Sandwiches, Prince Charming Stein (Charming is too...Goyishe), and an Editorial Position
I'm so hungry. I haven't really eaten too much in the past two weeks. I guess it's been on purpose. I've stopped eating carbs, but I've been really restrictive in other ways, too. I think I freaked out when I stopped eating carbs, weighed myself and saw 131lbs on the scale. I don't know how I'm back at 131lbs. I guess I haven't been working out very much. But I feel guilty every time I eat, and I'm so hungry. I really do tie my self-esteem very tightly to my weight. I can't help it. I don't think I'm capable of loving myself very much when I'm over 130lbs. I love myself the most at 125lbs or less.
Bobby, as it turns out, is still alive. He just will never call me. And that's fine, because I kind of hate him for acting the way he did with me and not calling (this is why I hate him and it's okay if he doesn't call? I'm no logician, I suppose). But I think it takes a guy with a frat boy mentality to do the stuff he did with me and not like me enough to call me afterward. It's not like I just kind of thought it went well, like I had to discern from his moot actions whether or not he liked me. The guy was grabbing me every few steps, throwing me against buildings and making out with me, telling me I was gorgeous, that I was an intellectual, that I was hilarious and fun. It takes a huge manipulative prick to never call or text a woman after that. So, that's what he is. A prick. And I feel rejected. But, that's him; it's not me. I'm not a prick and I don't want to waste my time on him. Mike Birbiglia would call me back the next day. That's what he said he does; he calls women back the next day.
Moving onward...
Robin's friends have been amazing in trying to help me get a job in New York. They're sending me their resumés, reading my resumé, putting in good words for me, etc. I may be scare as hell when I land a job in New York, because it'll be a real job (not this secretarial nonsense). But it'll be a real job. I want one of those.
So...I've got it decided: I want something to eat, a man who isn't a prick, and a real job. Good luck to me.
After thought: Oh my God. I almost just convinced myself that I have a brain tumor because of all those adderall binges John and I used to go on. I have no reason to think I might have a brain tumor other than those, but I just scared the living shit out of myself. Why am I programmed this way? To think that I might have life-condemning diseases? It's cruel.
Bobby, as it turns out, is still alive. He just will never call me. And that's fine, because I kind of hate him for acting the way he did with me and not calling (this is why I hate him and it's okay if he doesn't call? I'm no logician, I suppose). But I think it takes a guy with a frat boy mentality to do the stuff he did with me and not like me enough to call me afterward. It's not like I just kind of thought it went well, like I had to discern from his moot actions whether or not he liked me. The guy was grabbing me every few steps, throwing me against buildings and making out with me, telling me I was gorgeous, that I was an intellectual, that I was hilarious and fun. It takes a huge manipulative prick to never call or text a woman after that. So, that's what he is. A prick. And I feel rejected. But, that's him; it's not me. I'm not a prick and I don't want to waste my time on him. Mike Birbiglia would call me back the next day. That's what he said he does; he calls women back the next day.
Moving onward...
Robin's friends have been amazing in trying to help me get a job in New York. They're sending me their resumés, reading my resumé, putting in good words for me, etc. I may be scare as hell when I land a job in New York, because it'll be a real job (not this secretarial nonsense). But it'll be a real job. I want one of those.
So...I've got it decided: I want something to eat, a man who isn't a prick, and a real job. Good luck to me.
After thought: Oh my God. I almost just convinced myself that I have a brain tumor because of all those adderall binges John and I used to go on. I have no reason to think I might have a brain tumor other than those, but I just scared the living shit out of myself. Why am I programmed this way? To think that I might have life-condemning diseases? It's cruel.