*blue balls not included.
I keep getting emails/comments on the reasons why L dumped me. The truthful answer is: I don’t know.
The Fucker (as he is so-affectionately-named) doesn’t have the balls to call and tell me. He pulled out the dick-card and just stopped calling me once he got back in town. So, people… your guess is as good as mine. I have this horrible “Pretty Woman” complex right now to boot, making me fucking crazy everytime I hear the phone ring or a car pull in front of the house. (OMG! Could it be?) Yeah, like he’d make some valiant romantic effort NOW!
Mutterings. Walking to Jacobs Field from the parking garage, a ticket scalper approached us for “better seats.” (Mine are find, thankyouverymuch!) As we’re heading opposite his direction, he yells out:
Can I get a conversation?
I replied with: Goodbye!
Laughter ensued.
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This blog is about pursuit: a transplanted Clevelander (me) in a new city (that's you, Pittsburgh!), pursuing the role of a self-employed copywriter, becoming a roller derby badass and somehow merging all my to-do items into one ever-growing Bucket List.
And of MY boyfriend. His blue balls started this mess.
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