time would make him see. But I only openly admitted the hope for his happiness and that the space was good.

The gay theory was silly, but an extraordinarily effective way to mask my ever-present desires and crushed hopes with humor. That some how it wasn't anything wrong with me. It was him that had the problem. He had no choice but to reject me, and I, well, I let him go. To chase men. Well, it was humorous to me.

No one really bought that, though. That it was my decision to end it. Not even me.

"When's the last time you spoke to him?" she asked, knowing full-well that my lips were on lunch but my mind was still — and seemingly always — on him.

"Last August, I guess..."

It was August 28th. I remember the day. The weather. His blue button-up shirt.

Finishing the Barbie Dream House, I set down the screwdriver.



We went for Chinese.


I found an archaic Tae-Bo video on YouTube tonight. I nearly died after 25 minutes of Billy Blanks' basic workout. No, seriously, I had to hurry and get dressed after my quick shower to avoid passing out as my body twitched strangely and my head slowly pounded, my blood contemplating where it wanted to go and when it wanted to leave.

I could say a lot of things about this experience. I could express how pathetic I am physically. How sad it is that I struggle with such an easy workout when, a year and a half ago, I was rock climbing and running daily. But that would be BORING, and for all that my blog is, it isn't boring.

Wait, right?

Ha. You think I care. You think I write this stuff for your enjoyment. False. I write this so my fans in Russia have something to read and so I can have an outlet for my 20-something complaints -- that is, complaints of a 20-something. Believe me, I have more than 20-something complaints to list.

I moved recently. To the city. I'll let you psychopaths who aren't my real friends ponder where that city might be, but let's say it's not exactly the city one dreams of living in at 26. Or, ever.
But! I do have a studio apartment where I don't have to mark my food with my initials, there are no cleaning checks, and so far the only creepy part about it is my downstairs neighbor who happens to look exactly like the black vampire in Twilight, except with vegetarian-colored eyes, a three-piece suit and a long-stemmed cigarette holder. Obviously I go running to borrow a cup of sugar from that dude on a daily basis.

I moved because I got a new job. I write now. Well, I write and make money for doing it. Nothing glamorous, which perfectly matches the city I live in (see previous paragraph). The people are rad at my new job. Wait, sorry, is that word too Utah? Rad. Ha. I love Utah, I do, but man alive, I never knew exactly how thick and detrimental that bubble could be. Eye-opener? Yessireebob.

I had a point to all this. I think. Probably something to do with wasting my time on social media sites and avoiding the real world, further stunting my complete lack of friends (for once, I'm not exaggerating. I have zero friends here). Maybe it was something about creativity. Communication? Jumpsuits. Zebra collars. 8-bit musical chairs. Aerobics at midnight. Acorn dust. Barbershop tanktops.

Maybe that bubble was a good thing for me.