I've loved you since I knew you.

I wouldn't talk down to you.

I have to tell you just how I feel--I won't share you with another girl.


You would think after four years, this would be incredibly easy. But a romance realized at the end of a long and lonely summer is destined to crash and gloriously burn. I am terrified of leaving him like I've left everyone else. It's rare for me to encounter someone who

leaves me in a cold sweat

makes my heart race

and

most difficult of all

leaves me speechless.


How am I suppose to be mysterious and alluring when I can't even think straight? My "game" is the victim of his pheromones, really. Everything I say to him has the same mental echo: "That was stupid. God, that was stupid. He thinks I'm so stupid." He's the kind of boy who likes a challenge, who needs mystery. But it'd be so much EASIER if I could just lay it all out on the table. We have three weeks until I leave and I don't know what's going to happen.

I imagine the numerous ways that he would balk were I to suggest that we pursue an intimate relationship. But GOD DAMNIT. (!!!)

It's kind of sad, really, how people have a way of suppressing what should be the best in them so their desired will like them more. "Oh, guys don't really like it when you're smarter than they are." Or better at something, or... I don't say the things I would, the really deep things, or the things that might be challenging or maybe slightly offensive, even if it's what I really feel, because I so damn badly want him to like me. I don't even know anymore. This should be easy, but it's not.

The Solicitor is back in my life.

And I swore that I would stick to Amy Winehouse's maxim:

Maybe I'll just be my own best friend;
not fuck myself in the head with stupid men.

Well the tiniest little dot caught my eye and it turned out to be a scab.

The Editor broke up with me over the internet.

My response, unfortunately relegated to his voicemail:
"There are no words for that."

Enough said?

So, another update. It seems that I solely use A Fine Brandi to sort out all of my relationships in my head. And if I blog about them, they inevitably fail. So the ones that are good prospects I will keep to myself.

The Gunner still shows up at my work sometimes. I had a conversation with him a few weeks ago about what I was and was not looking for. He went a little crazy. He also has the ugliest tattoos I've ever seen and they look like they're melting off of his arm.

The Editor is a continual pain in my ass. I'm trying to keep this thing on good terms. There's just no polite way to tell someone--listen, you're cheap and you have no car. You'd be great if I wanted romance, but you'd be a terrible *boyfriend.* He stills calls often. I still tell him plainly and openly that I'm going out with other guys. I don't think this is going to be the learning experience for him that it should.

The Solicitor is still in Europe and has been for about a week. He and I are going to Harry Potter together. I kissed him goodbye. We have realistic expectations.

Enter the Illustrator. Shows up at my work, flirts with me, I think about him for two days, he shows up again, asks for my number. He will be attending VCU in the fall, for his second year. He's cute but he's on the rebound--typical of the pattern that I flirt with the cute ones but the ones with emotional baggage ask for my number. Not to prejudge, but his facebook contains lots of pictures of him posing with inverted crosses and pancake makeup. You don't want to fuck with these types of people. I'm playing it cool.

And there's one more, who I respect too much to reduce to three or four lines of text in my digital world.

Do you see what I'm saying, even if it's not making sense?

I am panicking slightly--because I know that the Editor believes that we are in a mutually exclusive committed relationship. Damn that C word. Damn it.

There's no tactful way to go about this.

I feel ridiculous: I'm always thinking, "I wish he would just tell me that he loves me...."

I have to leave him. I don't want things to get too serious. And by serious, I mean some kind of deep emotional involvement. I'm fine with being physical.

(Does that sound bad?)

I don't know what to do.

Then they smiled with eyes that looked as if they knew me... this is scaring me.

Why the fuck did I get in the car.

Nothing happened. But the fact that I would trust a stranger like that, trust a stranger with my life... I hate everything he said to me. I am eighteen-fucking-years-old. Look, Mr. Gunner, I am not your true lover. I have all the time in the world for games, but no time for guys who flip shit and go fucking scary-crazy.

"I am the kind of man who would lay down my life for the woman I love. I should have been born in the knight's times, because I am that kind of guy. I will fight to keep you interested in me."

And what did I do then?

When I got back to my car?

I went and made out with the Editor at his house until 2:30 in the morning.

"Oh hey! Sorry I didn't call earlier. I was hanging out with my friend Nicole..."

I can't do that anymore. I just want the ex back in my life, the ex who is noncommittal, the perfect part-time boyfriend who's sexy as all hell and irritates me enough to let me leave him at a distance. (But he never called me back.)

I am crawling out of my skin, and this is just the beginning. I don't know how what I'm going to do about the Gunner. Never calling him again is not an option.

I gave him a second chance.

It was a good thing.

Mmm...

I'm resisting the urge to make the Editor a mixtape.

But oh, how do I want to.

My cards are on your table, my dreams are in your bed.

My ex walks in to my work and it's all over.

I wasn't aggressively flirting... I was just aggressive.

DAMN IT.

I didn't mean to GET like that!

He's just one of the most sensuously attractive guys I've ever met in my life. Kissing him... hmm.

My hormones surge when this guy makes eye contact with me. It's not fair. He leaves me in a cold sweat.

And...

he wants absolutely nothing to do with me.

DAMN IT.


I am tired of being this:












And want nothing more than to be this:
















Got it?!

There's always room here for the lonely.

I can say this with the confidence that you will never see this because you have avowed completely social interactions via the internet. Such a task requires social skills that I lack. You put your arm around me tonight and held my hand...

I have always wondered if there is something that I missed.

"Oh, sorry."

"I just gave you that look because you send me... mixed messages, that's all."

"What? I'm confused."

"Now you know how I feel 24-7!" Ha. Ha. Ha.

I don't see us together, but just if we could hook up, maybe? I know that acting on the connection that I have with you would be electric. In this modern age, my forwardness is just me taking control of my sexuality.

The phrase 'until something better comes along' is not one that belongs in my mind when things like this happen. The Editor writes me constantly. I don't WANT to act like we're an old couple. I want *excitement.* I draw away from him in hopes that he will chase me further, but I am out of breath.

I just need a mental-physical connection with -somebody- who doesn't mind me occasionally being in love with them.

I'm just a fucked-up girl looking for her own piece of mind.

Old habits die hard.

I didn't consider it a date, really. I didn't even think it would be like that. But he's paying for everything and giving me the stare that, were we animals, he would be licking his teeth. The kind of stare Alan used to give me. He's opening my door and telling me I'm beautiful.

I didn't sign up for that!

I kind-of sort-of have a man now. I kind-of sort-of am involved right now. Even if I was thinking this morning about how the Editor is getting too close too fast and I don't know how to ask him politely to slow his role. I am battling infatuation and refuse to call him my boyfriend until I know that it is attraction and not infatuation that draws me. I am fighting the "Oh-my-God-a-straight-male-said-i'm-pretty" syndrome. Jesus fuck.

We talked like we were old friends.

But I'm seeing the Editor tomorrow, and the last time we were together we kissed.

This would turn out best if I could just freeze this moment in time, because -somebody- is not going to like the outcome.

If that turned around, I've grieve the special dirty things that we used to talk about.

It's my visceral-mental reaction to commitment that makes my eyes pop out of my head at every nice boy who smiles at me.

I met my first VCU male friend (read: hot guy that I want to--nevermind.) today. He was... Ah. Beautiful voice. Beautiful dark skin. Quiet but intense emotion behind his eyes and, oh. I wish. So who's going to be taking Biology next year? Hmm?

But

I WANT THIS.

I just need to give it a rest.

Where are all of these cuties when I am bitching about how lonely and unexciting my life is?!

This phenomenon, I had to put it in a song.

Shades of gold displayed naturally...?

I'm not a sentimentalist. I just sometimes find myself thinking things that would make good lines from romantic comedies. And for a girl like me, that's kind of a disgusting feeling, in the sense it's a little embarrassing. But I'm young, and I allowed to say things like that? (What is youth if it isn't love and angst. I don't think it's much more.)

I'm being a little shy now. All I want to say is that last night was nice. We talked for a long time under a sky that was lighting but no rain. It was so nice. He lent me his jacket.

Iiiiiii am not a sentimentalist.


There was, of course, a family reunion or party of some sort going on on a steamboat. Where they were blasting rap. A steamboat, on the Chesapeake Bay, blasting rap music: "I got a ho in the front, a bitch in the back." On a steamboat. That was amazing.

He says that I'm amazing.

I am not a sentimentalist.

I got another confession to make... I'm your fool.

If I said that I wasn't looking forward to tomorrow night as much as I am, then I' d be lying. (God, I hope you don't read this. I hope you don't read this. You probably read this, and it's oh. so. embarrassing.)

Bought a cute shirt today. I'll wear it tomorrow.



My brother has generously offered to do some Spring Cleaning on my life.

Wise men stay where fools rush in.

Aquarius Horoscope for 4/24:
You're unstoppable at your chosen task. This is the gift of your dynamic personality and charm. Once you take center stage, work matters will sort themselves out and suitors will toss themselves at your feet.


Oooooh, that's nice. That's really nice, actually. I've been wondering if I'm attractive in cycles, becomes it seems like said "suitors" will pay no attention to me at all for the longest time, and then I seem to get a couple interested parties at the same time. In an ideal world, I could spread people out, you know. Which sounds horrible, admittedly, because it makes it sound like none of my relationships last. I don't like to make premature judgments like that, but, I mean, hey, it'd be convenient.

(That's bad of you, Brandi. That's very, very bad.)

I'm only interested in one, really, and I think (hope) the feeling's mutual. Now I just gotta get over my critical error the last time we said goodbye; I've got to give him the opportunity to make it up to me, that's all.

As far as work matters go, I'll get this summer thing sorted out, even if I have to produce my own show. I don't want to waste my summer. So we'll see.

$3000 for my education: thank you, Norfolk Foundation.

Frank Sinatra is a great soundtrack for a life that has its ups and downs. Michael Bublé is a close second: ("And all on the leaves on the trees are falling to the sound of the breezes that blow, and I'm trying to please to the calling of your heartstrings that play soft and low.")

(I feel pretty, and when I feel pretty, I shop. Ohmigod, let's get some SHOES!)

To anything physical theater related.

Another disappointment, and I'm thinking

Give me something to believe in
'Cause I don't believe in you anymore, anymore
I wonder if it even makes a difference to try...?

Yeah, well I'll tell you something, I think you'll understand.

I'm not really a sentimentalist. But for once, it's nice to fall asleep grinning into your pillow.

(It's driving me crazy that you're not online when I am. I can't talk to you that way.)

Maybe I'm imagining, or over-analyzing, but there was a shift of posture at the end of the night that I didn't anticipate and all I can say is... damn. I wish I would've known (I would've obliged.)