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death, dating, tattoos, and love

July 31, 2014

It’s sort of an amalgamation of content, but it fits all together, at least tangentially, if not chronologically.

On August first, it will have been one year since my sister passed away. Today, I got my first tattoo without her by my side. I was mostly successful in blocking the realization out of my head, but now in the night’s stillness, it’s haunting more than I’d like to admit.

I sat for the tattoo for two hours, a half sleeve piece based on the painting I gave MTIA called gender queer-y.

This made me late for a dinner and movie date with Baseball, who was exceptionally and surprisingly tolerant of my running behind schedule. He asked about the work, and I explained it to him; MTIA was the only other person who knew its meaning (side note: MTIA bailed on yet another meeting, no explanation). I hope I don’t regret telling Baseball about the painting’s title and significance.

As we held hands in the movie theater later, though, and as we kissed softly goodnight, neither of us wanting to let go, I feel like maybe I won’t regret it.

I am trying to keep my distance, though, lest I let things get out off hand as they did with Ro, who I told, more or less, too go suck a big, fat, rotten egg the other day.

I’m a little fragile at the moment, hitting this one year mark (when am I NOT fragile, honestly, and how long can I continue using death as an excuse?), and I told Ro I wasn’t happy about his choice to date someone other than me, about his choice to call me fat, or about his choice to tell me to push through the chronic pain of my medical condition. I told him that I had always known I’d walk away when he chose to date someone other than me. He had given me carte blanche to date others, but said it was unfair of me to be upset about his decision to date.

For someone who claims Facebook isn’t all that important, removing me from his friend list seems a bit melodramatic, though he said it was to spare my having too see his posts in my news feed. I didn’t bother to tell him that I had long ago hidden his posts, but did point out that I could easily do so without needing some sort of fucked up heroism in the form of being “unfriended.” Petty bastard. In his anger, he asked me not to text him or call him further that day.

In return, I blocked all incoming calls and texts from him. (I’ve never before done that except when I tried unsuccessfully with TLTL, so the fact that I bothered to research how to do it correctly is really saying something for my own petty anger and I’m shamefully unashamed about that.)

I’m starting to think that my avoidance of noticing Baseball’s shoes is tied into my fear of more failed relationships. If I like his shoes, I might get my hopes up.

But who am I kidding? They are already up. I don’t want to admit it here, or to myself, or anyone, but… I LIKE him.

“I’ll talk too you tomorrow,” he said tonight. After our first date, he said not to take it personally if we didn’t talk every day. But now that’s changing, at least in theory.

He didn’t make fun of my artwork. He didn’t smile and nod dismissively.  On the contrary, he brought up an article he’d read recently regarding gender as a continuum rather than as a binary distinction.

I reaaaaally don’t want to get my hopes up.

I reaaaaally like him.

Crap.

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