I’m not really into big declarations of “love” on Facebook. I’m actually not really into putting up any status updates that involve feelings on Facebook. I rarely comment on my boyfriend’s page and when I do it’s not really in a way that the casual observer would be able to tell that we are getting naked together.
Facebook is a place I go to make snarky comments and make people laugh. Or make them realize why they love me. 
People are really annoying. I feel like no one gets it. I get it but sometimes my emotions take over and I end up on the other side of the moon. And I know, even while sitting in my little corner shaking my fist at the world, that I am being irrational. The rational part tries to take over, and even wins sometimes.
And sometimes it loses and the crazy takes over more. I’m clearing my head right now.
For a moment anyway.
I’ve had the same conversation multiple times about my dating black guys. Usually with white guys. When someone finds out that my boyfriend/(soon to be ex-)husband is black I automatically become one of those girls.
One of what girls? Those ones.
So guys are kind of a pain in the ass and I try to lie or evade direct questions about how many guys I’ve banged.
But that doesn’t work when they are trying to be sneaky and ask indirect questions about my number. So I have a little game that I like to play to keep myself in their good graces.
I was talking to one of the pharmacists at work one day. Sex is a popular topic in my conversations. I like to horrify my friends with my stories. The pharmacist was a guy and he said something about guys not caring how many guys a woman has been with.
I don’t know what planet he lives on, but guys do care. Some of them care a lot.
Ah yes, massive computer death, a long sadness with no computer (no porn!) and now the light is back. Porn instantly at my fingertips.
And my blog.
I’m kinda playing with fire over here and getting ready to watch it all explode. I got rid of one of the three problems yesterday, so that only leaves me with two. Now I just need to get rid of one or the other, or both, and then I can relax.
Been feeling kind of blah lately, haven’t really felt like posting much. Part of it is because reality has come crashing back in on me in several forms. I’m never really sure of what I want and how that mixes with what other people tell me I should want/feelings of inadequacy/normal life.
So I’ve been on a little bit of an emotional roller coaster lately. I enjoy the highs, but not the lows where I cry all damn day and take three hour naps after sleeping for 10 hours the night before. That was my Saturday.
Anyway…
Dating can be tough when you don’t like to leave the house.
Actually, I like to leave the house. My angry stomach/butt problem doesn’t like me to leave the house.
But I hate leaving the house because what if I have to poop?
Except that it’s really an all-consuming panicky kind of thing. But it’s kinda funny. And annoying too. (Thank God no one here knows me in real life.)
I have IBS. What is IBS? Irritable Bowel Syndrome. What does that mean? (I know, you’re thinking WTF does this has to do with what she normally writes. Hopefully you’ll see the connection.)
It means I spend a lot of time in the bathroom. Or none at all.
And I’m not saying that in some sappy, sentimental way. I promise. I’m not emotional like that.
There are two ways to like a song. So what I’m thinking it that relationships are like music in that you hear a song…
 | woodynyou on Going to the Gyno |
| woodynyou on Going to the Gyno |
 | mattdyne on Going to the Gyno |
| mattdyne on Going to the Gyno |
 | Jacque on The Blackest Man on Earth… |
