Thursday, July 31, 2003

Looking back on July.

I had a rather silly panic attack last night, so I didn't end up going to the bookstore at all. I sat at my desk in my office until 10 p.m., and I honestly don't know if I should be worried about anything. It's weird.

I don't like to be kept waiting. I don't like the "what if" of it all, wondering what I'm going to have to do if something goes wrong. I'd rather just know and go from wherever I end up than not know where I'm going.

I talked to my friend Jonathan once I finally got home last night, and he helped me see outside of myself. I just sat and listened to him talk about his problems, which helped me. We agreed that July has been a hell month, and I, for one, am glad it's ending on a note of promise.

I've not heard from Snapshot regularly lately, but he may have just gotten bogged down in the same month that seems to have hit all of us the same way. Or he may have realized that the attention he was paying to me was the attention he should direct to his boyfriend, which is the right thing. I don't know where our friendship goes from here, if it goes anywhere, but it doesn't matter, really. He's not the only guy who'll like me in my life. Heck, he wasn't even the only guy that liked me this month. He was just the one I liked the most, complete with a dash of that "wrong number" happenstance and the fact that he was willing to talk, listen and comfort me.

Jonathan, listening to me vent as well, told me that there's one thing to appreciate about Eddie Bauer Guy. Though what he was willing to give me wasn't what I wanted, at least he was honest about his intentions. I may not understand Eddie Bauer Guy's intentions, but he was up front about them.

As for the apartment, I still don't know where that's going, but Jason the Real Estate Masseuse is keeping me entertained about the whole thing and seems to be keeping things well-handled. It's my own impatience that's causing me to freak out, and I don't think I can be blamed for that. That's the sort of person I am.

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