It’s a New Year. When I did the 2006 recap, and read over the last several months of the year, it was like living it again through different eyes. Toward the end of the summer, I lost my anonymity and had a “too close for comfort” situation of readers on my blog – a convoluted mess of a boyfriend, and some of his past paramours all reading every detail. This was not a comfortable place for me at all, and sadly, I went under password. It didn’t stop one of the people from attempting some underhanded methods to bypass the password, but hey, I guess I’m just that interesting or something. Whatever. So, I came back out from the password after I got everything off my chest, but stopped posting about personal things.
You know what? That was a horrible solution. Not that I can’t try to shoot my mouth off with the best of them, but, I’m not as well rounded and let’s face it, not as smart as some of the best. I can’t hold a candle to the wit and banter you will read from bloggers like Cube, RCR, the Circ, and Jordan Baker. I’m not as aware and appreciative of my surroundings as Barbara and Reya, making myself the worst “witness” anyone would want in a courtroom. (“What color was the bank robber’s shirt Velvet?” “Um, he was wearing a shirt? I don’t know, but I was chewing gum that day!”) My stories are nowhere near as “The Simpsons” style clever like Ninja’s, nor are they the best-all-around of I66’s. And I’m not well versed in all things pop-culture like one KassyK.
Unless I pick a fight with one of the cops, or Sammy and Thora vomit off my balcony, I’m so much more suited to writing about boys and sex, sex and boys, drinking, and pills. Besides, that’s what Velvet in Dupont was created for anyway.
So began my New Year’s conundrum. I wondered seriously if I should just hang this up. I thought about starting another blog, but, the thought of that tires me. I prefer to keep going with this one until it dies. I do like my privacy in many ways, but, I’ve got so many awesome readers and friends that I don’t feel like the blog is over. Then I thought, maybe I can superficially coast through some dating and well, blah. That sucks too. The thing is, Velvet is not done. The idea here was about dating in D.C. And guess what? I’m still fucking dating in D.C. Less so these days than in days past, but still, like erosion, it is a slow and painful process.
So. Fuck it. Let’s get back to it. Original and uncensored, with just enough spared to save some hurt feelings and protect my personal life. Today I’m tired and malnourished and in the mood to do a bit of gut-spilling.
In July I met Sherlock. We all know the disaster. Don’t make me relive it. I just got past my stomach virus and/or food poisoning. But since the password, and since the fall, the rollercoaster continued. All of the details are probably just the same over and over, but the bottom line is that he and I are sometimes on the same page, and sometimes we are not. Like most relationships I would imagine, when we are on the same page, everything is wonderful. And when we are not on the same page, things get really really bad. I mean, really bad. Definition of really bad was me laying in a crumpled ball at my doctor’s office saying, “You have GOT to help me!” And Doctor Hot-but-Gay has his hand on the phone and he’s hit 9-1 and is about to hit that last 1 until you assure him that this isn’t what he thinks.
So somewhere after spending a wonderful Thanksgiving together, and having a great first couple weeks in December, like the front desk at the Hyatt, I just checked right back out again. I think I’ve become so conditioned to this fucked up dating style we have here in D.C. that I now think if someone wants to see me twice inside a week then something just must be wrong with them. Okay, I’m being a bit facetious, but that’s just an example of how Sherlock and I would end up on opposite pages. The usual drill was him wanting more of my time, and my pulling back in response. When his plans suddenly changed and he was going to be in town after a planned weekend out of town, he was quite pissed that I didn’t drop my plans. I am just not the girl who fucking bails on all her friends because her boyfriend is back in town. Granted, a lot of you all do it to me. A lot of you. But I do not do it back. I do not click over to talk to a boy if I’m talking to you. I do not hang up on you if he calls. And I don’t make excuses about that. Maybe it makes me a shitty girlfriend, but, that is who I am.
After several heated exchanges, we had a less than amicable parting of the ways.
Then I realized after some things both he and I said during that conversation, that it wasn’t just so easy to walk away. I don’t then, and still don’t now think that the blame for a lot of what went wrong resides with me, but I certainly didn’t help matters.
If someone has a weakness, and you know they have this weakness, and you don’t do all that you can in your power to discourage them away from said weakness, are you somehow partially responsible for what happens?
Sure, you can argue that both parties are adults and adults make their own decisions and have to stand up for those decisions. I would agree. But I also wouldn’t walk into a room of meth addicts and start chopping, cutting, lining and snorting like a hibachi chef going for the Onion Volcano.
So, here we were, having some final, tidying up conversations. Me telling him things I think he needed to know. Him asking questions and doing the same with me. Then, as is typical for members of my family, I just shut down. I was talking and contributing and emailing and even had a phone chat or two to help iron some things out, but I kept it very business, and once it turned into a “How was your day dear” conversation, I dove off the phone, or didn’t respond to that part of the email. Then I stopped responding entirely. At least to him.
What I did respond to were so many other vices in my life. And I spent several weeks doing things to my body that oh, hurt so much and haven’t been done in ages. When I woke up the other night with the dreaded food poisoning thing, I thought, “Here we go, this is where I finally end up in the ER for what I’ve done. And I don’t even have an emergency contact!” Shit. I should have been so lucky after what I went through for the next 48 hours.
So after several weeks of not talking to Sherlock, refusing all forms of contact even going so far as to fight with a delivery person who just wanted to deliver flowers to me on Christmas Eve so he could go home to his family and not listen to some crazy lady say, “TAKE THESE BACK AND CALL THE FUCKER WHO SENT THEM AND TELL HIM THEY WERE REFUSED,” we ended up meeting again in the strangest of ways.
Well. Not really.
Twenty minutes after I posted my death virus post Monday night and asked for someone to walk Sammy and Thora, guess who was at my door, promising no drama, buying gatorade, putting everything in my kitchen, shaking his head at the dying flowers, and walking the dogs. Yeah. If he was as mean to me as I have been to him, I would have let his dogs rot in hell.
He called to see how I was feeling last night and I was a bitch. Then I realized that I had NO REASON and was totally out of line. I apologized via text and he called. We ended up on the phone half the night. It was a good conversation. For three hours.
I don’t know what to say anymore. We are not on the same page right now. There is a lot that has happened between us to cause a lot of hurt. Hurt that I’m not sure I can recover from. This time though, I’m not going to stand idly around with my thumb up my ass. He isn’t in the picture right now, but he’s not completely out of it either. *Shrug*
With that, I’m back in the ring. And this time I’m up to something hilarious that I hope will yield some funny ass stories again. It was getting a little stale around here. So, I’m opening the window. Letting a little fresh air in. Let’s go.