The Inner Monologue Of A Single And Confused Guy

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The Internal Dialogue Of A Confused Man

Should I text her? Probably should. It’s a Tuesday for God’s sake, so she’s not doing anything. It would be great to see her tonight. Then again, why not just wait a week? She slept over four days ago, man, give her some space. You don’t want to come off as annoying or desperate. Let’s just hit the gym, you’ll forget all about it. Maybe Blake will want to get beers with me after I’m done. The workout is good but you spend the majority of it thinking about her. In fact, the workout does the exact opposite of what you wanted. Your inflated sense of self now thinks that maybe you should send her a text. She’s probably waiting for me to reach out. You type a few drafts, being careful not to let your thumb hover over that Send button.

“What are you up to?”

“are you doing anything tonight”

“Do you want to get dinner with me this week?”

Notice the changes in capitalization. Way more laid back if you forgo proper punctuation. You decide on “hey wanna get dinner this week” after 15 minutes of back and forth. You hit send and immediately regret everything. “You’re a fucking idiot,” you think to yourself as you throw your gym clothes in the hamper. A pit forms in your stomach as you leave your phone on your bedside table and start the shower.

No point in sitting around staring at the goddamn phone. You’re no longer hungry. That protein you just drank post-workout is not helping the matter. The pseudo-nausea isn’t going to go away until you get a text back. Fifteen minutes goes by. You’re out of the shower, only to find that you don’t have any text messages. She’s probably fucking some guy right now. Don’t be ridiculous. She’s probably on her way home from work or hanging out with her friends. But what if she is? You’d never know. Why does this bother me? We’re not dating. You knew what this was going into it. Alright, I’m taking my phone off vibrate. You’re acting like a girl. Let’s eat something. Pasta again? Fucking A, I hate my life right now. Let’s see if Blake wants to get a beer down the street.

“Not tonight, man, I’m beat.”

I’m not responding to that. Guess I’ll just go fuck myself, Blake. Thanks for nothing. Fettuccine Alfredo and a Miller Lite for dinner. You’re a real piece of shit, you know that? I’m tossing this and drinking three for dinner. I don’t even care about her. Fuck it. She can do what she wants. But I do care. I’ve always cared. Even when she blows me off. Even when she tells me one thing and does the complete opposite.

And then, miraculously, the text comes in 45 minutes later that’s had your stomach doing somersaults.

“Yeah I’m free Tuesday or Wednesday”

Let’s wait ten minutes. Better make it twelve minutes. Don’t want it to seem obvious that I’m waiting. Fuck the read receipts are on. Fuck it. Just text her back.

“Cool, I’ll get at you tomorrow then.”

And relief washes over me in an awesome wave.

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