My first blueberry. I guess I need to give up my life long dream of becoming a hand model after slamming it in the car door.
A neighbour has been asking me out. But he's gay.
When he moved in he was masculine. He carried a canoe to the beach, shirtless. He asked me out to dinner.
I said, "no". I was SHY. (This was before I started dating half the state of California.) If a decent looking man even spoke to me, I started babbling and turned beet red.
The next day he strolled past and scowled, "You're stuck up."
Huh, wha? I'm the most insecure person alive.
Fast forward. He sold his canoe, became slimmer, streaked his hair and began wearing metro-sexual clothing. His voice went up an octave.
He has an edge. There is something dark lurking beneath the surface. A slight anger...something. Anger is just fear. I know. I just flipped out on the King again.
But fear can keep you alive. With regard to The King, it looks like I'm the crazy girl. I've never been the crazy girl before. (We're not speaking.) It's my fault. I Pick fights. But there is some survival mechanism at work. Maybe it's the hormones. Maybe it's what happens when you let someone in and you've never done it before.
I've always been in charge of my relationships. I never really cared. I don't want to be the crazy girl. I'd rather be red.
Look at me, I'm crazy. But look at him. He walked into a tree and nearly bled to death. Would you rather be a moron, or crazy?