For at least (surely more) 1200 miles of my 1800 mile trip from Farmington to LA, I couldn't get G off my mind. The other 400 were spent trying to convince myself not to pull off into an exit to find a pharmacy so that I could purchase some razors. Followed by the next 100 when I meticulously counted every bite that went into my mouth; followed by the last 100 in which I tried not to kill myself in a wreck due to fatigue.
Somwhere in Oklahoma I began convincing myself that the sex was just a fling. A one-shot deal with him. I held a conversation with myself: "He doesn't want you," followed by the unbearable reality that I was right.
It's not that the sex was any good. Shockingly mediocre at best. It's just that I feel so irrationally connected to an unobtainable entity. But of course I've hyperbolized the entire relationship, and have in turn worked myself into a psychotic frenzy. I hate coy.
With most people, if the sex is bad, we're done. Here, it was okay, and I still want to give it the old college try. Problem is, now I'm left pining 1800 miles away, while he's courting the next leggy, sheepish, look-at-me-I'm-so-wasted-this-is-my-song! townie girl, coaxing her into his dark and brooding cave. I've totally let myself get carried away this time around...again.
"He doesn't want you." Remember this. Let this burn. A mantra, a credo that will keep me awake most nights now. And in the meantime, bed anyone who feigns the attention I crave from G.
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