It isn’t very often that I think about the chuckleheads I’ve dated in the past few years. Most have been so obviously wrong for so many reasons, making it so I couldn’t even go on a second date with the schmuck.
There have been a few who caught my attention for longer than the usual nanosecond I give the men I meet in passing. Two have them have been true contenders for my affections, the most recent being quite frustrating.
I’ve since kept his blog’s RSS feed on my list. He’s a good writer, his political rants are usually dead-on, and I really enjoy the way he expresses his thoughts. It was one of the things I really liked about him: he wasn’t just pretty.
I don’t go around seeking closure. I’m the one who hasn’t spoken a peep to a former for-real love in nearly three years because his “I don’t know if I can do this” was enough closure for me. I have a string of guys who find themselves on the silent end of a cell connection after they didn’t show the proper respect someone should give a potential mate. I’m a no-nonsense kinda woman in every aspect of my life and see no reason why this should be any different.
Well, when things went down with this guy, it was pretty disappointing. We really seemed like a good match. We got fired up on the same topics. We had a lot of the same core values. I adored his friends, and they seemed to equally enjoy spending time with me. Like I said above, there’s no lingering pining. But it’s pretty natural to have someone dance through your neurons months later, give you a smirk on what could have been, and then let that be.
It’s not that I’m at home whining about some boy I haven’t talked with him over half a year. It’s not that I want to be with him. It’s not even that it went down with such an ambiguous sigh that the door is open for anything else.
But if it was, that would have been settled once and for all today.
Simply put: There is nothing attractive about absolute financial fucktardery.