baby got a locomotive
December 30, 2004, 11:31 am

"Put THAT in your diary."

The other boy, heretofore known as Thumper, knows about the diary. He will not read it, he says, unless I want him to. Having never really have had to have the "um, I have an online diary" conversation with someone I'm dating, whatever I was expecting as a response was not what I got in return. He was excited; I don't know if the idea that I would be squee about our developing relationship, tell deep dark secrets about our sex life (two words: ah MAZING), or privately say nasty things about him is what turned him on, but he's very supportive. I'm even allowed to use his name, you know, in case someone wanted to Google him and get a glowing review.

I don't know how it makes me feel, to be honest. This medium can be very manipulative; I know I can present a side of a story, an argument, and have nine emails backing me up in an instant, but does anyone really get the true nature of the story? Can you really believe what I say is true? I have hurt people here; I have jeopardized people's lives and relationships because of my need to unburden my soul...while the drama queen side of me adores the attention, I think I'm growing up to the point where some things...some things are probably better left unsaid.

I will tell you that Thumper is lovely, takes/makes me lovely dinners, and is the Greatest of All-Time as far as the bedroom is concerned. I'm not lying. DAMN. I will tell you that I lied before: I am going to get hurt. We're too opposite to not be perfect for each other; we're too opposite to not work out. I can't tell him that last night as he was holding me, I was counting down the minutes for the other shoe to drop. I can't tell him that I'm falling for him again. Dammit.

On that note, here's a story about people who could potentially lose their jobs:

Monday night saw me driving to Frederick to see Lefty play guitar with his dad at a coffee shop. (Don't get that judgmental look on your face; Thumper knows.) We ate at a delicious Mexican restaurant ("I'm telling you, B, the secret ingredient? MORE CHEESE. If they don't know what else goes in there, they just put in more cheese. Mmmm.") and then headed over to a bar.

"B, you throw darts?"

"Not professionally, only in bars."

Turned out that not only was I a hit with his sister, but an amazing dart-thrower extraordinaire. My right hand? Blessed with a honing device. Ask the triple 19s, 17, 15s and bullseyes. Hot damn!

We left Frederick for fashionable Bethesda, where midnight found us at a basement bar, drinking whiskey and then stumbling towards a commercial ice cream shop where Lefty and his friends have all worked since high school. Entering a closed ice cream shop when you know it's not supposed to be open is one thing, having an ice cream cake heaved against the wall and narrowly missing your head is quite another. What followed was a whipped cream battle of epic proportions, cups and cones washing over the floor in tidal waves, and a secret mission to procure as much of my favorite flavor as possible. Oh, it was glorious (and no doubt, pretty illegal)! Word of caution: whipped cream goes bad on a sweater after a while.