Here we go, 'round again...

I did a remarkably sensible thing just now. Last night, fully determined to give B.N.B. the old what for, I caved and wound up giggling as I kissed his neck from the back of his motorcycle. It's a sad, sorry state of affairs when a rotten attitude and horrible track record with women combined with just the RIGHT kind of smile can turn me into an amoeba. And by amoeba, I mean spineless and full of gelatinous crap. But just now, as B.N.B. was trying to weasel out of a promised "date" by saying his schedule was screwed up and he was still screwed up (his words: "screwed") about the breakup with his ex-whose-upper-arms-look-like-Virginia-hams-complete-with-crosshatching, I said "Hey, you need to talk to me more, or I'm not going to give you any more of my time."

In two weeks' time, if he decides to go on being a maverick, a rebel, a devil-may-care kind of fella and ignore my request, I will likely be one of two places: on a horrible date with a guy whose sweetness quotient could decimate the diabetic population of Chicago, or weeping on the floor of my (terribly cute) apartment, listening to Tori Amos and drinking cheap vodka from the bottle I keep in my closet behind my bridesmaid's dresses.

Who said sex is easy?