Well, the letter is officially out of my possession. It hasn’t been mailed yet, but as of right now, it is starting to sink in that I don’t have a say in it at all anymore. It is disturbing. Partially because my little sister strong-armed me into it, partially because I like to think that I have some degree of control as to what happens to pieces of paper that contain my gut-spillings. I evidently, do not. In this case, at least, Fish Head is the boss of me. I can’t even think about the whole thing. I want to vomit every time I do.

But really, I think that I deserve for this to go well. I truly believe that I have had my fair share of bad luck in this department. I can’t imagine it being much worse. I can only trust that my feelings are right…and I can do nothing but hope that they aren’t skewed.

I feel like, any minute, I will no longer be able to contain the butterflies inside me. I feel as if they will break out like that thing in “Alien”. I can’t imagine it will be pleasant, but probably a whole lot cuter than the slimy grossness that came out of that other stomach.

Because I spent the entire weekend, aside from Friday night (which I spent in a very country karaoke bar, listening to bad renditions of songs I’d never heard before), in bed watching movies that I’ve seen dozens of times, I started to feel like I needed to get out. I introduced my sister to the home of The Rasta. Where the saga of him began. The bad part about going out with FH (or any other girl, for that matter) is that, when it is just us, we have no protection from the swarming horn-balls that inhibit any bar. So, while the night started out with a lot of news and sisterly giggling (much missed), it was quickly spoiled by a marine and another man with a very strong name.

FH got to meet The Rasta, Keanu, My Guitarist Friend, and Z. It was the same night that it always is. The same winks from TR when he thinks no one will catch him. The same strange conversations with Keanu, the same goofy impracticality of MGF. And then there is Z, who thinks, for some reason that flattery will get him everywhere. I know lots of places it will not get him. He did the same thing he does every time that I get up enough courage to dance with him and will-power to let that be all that happens. Even though, we all know what kind of person he is, there is something to be said for the way he squints his eyes in the sexy way that he does when he knows I am looking at him. Knowing, I think, that I never could fight him off if I wanted to. Because there is just something exciting about him. I think we both win. I think we both just like the chase.

But it makes me realize, however exciting that part of my life is, it will never be anything comparable to what I can have if I just stop clinging for dear life to that middle-of-the-night gut-spilling letter. So, I guess, if nothing else, I will say what I have to say and then be done with it. If there is reciprocation (which I am pretty sure that there is), then things will change for the better. And if there isn’t, then things will stay as they are and I continue enjoying the chase.

Stuck-in-my-Head Song of the Day: "Anna Begins" - Counting Crows