Theonly guy I ever loved called me ugly the night that we broke up. Actually, the night that he broke up with me although I’m the one who told him to leave. I knew it was the right decision for us to break up. It had been brewing openly for a week and on the hemisphere of my thoughts for more than that, but when he was gone I was totally lost. Flung into despair.

That was the last time I had sex with anybody I cared about. After the only man I’d ever loved–I mean LOVED body soul and spirit–called me ugly and looked at me with eyes flush with hate, I could not bring myself to have sex with another man I cared about. It was easy. After him I never really cared about any man anyway.

Now I separate the two: love and sex. I love my friends and my family. I sex men who I barely know and realize I’ll never see again. Momentarily I find something about them that is beguiling, but when its over I don’t cry like I did for months after the ugly comment. I assume they will leave because who could stay with a girl as ugly as me? If the only man I ever loved couldn’t love me back or even be kind to me when leaving, then how could I expect anymore from anybody else?

Whenever I meet someone new and they tell me I’m pretty I see Nate’s eyes and I know they are lying.

The scary part is that I don’t know how to like someone new. I cannot wrap my mind around having a physical relationship with a person I care about because my heart has not recovered from the wreckage of last time.

I am so afraid to walk that line of hope and inevitable disappointment that comes with a new infatuation. I really want to be in love. I really want to meet somebody that I can be best friends with and know with full certainty loves me back. I need to meet somebody who will not make me feel like a second choice girl. Boyfriends of the past have gotten married while dating me, cheated on me, lied to me, had me walk in on them having sex with other girls, threw me into brick walls, and decided they’d rather get drunk, high or both with their boys instead of spending a thursday night cooking dinner with me.

If second choice girl was a syndrome I’d be terminal. In total honesty (and because this is a private blog) I don’t want to settle for my second choice either. I try to like these guys who are nice enough and show enough interest in me, but they aren’t me first choice and I know if I met someone else I’d only break their hearts.

Is it so hard to find a first-choice guy who makes me his first-choice too?

Well I am certain of this much: I cannot have another disappointment in my romantic life and live through it with 100% optimism. At this point I’m barely getting through the day at 70.

So far I’m feeling that intoxicating relief of ending unhealthy relationships on good notes. Now that I’ve made up my mind to return to the land of my God-son these men from my past no longer resonate in the places they once held guard. The NYX for example, entertained me over drinks Friday night for nearly three hours and at no point did I want to kiss him. He leaned over once to touch my hair–to feel the texture change between curly to straight–and it was as if he were a doctor or a stylist. My skin didn’t pucker in want. My heart didn’t pound into my rib cage or sink into my belly.Without the dumbing affects of love, I recognized that had I stayed with him, he would’ve eventually made me miserable because he is a man who is never content with today and spends all his energy clawing his way (uphill) into tomorrow.

The night before drinks, I will admit, I had sex with the midget. You know what though? It wasn’t spiritual. I didn’t feel anything deeper than momentary lust. In fact, he might as well been my vibrator and even then, my vibrator and I have been through more together. Maybe I used to think it was spiritual before I really understood what spiritual looked like and smelled like. Now I know better.

I remember the night in Port Antonio when I lay flat on my back in the pick-up truck and watched the hazy stars through the jagged trees that lined the dirt road, sail by above my eyes. That night I’d thought of the midget in shades of love rather than lust. Rosy colored hues that are mainly reserved for ninth grade catholic school girls, but I allowed him to join my thoughts regardless because that night, far away from the gritty excuses of New York, I deemed him worthy.

When I told him about it the next day he said he didn’t want to date me. Fucking me was fine. Talking to me everyday for the past nine months was fine. But dating was something reserved for another girl I’d never be.

There, surrounded by the sea and earth, filled up to my throat with the love of my friends, that was spiritual. That was love. Sex with the midget was merely something to do on a Thursday night. Like washing my hair. Afterwards I felt clean because I knew he’d washed off my back like water and shampoo down a drain. Swirling and slow to go at first, but once passed, it was as if he’d never come at all.

What I want for the new year is a clean emotional break. I want to be done with the boys from my past and present, who don’t care about me more than once every fortnight. I want to resign myself to the fact that I will be a successful novelist and finally, after two years, complete this story about my sister. I want to be so busy that when I come home I’m not able to do much more than rush in a 45 minute work out and fall straight to bed at night.

I look around at my younger and older cousins, with their happy relationships and seemingly settled lives and I don’t understand it. For all intents and purposes, I’m a catch. I’m good humored, sociable, smart, loving, and many people argue, very attractive. Why is it that I am constantly single? Why is it exactly that nobody wants to call me their girlfriend?

Every year for my entire life I have begun the year alone. This year I don’t care. I may in fact stay home watching the Entourage marathon even though I swore to myself last year that I wouldn’t. I’m not that interested anymore in being in love or having someone else be in love with me. In the grand scheme of things, it’s just really not that important.

July fourth, my birthday, your birthday, labor day weekend, thanksgiving, for all these days I’ve missed him, holding my peace.  Tomorrow will be Christmas Eve and the next day Christmas. I will probably miss him then too. Then of course New Year’s Eve, when he will be up north kissing a girl who doesn’t ache for him, like I ache for him. I’ll probably be kissing someone too, someone who will taste sour to me for the simple reason that He is not Him.

For the last eleven days I have gone to bed every night talking to him across the sea. I talk to him online as well and I’ve let him know twice that it would be OK to call. Bu he doesn’t call He isn’t a phone person. Knowing this doesn’t make it any less annoying, by the way. So for these eleven nights I have wanted to say that I love you. If he actually called me I’d be a wreck, falling all over myself with words that are too true in my head and so common when spoken out loud.

The mushiness makes me nauseous. It’s not unfounded like some love-sick contrite bitch, it’s really something.  We have good conversation, have a lot in common, fight to the death and still manage to never go more than two weeks without contact in seven months. To be frank–we’ve only had good sex twice, as far as I’m concerned, and I still think the world of him, so how’s that for real love?

I know he’ll never really love me back though, not until I’m gone. Not until I’m out of the picture for good, with some other man. He says he ‘likes me’ unless he’s drunk when it changes to love or in love, but the next day when the drink is finally pissed from his system, he’s all apologies and reaffirmations that he meant like.

The fact that all those pertinent days passed without hearing from him is proof enough he doesn’t return my affections.  Still he’s only ever ignored me once and that was the night I told him I slept with two other guys since the last time we were together. We weren’t officially ‘together’, but only in the same place physically. Very physically. We had a huge blow out via text then I asked if he hated me. He didn’t respond until two weeks later when he drunk dialed me when I was on my way home in a cab to tell me that he’s in love with me.

He gives me butterflies. Every. Time. Every IM, text, drunk dial. Every time we see each other, I just love him. I want to fall to the ground and cry because I’m scared it will always be the last time. He’s said we aren’t a good fit. I’ve said so. I lied. I hope he did too though I doubt it. How is it possible for him to admit still liking me after seven months and in the same breath say that we are ill-suited? He’s going to break my heart a hundred more times until I stop thinking about him when I masturbate.

I just had THE MOST AMAZING sex/party dream ever! It felt so real. I was in New York with my friends bar hopping. We went into some undistinct pub in Gramercy that turned out to be the public library. Apparently, the NY Public Library turns into a multi-level, disco-ball flaunting dive after hours. We raced up and down in the elevators, every floor holding another person from our pasts. For me it was The Actor. For my friends it was high school crushes and college one night stands. Everywhere we went we chugged more fruity mixed drinks and let our voices raise. In New York, you can be as loud as you want because everyone else is ten times louder.

Every song was a good reason to dance, so we took to the floor, our twirly black skirts whirring around us. X-Tina was there and so were a few other random friends that I can’t remember right now. I know that in the dream, they were the only people I ever wanted to be around.

Then at about four AM, the library closed to set up for the following day and my friends and I left. We walked up the chilly streets of Manhattan in our sweat-dampened skirts feeling that ‘life can’t get any better than this’ feeling that only a night of dancing can conjur.

Do you know the girl on The Bachelor who you think is going to get the last rose all the way up until she, well, doesn’t? I am that girl.

On paper it all makes sense: Private New England Boarding School, Expensive Liberal Arts University, Respected Wealthy Family, Attractive Physical Attributes and anything else worthy of obnoxious mid-sentence capitals. Yes, I have it all, or as I like to parahrase, the brains/the dough/the bod. What’s the problem? (My mother wants to know) Why am I un-married and jobless at twenty-four? It doesn’t make sense, right?

Wrong. It makes total sense. I am a second choice girl. I am the girl that always gets foiled by the under-dog. I am Galinda in Wicked, Amber in Hairspray, Rizo in Grease (I just needed a brunette!). In short, I am that girl–the girl on The Bchelor who should’ve gotten the guy but didn’t for reasons that trascend paper.

Am I mad about this? Does this knowledge upset and infuriate me in ways that span the depth and breadth of logic? Not so much. Being the second choice girl–the one who is always pit against just one other candidate for the job (the one with more experience and less need for a salary)–it kind of has its perks. For one thing, everyone loves a loser.

Think about it–once Jordin Sparks wins American Idol will you buy her CD? No way! She’s a winner! She already won! But when Kelly Pickler or that rock dude Chris comes out with an album aren’t you a little curious? People like to see other people fail and try again. It’s the most human, relatable characteristic that mankind posseses. Being a second choice is like being an everyman. Every man has at one point or another, been that second choice. They’ve lost the job to someone more qualified, they’ve lost the guy to someone who didn’t have sex on the first date. It happens to everyone just like it happens to me.

So to get back to my point, I don’t pity myself for being a second choice girl. If anything it makes me more human. It makes me a grittier, more complex female and at the very least, it gives me something to bitch about knowing full-well that if I got it, I’d probably just f*ck it up.

Besides, if I was who it says I am on paper, I’d probably still be a virgin. (And how would that be any fun for you?)

Time for a big confession: I’m falling madly in love with a Jewish Midget.

We met a week ago at Mercury Bar after this jerk asked me out in front of his girlfriend. I was so repulsed I ran down the block, ducked into the bar, and leaned up against a wall to get my drunken bearings. That’s when he started talking to me–a voice from below.

At first I didn’t pay him much attention but minutes later he had me doubled over in laughter. That’s right–the midget made me laugh with my entire body until I thought I couldn’t stand up anymore.

OK ok, he wasn’t really a midget, he was just my height. Exactly. Without shoes on. And Jewish.

Next thing I know, we’re next door having pizza, outside side sharing a cigarette, then back in the bar, making out in a booth to Shakira’s ‘Hips Don’t Lie’. I just couldn’t get enough of him, everything about him was intoxicating. It was like magic. He got me and I got him.

Every guy in the bar stared at us in total disbelief. Me with my voluptous, sexy curves and newly blonde hair, and him, buried half way in my boobs on the dancefloor.

The next day he texted me: Hey suga. I was immediately in love.

Last night we went on our first date–possibly the best first date I’ve had in years. I figured I didn’t want to play games. He wont marry me anyways, I’m not Jewish. So we had sex. (Let me say, not everything about him was dwarfed). 3 times.

Sigh. So this is love.

There’s a boy at the gym who I’ve had a crush on for a year. We’ve been out a few times in groups and whenever he talks to me I feel like he likes me, but he never asks for my number or asks me out. A while back he used to put the ball in my court by telling me–when you’re going to so-and-so, let me know, I’d love to come. Then when I’d invite him he’d show up, we’d have a good time, then he wouldn’t ask to see me again.

instead i’d get: see you around the gym.

Clearly he’s not into me. Clearly I’m crazy if I think he likes me. He’s just a flirt, right? He’s a total hottie and he knows it, so he taunts, teases, and watches in glee as he walks away from my totally confused face.

That was a while back. lately he turns me down when i offer to go out. what a loser i am. he turns me down repeatedly and i still ask. sigh. so i guess its safe to assume that we’ll never have sex, right? even better–we’ll never have babies, which is a shame because our babies would be precious.

i’d settle for head. maybe he’d let me give him head? i suppose i could ask, but who wants to get turned down for that.

‘thanks but no thanks’ he say, ‘i’d rather get my dick sucked by someone who isn’t such a loser’.

he’d say this with his thumb and second finger in the shape of an L on his forehead.

(did anyone else here the ‘All Star’ song in their heads? me too dude)

He doesn’t even go to my gym anymore. Blah. Scared another one away I see. How terrific.

Dude, here I am making more money than I ever thought I’d make, and my bank account is broker than broke. I’ve been thinking about this:…hmmm…haaaww…I’ve said…why am I so bloody broke after I just got a fat check?

Then it occured to me: I am keeping myself in the lifestyle to which I’ve grown accustomed, and there is no way one person can ever make enough money–from scratch–to support that! I mean, I’m ridiculous. Who really needs 2 personal trainers? That’s more than half my pay-check right there. Not to mention that no matter how hard I try, I cannot live on $20 a day for food in this city. Food–sure–but what about drinks? And snacks? And desserts? And lunch time shopping trips? Hellooo! $20–I think not.

And toilet paper? I mean…shit man…I’m always fucking running out and having to use my kleenex box. What happens when I use up every kleenex box in the apartment? I’ll have to wait till my grandparents come back in August to get more boxes because that shit is the real expense in bathroom materials! Then when I run out of toilet papge I’ll be seriously screwed and have to resort to Domino’s napkins and the back of my hand. (Only for pee–and I wash it right away! Like you’ve never done that before!?!?!)

And I’m forgetting the regular stuff like toothpaste and razor blades. I feel like as soon as my credit card is cooling off from the last Duane Reade excursion, it’s time to swipe again.

Who can honestly live on a five-figure income in NYC?

Not me, that’s for sure. Imagine if I had to pay rent!!! Atrocious. I can barely cover a pedicure and an eye-brow threading, and tomorrow I want to get my hair done. Wow–I wonder if my parents will let me use their card. I’ve confiscated my own credit card because it keeps getting me in trouble.

Onto other news, I have a little crush on Bo, therefore I’ve deleted his number from my phone (as I’ve done once a week for the past 3 months), and decided to no longer respond to any contact he may try with me. I cannot fall for a gay man.

Not again.

The weather is getting a little cooler in Nuevo York. The rain helps, although I didn’t make a sale all freaking day. I’m #3 in the region though, so I guess that’s worth something. Tomorrow the numbers will change, so let me just have tonight to gloat.

I’m #3!!!!!!!!!!YIIIPPPEEEE!!!!

–End of Post–

I call Bo my boyfriend when I’m giving tours at work. My boyfriend, the actor, i say. When men call, email, and solicit me on the street, I tell them: no thanks, I have a boyfriend, he’s Matt Damon’s body double and we’re veryyy serious.

If Bo ever heard me say that, he’d crack up. We are the furthest thing from that. Sure-when we’re together we get along well and we have a lot in common, but to ever call our relationship a ‘relationship’ would be absurd and dellusional. (hello–do you know me at all?)

Convienient, is what it is. There’s an understanding, though we don’t really need to define it with words. He’s serious about his career, and I’m serious about…well…finding a husband. Many months ago I informed Bo that we were never getting married. He said, you never know, and I said, no really, never. But we sleep together. (yes–sleep only). We haven’t had sex since the week we met. Honestly, its not like that with us.

I think maybe we could seriously date in the future though, when he’s more settled and I’m mature enough for a relationship. And if he convinces me he’s totally straight–that has a lot of influence on things as well.

Side note: my mother called, from Jamaica, specifically one day, out of the blue, to tell me she thinks Bo is gay.

It’s been two weeks since I’ve seen Bo my boyfriend, however, because he got pulled into a new Matt movie, unexpectedly. Wow–my boyfriend is famous. Bo is such a safe boy for me. The more I type this, the more I think he really is gay.