I couldn't wait until tomorrow to post again, it seems.

     I got extremely nervous when I saw "1 Comment" at the bottom of my first post. Then I realized that I commented on my own post. DUH. See, I'm forgetful like that. Also, I get nervous. I act like I don't care what people think, but I do, to a degree. I don't let it destroy or stop me, but I do care.

     Honestly, unless I link this blog to all my Facebook friends, nobody will read it, and even if I link it to all my 300+ friends, three or four might read them, and most wouldn't be people I even really talk to. But I don't care. I talk to myself all the time anyway. I even talk and sing to myself in public, not loudly, but not in whispers either. I don't mind if I'm thought of as mentally ill. I often think of myself that way.

     Anyway, my boyfriend and I had a talk about how I say I'm going to do things and I don't follow through on them. It all started with my house key. I couldn't find it and I started freaking out. He unlocked the door with his own key and then started looking through my purse for mine. I was a bit miffed at him- it's my purse, after all. I don't let anyone look in my purse. That's a damn lie. I've totally let people look in my purse before, but for some reason I felt violated when he did. I don't know why... he's my boyfriend, I should feel totally comfortable with him looking through any and all of my stuff. I have nothing to hide from him. I'm not the cheating type, I'm not using drugs on the sly, I don't have gay furry porn in my purse or anything like that. (Who the hell would keep it in their purse and not just in some hidden file on their computer, I don't know, but I don't judge either.) But I digress, the whole principle behind the thing was that I had promised him I would keep my house key in the front pocket of my purse, the one with the "I <3 UA" (and that's the University of Akron, not Upper Arlington, lest the Central Ohioans get confused) and Pretenders buttons shoved through the vinyl. Or plastic, whatever it's made of. And I didn't. My key was in a completely different pocket of my purse. Now to some people that wouldn't matter, but I've had problems with organization my whole life, because I grew up in a highly cluttered environment and I was never taught or shown how to properly organize anything, except an essay and a research paper. I'll never get good at it if I don't honestly try, and losing my house key could get my boyfriend in "a mell of a hess" as my Shakespeare prof says. But anyway, it turned into a big, blown-out-of-proportion cryfest as usual. When my boyfriend and I fight, there's never any actual yelling. He stays all logical and intelligent and fairly calm throughout the fight, and I get all flustered and start to speak with incorrect grammar and cry. I wish I could be like him, you know? I talk tough, but when it comes down to it, my emotional endurance is comparable to my physical endurance, and I can't run a mile without walking part of it. (ADD moment: The Moonlight Sonata is drifting into my ears from somewhere and I'm reminded of a friend of mine who loves that song like it was her boyfriend. Or girlfriend, she is bi after all, like most of my female friends. Now it's gone into Fur Elise. Who knew my neighbors were Beethoven fans?)

     Rereading what I've written so far, I've come to a decision. I don't care how much it costs, I need to start taking my Ritalin again, or a similar drug.

      One of my friends, a girl I'd really like to get to know better despite the fact that I'll always feel like an ugly stepsister when I see her cute, petite form and enormous light-colored eyes, is having a birthday party on Saturday, out in Macedonia at Fun'n'Stuff (if you live around here you've surely heard of it, if not, Google it.) At pretty much the exact same time, my favorite soccer team, which also happens to be my university's men's soccer team, plays their home opener at their recently improved field. Sigh. I hate to miss a soccer game, but my rule of thumb is friends before futbol. Besides, the only people I'd see at the soccer game are loudmouthed drunks, sluts, loudmouthed drunken sluts, the occasional d-bag, and, quite possibly, my ex-boyfriend, who I'd really rather not speak to. (I'm not going to bother telling THAT tale. I've gone into great detail of that sickening time in my life to my parents, grandparents, boyfriend and psychologist. I'm done talking about the piece of shit, except to say he's a piece of shit. Honestly, he's not, he just doesn't know how to treat a woman, but I still say it because breaking my heart is not an easily forgiven offense.)

     I'll try not to make ALL my blog posts this g.d. long. (Forgot to mention, there's two words I don't like to say much, one is goddamn and the other is cunt. You won't see those words again for a while.)