The Rock Star is bugging me a little. His obliviousness is bordering on thoughtlessness, and I don’t like it. I keep thinking about Mr. Nice Guy and all of his positive attributes – and there definitely wasn’t any problem at all in the sex-drive department, either. I miss him, but I wonder if it’s better for his sake if I maintain the distance that’s grown up around us once again.
I got a postcard from him a couple of weeks ago; I was so happy to get it. And I know he’ll remember my upcoming birthday – he always does.
I’ve decided to treat myself to a Carolina Liar concert in NYC this month, but I don’t know who to invite. My coworker said he would go, and I think we’d have a great time. The Rock Star is another option, but I’d probably have to buy his ticket – not sure I want to. Mr. Nice Guy would jump on a plane and meet me if I asked, probably. Or maybe I want to buy that very expensive front-row, center seat that’s still available – just one – for myself and go alone. I could drool over my music and enjoy my very first rock concert with no one to spoil my evening – no pressure to entertain anyone but myself. I think I would sit there and bask in it like a drawn-out orgasm. Seriously. That’s how much I like this music. (Not to mention, I’m way overdue for a drawn-out orgasm. Hell, I’d take any variety at this point.)
I’d sort of like to take my two daughters, but they’ll be with Mr. N/A for the weekend.
One of the greatest and most difficult things about being a single adult is that I get to make all the decisions, and I don’t have to consider anyone else’s needs or wants. But sometimes, I just don’t have any idea what in the hell would make me the happiest. It’s like I think I’ve just got one shot at it or something – do or die. And so I become paralyzed and do nothing instead, which rarely brings me the joy I seek.