rejected like my liver this morning
June 29, 2003, 8:07 pm

Last night was the 3rd Annual Sisters Biensoul Beer Pong Tournament, and it seemed to be a raging success.

I wish I could say the same for my love life.

Joe came to the party, and I was giddy because I knew if I was in front of his face, maybe something would happen. He would apologize for not calling and all would be right with the world.

And things were...my pong partner Brad left, so Joe filled in nicely. We kept hugging over well-made shots, holding hands, etc. Things were going great, until (and honestly, I can't remember everything that was said) I brought up the 7th grade "Check the Box" scenario.

I know everyone is familiar with "Check the Box: Do you like me? ___ Yes ___ No". Michael Crandall sent me a note like that in third grade, and I responded by throwing it away to avoid hurting his feelings (how's that for irony?). Right as we were down to one cup I said (maybe shrieked is a more appropriate word...) "Check the Box, Joe!" Damn if he didn't sink that bitch like the Titanic. I took it as an emphatic yes, forgetting the cardinal rule of assumption (when you assume something, you make an ass out of you and me...).

We went outside to celebrate our coming up through the Losers bracket to earn a spot in the Championship game.

Me: So, which is it?

Joe: Check the box?

Yeah.

Um, maybe I should get back to you.

Um, nevermind, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to put you on the spot or anything...

No, no, I, um, wow...

Look, nevermind, I just thought you really liked me, you know?

I do, I do Jess, I really do, it's just, well, to be honest, I uh, didn't really envision anything coming out of this, you know?

Oookayy...

I really like you, but I'm content with that, you're awesome and so goddamn cool I can hardly stand it, but uh, a mutual crush is all I can give you.

Oh. Is it another girl?

No, no, no. I mean, I have prospects and stuff, but it's just I'm not at the point where I can do this right now. Let's talk about something else.

*cue me crawling on my hands and knees to the top of the stairwell and puking my guts out while on all fours for a good five, seven minutes* Joe came up the stairs, patted my hunched back while I finished up.

Me: *near tears* I'm such an ass.

Joe: *accepting me rolling over into his lap and stroking my hair* No, you're really not. It's okay. Puking always makes me feel better, well, not really, it always makes me think, "Shit, I really drank a lot."

You know, you're too young for me. *laugh*

*laugh* Maybe. You're so damn cool, Jess.

Thanks.

Look, I'm going to get out of here, but before I do, I'm going to take you upstairs and tuck you in bed, okay?

That sounds nice.

And he did. We walked upstairs, and he patiently waited while I brushed my teeth in my bathroom, he averted his eyes while I changed into my Pandamoonium pajamas (that I'm still wearing...), watched me settle into bed, and he pulled my covers up, kissed my cheek and my forehead, and left. I passed out immediately.

I don't know how this happened. He LIKED me; I don't misinterpret signs all that often. He TOLD ME THAT HE LIKED ME, TOO.

Sister Christina's theory is that I really don't like him, per se, I just really want a boyfriend. She may be right ("I may be crazy..."). The fact is, if I looked like Charlize none of this would be a problem; then again, if I looked like Charlize, I'd be fighting off a bunch of super hot Italian models and kissing everyone from Mark Wahlberg to James Spader, you know?

I am not normally rejected; I always win the awards I want, I always get accolades on everything I feel I should (and some that I half-ass), I have ALWAYS gotten exactly what I wanted when I wanted it (or a little time later). This does not sit well with me because I know I'm damn cooler than anyone else...*sigh* This is not fair or nice. I've been DELETED from the "Possible Sex Partner" List and the "Potential Girlfriend" List far more than I should be, I feel.

At least Mangus thinks I'm hot.

__________________________________

My favorite HANGOVER activity is crapping out in front of the big screen with a blanket, a nonalcoholic drink, and watching either Office Space or other vastly quotable feel-good film. Today was a virtual trifecta of nasty hangover goodness, as I spent the first 50 minutes of my consciousness cleaning the basement (two recycling bins worth of cans; six trash bags to clean up the left over pasta salads (that hadn't made it to the floor in a tremendous crash; countless paper towels needed for spillage and/or water ring control) and the bar; happy to report that my puke on the stairwell was virtually non-existent, though a squashed frog (by accident) was VERY visible (gross). I chose as my afternoon moviethon the old American standards Animal House and Old School, followed by Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets (it is SO WRONG of me to be in love with Ron Weasley; it is SO WRONG of me to be in love with Ron Weasley...*sigh*). The escapism inherent in watching the films smoothed out some of my rougher edges from last night's cuts to my ego.

Have to write about the waxing, but running out of steam (dehydration, alcohol creating creative draught in favor of headaches and cotton mouth).

Mangus rules.