I have two modes when I drink:
1. Will fuck anything and everything, animate or inanimate.
2. Self-loathing.
I hit #2 really badly earlier tonight when I finally decided to suck it up and write something to Irene (whom I have also referred to as the Hot Italian Chick, although I really need to actually start using her real name, since this is not by any means whatsoever her only redeeming quality).
So I start out replying to a letter she sent me over a month ago, which was a reply to something I sent her. She’s been out of the country since the end of finals and this was really my only correspondence with her over the summer.
I start feeling like a moron for not actually replying earlier, but what can I say? I had weddings and houseguests and mom moving and wisdom teeth to be pulled.
That, and I’m really, really afraid of getting shot down.
After getting dumped rather unceremoniously, I’m somewhat afraid of getting shot down by the first girl I’ve really liked since getting dumped. Granted, getting shot down would indeed suck, though I know from experience it’s not the end of the world.
I think part of is it is this innate need we all have to feel like we can do something right, which is something I’ve been feeling rather acutely for a while. Then, I get all panicked that I’m putting too much pressure on this and am totally psyching myself out.
That, plus trying to figure out how to explain to her that no, I really did decide to take Italian 101 this quarter before I realized that I might actually maybe possibly have a shot with her, and that I’m not a psychotic stalker…really!
And the fact that she is way, way, way out of my league. Don’t even start with me on the low self-esteem thing, I’m working on it. But this girl is funny, smart, and did I mention unbelievably hot? I’m surprised she even looked at me twice.
However, as my friend Sharon pointed out, at least I know she’s not straight. Then I’d really be banging my head against the wall.
So I’m writing letters to her, or at least drafts of them. Ones where I pour my heart out, ones where I am just sort of like lalalala and pretending nothing happened, ones where, well, I’m not even sure what I’m saying.
Sobering up, I took precautions not to actually send any of them, and send the sanest one in the morning when I have sobered up and am ready to face a new day. Or maybe I’ll just try writing one when I’m sober. Wouldn’t that be a revolutionary idea?
Yes, I know I’m a dork. And I’m goddamn proud of it, thank you very much.
Some days, I just wish I was a dork with the guts to just come out and say, “Look, I really like you. Let’s go get some drinks.”