16-Feb-2006

In all my golf cart euphoria, I forgot to share the details of my lunch with the Other Me yesterday.  The Other Me and I used to work together, and by "work together," I mean watch Dawson's and order pizza while our bosses were in NYC and New Zealand, respectively.  Occasionally, when our hectic work schedules permit, we do the same now, provided I have not passed out face first into a vat of mayonnaise on the craft service table, and that she's not traveling with her boss (who shall be called The Great Man) to someplace like London or Japan.  But yesterday, we began a new tradition of lunch on the lot, and I began a new tradition by officially taking myself off the market.  See, this past year, I've had a lot of shit going down love-wise.  At any given moment, I had at least three guys half-assedly (as guys tend to do) vying for my attention.  If one disappointed me, I easily moved on.  There were lunches, there were walks on the beach, there were candlelit dinners... and now, I'm fucking tired.  I'm tired of flashing charming smiles, flirty giggles, of hair-tossing, of bend-snapping.  Soooo over it.  I proclaimed my so-over-it-ness to the Other Me over turkey sandwiches at the News Cafe:

Me:  I've had it with boys.  (And here I relate a stupid boy story which is actually kind of funny and cute, as stupid boy stories tend to be).

Other Me (who is very direct):  You should have told him to look in his pants and find his penis.

Me:  I know.  I think I should take myself off the market.

Other Me:  Whoa, whoa, whoa.  Is this because of the AIDS thing?

Me:  Yeah, I'm not cured yet.

Ah, she reads me so well, that one.  Guess it's a name thing.