I hate my exes. Mostly because I’m not even sure I can call them my exes. You see, in the world of the eternally single, you rack up a lot of blurry relationships with people. We go on dates, but we’re not dating. We’re dating, but we’re not together. We’re together, but he’s not my boyfriend. We make out every Tuesday, Thursday, and third Friday of the month, but that’s it.

It’s bad enough when it’s occurring, but when the sordid, undefinable tryst ends…you don’t even know how to bitch about them! Man, that “guy who I used to sometimes make out with (and one time I think we went on a date, but it was only kind of a date because we didn’t refer to it as one)… really sucks.” God. It takes up more effort than the half assed relationship ever did.

The worst of it followed me out this week. Earlier in the summer, I had become interested in (obsessed with) a cute, smart, funny dude I had met while I was out. I gave him my number, and we ended up hanging out (making out) a few times. I started to get frustrated when I realized the extent of our hanging out was us making out, so I finally grew a metaphorical pair and told the horny jerk off. And of course with my luck, two days after I stand up for myself by acting like a crazy bitch, I run into him while I’m out with friends. And I thought Chicago was supposed to be a LARGE city…do I need to move to Hong Kong? Read More »