It Might Be the P.M.S.

You know those moments when you know so exactly what you don't want . . .

Yeah, that's been today.

I don't want drooley dogs.
I don't want to be anyone's default girlfriend.
I don't want to think that you will just keep going out with me because you've never broken up with anyone.
I don't want to hear about your pining for Heidi, the fabulous ex-girlfriend.
I don't want to stand there waiting while you talk to your ex-wife.
I don't want to know that you thought about asking "super-mega hottie" out.
I don't want to know that it was only the picture on her desk that stopped you, not thoughts of me.
I don't want to know that you are fundamentally unhappy . . . and that it means that I don't make you happy.
I don't want to do this.
I don't want to feel this.
I don't want to cry about you . . . or about me and how inadequate I feel right now.
I don't want to break up with you.

I do want to be the center of someone's universe. I want someone to appreciate my quirks and think that I'm really cool. And I want them to be the center of my universe and I want to think they're really cool (even if they really aren't . . . I'm not all that cool either).

And so it's back to the drawing board.