The other day I sent Chris a really mean facebook message about his total failure at keeping in touch with me, and he responded very sweetly and guiltily, and then he told me he was going to be gone for the next three days so he wouldn't be able to contact me at all. Mind you, he told me this after I had already gone 3 days without hearing from him (save for the occasional facebook poke).
Now, as a rational, not-crazy person, it was nice of him to not get defensive about me being a bitch to him and to assuming responsibility for his utter failure at being a long-distance boyfriend (ok, that was a little strong, but for the sake of semantics, I'm just going to leave it). But on the other hand, if I had not sent him those three brief paragraphs of sheer anger in a facebook message, would I have even known that he was going to be gone for the next three days? Or would I merely have gone almost an entire week without hearing a word from him? Oh my god, the mere thought of that pisses the fuck out of me. Chris is the most oblivious person ever, jesus fucking christ. I love him and he's the sweetest and most caring boyfriend I've ever had, but let's face it: he's the most fucking impossible person to date long-distance. Never again, my friends. Never fucking again.
In other news, I suppose I should actually write something of some substance not pertaining to Chris for a change.
Though, I don't really have much to talk about. I've told you about my job at Metropark, where I'm practically paying the company to let me work for them at this point. I've told you about my summer classes, which are totally owning me now that I'm less than two weeks away from having to take the final. And I've already told you way too much about my feelings concerning Chris and our ridiculous 7 week separation this summer. 7 FUCKING WEEKS. Ok, I know that there are people out there who go through this long-distance shit for way longer than 7 weeks, but come on. I've only seen Chris twice through video chatting, for a little less than an hour each time, and otherwise all I've seen of him are pictures of him and a bunch of chicks partying and drinking at various clubs and bars in Taiwan. And, I don't even get to talk to him for much more than once or twice a week. You go through this shit for 7 weeks and tell me how much you love your boyfriend afterwards (for the record, I both hate and love Chris equally at this point. Goddamn).
Oh, but I guess to update you on my internship, I'm actually going to get published on the blog I'm working for, as opposed to just doing the behind-the-scenes research bitch work (that don't get me wrong, I do enjoy, but it'll cool to actually have my own words potentially published). I'll be writing about my friends and how safe sex is apparently a concept completely foreign to them. For example I have a friend who has sex with an indiscriminate number of girls (his number of partners is the one AND ONLY aspect of his sex life that he refuses to disclose to me. And I know some pretty freaky shit about his sex life), and refuses to use condoms with any of them. But that's not the end of it. He also 'pulls out' as his birth control method, and only continues talking to the girl until she gets her period and he's home free. When I said, "you're going to be a fucking dad, you idiot," he said, "I can persuade the girl otherwise. I'm a very persuasive person." Ew.
Oh yeah, and also, he refuses to get tested even with all the bareback sex he's having with his XYZ number of girls. I don't even want to think about all the grossness that's probably festering in the crevices of his penis. When I asked him, "what if the girl has an STD and you don't know it," he says, "well, if I can't see anything there, then it's alright."
...Sigh. He's a good friend, but such a disgusting disgusting guy. He is the pig in the Trojan commercials. For real.
And I guess to update you on other aspects of my life, apparently I don't have tendonitis in my life wrist like I had assumed for the last...5 months. Instead, I actually have a ganglion cyst which I may have to have surgically removed if it gets any bigger. I realized this at dinner at a nice sushi restaurant the other night, when my wrist was feeling weird and as I started to rub it, I realized that there was something in the area connecting my hand and my wrist that was moving when it probably shouldn't have been. Like a little marble lodged under my skin. It's pretty sick. You should ask me to feel it the next time you see me.
And finally, on a completely random and unrelated note, Chris and I have this thing in which we debate who's the better driver. Now, from an objective third party perspective, we're both pretty horrible. He drives slow and brakes when turning slightly on the freeway just because he can't gauge how not sharp at all turns on the freeway are. He's one of those people I'd probably tail and then pass up and then get really pissed at for suddenly braking in the fast lane for no reason. And I'm, as you can probably tell from the aforementioned statement, kind of a dangerous driver. Though in Chris and my debates, I've maintained that because I can get you to point A to point B safely and in a faster span of time than Chris can, I am obviously the better driver. Chris, of course, contests that sort of logic. He is adamant that because he is 'better safe than sorry' kind of driver, he is the better driver.
And. Well. Today I ran over my mailbox.
Which I'm pretty sure means Chris wins, um, pretty much forever.
...I don't even have a good story behind this. I just fucking ran it over like a ridiculous ridiculous person. And I can't even do anything about it except laugh, because as my friend Mark put it, "I thought that kind of shit only happened in the movies." I am fucking insane, you guys. In. Sane.
My parents aren't even upset about it. They didn't yell at me at all for it. AT ALL, AT ALL. All my dad said when I told him my sister was laughing at me was, "If I was there I'd be laughing too. I'm definitely taking your license away when you're 50." And all my mom said was, "Well, just be thankful it wasn't a person. We needed to get the mailbox replaced anyway, you just made it so we have to do it sooner." Nuts. My parents are interesting people. I feel like they get really mad at the tiniest things, but whenever I do something hugely wrong, like say getting arrested for shoplifting or running over our mailbox, they mostly just question my sanity and then are strangely nice about it. Today when my dad got home he came to room (after already examining the mailbox mess outside), smiled, and said, "Hello, my china doll, how are you?" And then he took a look at my room and got all stern and angry and was like, "Kristine. You need to clean your room. You're like a snake, you just shed your stuff all over the place." And ok, I have maybe one pair of pants, my purse, and a t-shirt on the floor. Not even a word about the defacement of our property I caused all over our front sidewalk. It's fucking weird as balls, man.
Man, Chris is finally coming home in a week, and I cannot fucking wait. I feel like in general I'm a much meaner, crazier, more profane person when he's not around. It'll be so refreshing to see him again, after spending this whole summer being in this weird limbo of single/taken land.
Also, I can't wait to get laid again. Fuck. Yes.
