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On Monday, happenstance occurred. Happenstance, I say, because I’m not sure I believe in fate or destiny, puzzle pieces fitting together just so. I see a yellow sticky note on my office floor. I leave it there for several hours. I have things to do. In the mid-afternoon, I pick up the note and take a look-see. I’m jolted to see it. His email, the asshole, who ruined the name Steve for me, although I never liked it anyway. The one with no affection for me. His email, who I’d finally forgotten. His email, written down a year and a half ago just in case we ever started communicating again, still waiting to be typed in my compose box.
He’s not much to me, not even painful to think about. He’s nothing. He’s an asshole. He is Steve.
He facebooked me a few months ago and I told him to never contact me again.
I’m not sure why I can’t bring myself to throw the sticky note away.
I mentioned in a previous blog that I would post the finest confusing rejection I’ve received in my relational career. It is from one Nuclear Luke.
Background: He winked, I winked, he said, “great smile,” I said, “thanks,” he said, “sorry for not getting back to you sooner, I’ve been studying,” I said, “okay, what are you studying for,” he said, “a nuclear test,” I said, “oh that sounds pleasant, are you originally from here?”
And then his last correspondence (July 3):
sorry i saw you emailed, ive just been busy and honestly didnt take the time to respond. im headed out of town to visit family for the 4th. have a great weekend!
No, I am sorry, dear Nuclear Luke, because I deserve more than this. You can’t capitalize the first letter of a word starting a sentence? You can’t bother with apostrophes to signal contractions? You dare send me a run-on?
Dearest Nuclear Luke, you are the biggest piece of shit I’ve had dumped in my lawn today. [Note to readers…this was prior to the ex’s dumping of steaming shit via bulldozer, which completely smothered the lawn. Nuclear Luke’s shit was overruled, I’m afraid.]
Ha. I wrote this post yesterday. This morning I had an email that said, “ok I suck at email. here’s my number.” And I cannot tell you how amused I am. I forgive his lack of punctuation and capitalization simply because he acknowledges that his previous email/response time is oddball. Of course, I have the urge to call him. But then Jade, rightly, points out that how can he possibly have time for me if he doesn’t have time for email. But then, some people are major duds electronically-speaking, yes? And then, Bryan says, see? He loves you because you ignore him. So then I think I want to be loved so I should just ignore him, right? But then I wonder how am I going to ever snag a man if I’m so busy ignoring him. Bryan says it’s a game. I’m pretty sure I’m hopeless.
I considered my options. I wrote them all out. I tried to be measured instead of impulsive. I decided that 1) I did want to respond to him, but 2) only to ask if he really had time to get to know someone, and 3) I put the calling back on him and gave him my number, should he decide he has time. I won’t call him. There is no sense wasting time. We’ll see if he can man up. I am willing to consider that he’s not an emailer…although I met him ONLINE. I am perfectly willing to overlook him for distraction’s sake. Still, you know I get myself in trouble when bored, so let’s hope he just says he doesn’t have time. I hate being ignored, that also gets me in trouble.
Trouble=bad.
I’m not sure anyone will necessarily think this is funny but it amused me. If you want a good time, go back to your old emails and read them. Share them.
To: MedicatedLady
From: Poeticgrin
Date: 2/21/05
MEMO: It has come to my attention that some members of this staff feel that it is professional to wear denim garments below their waists. This behavior must come to an abrupt stop. It is counterproductive and sends the wrong message to the childrens. If I catch any of you wearing these denim garments, I shall strip you then and there and let you feel my power.
To: MedicatedLady
From: Poeticgrin
Date: 8/18/04
On Tragedy (a Haiku)
Weed in a taco
Broken swings, asses, and dreams
Satan’s spawn inside
To: MedicatedLady
From: Poeticgrin
Date: 12/2/08
(Bryan’s poem to my/our then-boyfriend (who was in the Air Force but is not Air Force John, this guy was just a “Luke”), who later left the country without telling me/us)
Dearest Airman,
How I want to fly with you,
to say your name with a heavy “K” sound
resonating in my throat long after
I’m silent.
I am air sick
love sick
love struck
lightheaded
from this quick
change
in altitude.
*An email exchange between Bryan and me concerning the matter of a straight man.* Please note, we are usually completely off the mark about straight men but we have conversations like this all the time.
From MedicatedLady to Bryan: What a crybaby Air Force John is. Seriously. If he’s blowing me off, he is doing it in the strangest of ways. I am honestly perplexed. It’s probably just coming down to I’m not giving him the nookie. He’s friendly enough and kept the conversation going for hours (texting of course). He invited me to cuddle. I considered it. I said, really? He said yes. He says, I’m going to bed (he said this before as a way to get me to hurry up and come over). So I say, So are you saying I’ve missed you or to get trucking? And then he says, no, you can come cuddle w/ me. And I paused for a moment and said okay. Then I brushed my hair for him. And then I text, will see you in a few minutes. And then he says, can we reschedule? And I say, ouch, but okay. He says he’s been up since 5 and is tipsy. I say, okay. 10 minutes later. He says, I don’t want to offend you. I say, it’s all good. 20 minutes later. He says, I’m afraid I will make a move. I say, moves aren’t necessarily bad things but it just depends if you can be swatted away when it’s time to cool it. So he says, Nope (smiley face) and I say, well then there you go. 10 minutes later. He says, I’m in my underwear. I say, Um…good? He says, yeah. I say, well, underneath my pjs I’m wearing underwear too. End conversation.
Bryan’s response/translation: I think he was horny, and then he wanted sex, and he invited you over, and then he felt guilty, and then he was horny again, and then he just masturbated.
Ramblings of a Medicated Lady: Words of Woe by Loria Taylor 
Your Sympathies: