Hanging on the telephone

I’m sure most of you reading this had already seen my pouty face and heard all about it, but hey that’s what this blog is for...so I can rehash my own shit to, uh, myself, and you can imbibe at your leisure. Please leave me comments kthxbai!

I was recently dumped by non-communication. Un-communication? Dis-communication? Whatever is the opposite of contact. Mind you, this had only been like a month and a half of fairly steady sex with some dinner/drink/movie shit thrown in for kicks. So no big romance or anything but I did kind of like this one. And then one morning, no witty email, hilarious texts, and as the days went on, no phone call with a breathless explanation for the assholery of not calling me on my birthday. I just Never Heard From Him Again. What gives? I am so not asking for much...a phone call, email,text message, hell a myspace comment is really all it takes for dude to drag me (willingly) into bed. Are men getting so much pussy thrown at them that they can afford to turn it away without even a quick “…oh sorry, it’s not me it’s you” to ensure they can crawl back between the sheets for future bonedowns? With this one I feel like I set the "get into my pants" bar at retard olympic** height and homeboy couldn't even make the crippled leap to reach my tits. (Metaphorically speaking, because of course he was all OVER those shits)

The worst thing is...I still really want to sleep with him of course. The sex was fantastic. Kind of adventurous, with a little kink and a tremendous amount of chemistry. To fuck him again would basically reward his crap-tastic behavior with pussy. So I’m pretty decided against it. Um…til I’m drunk. At least I can blog about it? And, uh, get laid which I haven’t in almost three weeks and I feel like a chaste slut.

**retard olympics is an awesome blog you should check out btw.