Betcha thought I forgot about this journal, didn’t you? And I almost did, truthfully. Things were going so well, I almost felt embarrassed to keep blathering on about how awesome my life was.

Operative word: was.

Not to be dramatic, but lately things have exploded (imploded?) so thoroughly that I’m starting to feel like the overwrought heroine in a bad Victorian novel — clutching bosom, heaving heart, and all.

Really, it’s not all that bad. Still living with Professor, still banging The Animator. Only, now instead of swinging about in the thoes of an exciting “love triangle,” I feel like I’m just biding my time till the sky comes crashing down.

I’m pregnant. The father? Good question.

It gets worse: neither man in my life gives a shit about me. Which doubtless comes as no surprise to anyone who dares ask the obvious question, “When is a guy not jealous when his sexual partner is seeing other men?”

Uhhhhh… I’d like to buzz in now (better late than never): when he doesn’t care.

DING DING DING

There I was, having my cake and eating it too — and eating it and eating it and eating it. Gorging myself, barely even tasting. Now here I am: alone & fat on my own indulgences.

That metaphor sucks, lemme put it another way. I was getting such a high bouncing between guys, I failed to focus and assumed I was the one playing when it seems I have actually been getting played.

Damn, that’s more explanatory but horribly cliche… and a little exaggerated. But it’s how I *feel* so there ya have it.

I shouldn’t be so surprised. I always assumed The Animator had other chicks, he definitely keeps some kind of a “rotation” that I can’t quite pin down but I’ve picked up patterns and can always tell when it’s about time for him to surface. Of course, at first we fucked quite constantly but that peetered out after a few weeks. Rather conveniently, too, so I could turn my attention to Professor. Sexual attention, that is.

I’ve been a machine! So weird… this “friends-with-benefits” thing amped up my drive so much my own mother pulled me aside and whispered, “You’re talking like a man!” after catching some of my weekend wrap-up with my sisters.

I guess I was. Maybe my testosterone’s outta whack. Maybe I have an ovarian cyst, pituitary tumors, or an adrenal gland dysfunction (thank you, WebMD!).

Or maybe I’ve been so hopped up on sex to distract myself from the raw truth that I can’t handle emotions with more than one guy — and since I can’t choose between guys, I just shut off my emotions. I stopped seeing Professor and the Animator as friends and instead reduced them to body parts and orgasmic experiences.

Which, at the time = HOT!

But life has a funny way of squeezing into even the most carefully constructed fantasies. I see now the key to “friends with benefits” isn’t the “benefits” part at all, but that part at the front, the “friends” bit.

I could use a friend now, oh boy. Someone to help me sort out this mess inside me, cause I fear my current state is due not just to carelessness but also some deep-seated need to take all these feelings inside me and bring them to life, to make something real from all my hiding & pretending.

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