That Rasta drives me crazy. Last night, after entirely too many Captain and Cokes, we ventured out to “his” bar. The bar where the whole thing began. He looks different. He looks older. I had a hard time forming a sentence. And I was surprised when he leaned over the bar and instead of talking to me, kissed me. Why would he do that? More importantly, why did I not smack him? I don’t understand him. Every time I see him, even though I know all about his tendency not to be conventional, he gets under my skin and there I am…back in my head again….thinking about that night when he threw rocks at my window. Overcome by the fact that he really is…adorable. Albeit, a little nuts.

TNG came over with his cute little friend on Friday night. Although we have tons of fun together, I am pretty sure that I am done with him. I am pretty sure that his baggage and newly obvious insecurity will be a problem regardless of how much I try to ignore it. After yesterday, I couldn’t overlook these things even if I felt like it would be worth it. Which I don’t. Boys with recent baggage are the worst kind. They are even worse when they have it, but then expect that you will be a clean slate. These guys don’t need someone to date, they need babysitters. This is why I hate men.

The funny thing about him is, I really just don’t care. Complete and total indifference. Normally, there would be something. Something.

I got nothin’.

I realize that it is unrealistic to think that I could find someone with absolutely no baggage. But it would be fantastic if I could meet someone hot, sane, and secure (in all ways that matter). I can find hot…hot is not an issue, it’s the other two that remain elusive.

I am having an excruciatingly hard time staying awake this morning. Probably because I haven’t slept well since Thursday night. I should, in the future, probably refrain from partying it up on Sunday nights. I should also probably refrain from daytime drinking all together. Even if the trombone player thinks I need another. Because the trombone player would be wrong.

All in all though, drunken debauchery and Rasta boys aside, the weekend was good. Tiff and I hit everywhere that we could and met a lot of very strange people. Some of whom scare me in ways that I can’t even begin to describe in my current, very inarticulate state.