27 Dresses. Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. Forgetting Sarah Marshall. Once. Catch and Release. White Oleander. Sex and the City. You guys. These are all the movies I've watched on On Demand since yesterday afternoon. With the exception of a 17-mile run yesterday, and a few hours of work this afternoon, I've been in sweatpants, in bed, watching movies, mostly of the chick flick variety.
What the hell.
It's been a sweatpants kind of weekend. Well, as long as you have air-conditioning. It's mostly a swamp outside. But since I've been staying with my sister (the in-between before moving into MY OWN PLACE next week), she's got central air on BLAST. It's heaven. I can actually curl up in sweatpants, a sweatshirt, with blankets and pillows, and be comfortable. It's THAT COLD in here. Love it.
OK. Back to the movies. Which, I might add, have been quite good. I read White Oleander, but had never seen the movie. It's great. By the way. I've been doing nothing but watching movies. And crying over them. Seriously. 27 Dresses? It made me cry? Jesus.
I'm in a girl funk. I've been stupid. Oh, me and my poor, poor decisions. To make a long, complex, convoluted, ridiculous, embarrassing, dignity-reducing, heart-stomping story short: I wrapped my little, fragile being in a bow, handed it over to a guy knowing full-well he wanted absolutely none of it (but took it, anyway), and allowed myself to become damaged goods. As I watched. Knowing, the entire time, I was making a bad decision.
I wrecked a new friendship in the process, the result of a warped love(less) triangle, got myself burned - bad, and in the end, ended up a joke. Very much kicked out of the triangle.
I'm in a position where I should absolutely be able to stand up, dust off, tell everyone involved to fuck off, but I don't. Oh, no. I play the sweetheart. Be a friend. Reach out. Try to mend the damages to all parties involved. They don't deserve it anymore, yet here I am. I should have no respect for him. I do. I should cut my losses and not care about the lost friendship with her. I do.
Hello, I am a pathetic doormat. Who watches WAY TOO MANY GODDAMN CHICK FLICKS.
I know the entire previous story made no sense to you guys - too many details and plots and characters removed - but it's the best I can do. I sit here mad at myself for allowing the entire scenario to happen. My BFF Tori Spelling said it best the other night (damn right I watch Tori & Dean): "People don't hurt us, we allow people to hurt us."
Absolutely true in this case.
So, I've been reduced to chick flicks, because if I stop to think about how foolish I was, I will spontaneously self-combust.
And that is that story. Good, huh?
In other news, the meeting with the legislator went well last week. I should hear back any day about the job. Not that I'm freaking the hell out, or anything. Oh no. Never. I DON'T EVER FREAK OUT.
So, friends, this was the Cliff Notes versions of recent events. By next weekend I'll finally - after six months in this city - have my very own apartment. I don't even know what that means anymore, but holy shit, I'm excited. I'm going to be naked WHENEVER I WANT.
Clearly the only perk.