Tuesday 9:46pm

February 5, 2012

My phone doesn’t show any missed alerts, which means she hasn’t called or texted me since getting off work. I am slightly annoyed, since I know she  has started revealing to people that we’re fucking. Except that we’re not fucking — despite the fact that she put my dick inside her this weekend, which I wouldn’t really call fucking, since I was mostly asleep at the time.

I consider the impact pornography has had on my sex life and general ability to relate to women, and decide I would be better off without it. The fact remains that she hasn’t called me tonight, and that chafes me ever so slightly. If she really liked me, she would have called, knowing my tendency to worry when I don’t have enough information to make an informed decision.

I’m eating frozen blueberries, because I’ve heard the antioxidants in blueberries prevent cancer, and I have a testicular ultrasound scheduled for this Friday at 4pm. I worry that my boss will think I’m not serious about my job if I take too much more time off work to get medical tests. I’m pretty sure that beating cancer would improve my lifetime earnings by close to $250,000. I’m also falling in love with my nurse practitioner. She’s a cancer survivor herself. That’s probably why she ordered the tests.

The girl who hasn’t called me doesn’t seem to be very emotionally aware. I’m mostly convinced she’s either sleeping with, or just emotionally manipulating, my best friend Bradley. On the other hand, that could be my excessive and irrational mistrust of all people. The evidence for that belief doesn’t seem to be overwhelming, but since I have trouble thinking of counter-evidence, I find it hard to dismiss out of hand. I decide that if the possibility exists, it would be more embarrassing to dismiss it and be caught unawares later, than to hold an irrational position forever and just feel cautious and hard-headed.

I can’t shake my obsessive thoughts about my nurse practitioner. She has breast implants, and I think surviving cancer is probably the only set of circumstances in which I would endorse a woman getting breast implants. I would love a big tumbler of Dewars on the rocks right now.

There’s probably not enough binge drinking in my life at this point for me to make the really hard decisions about what happens next, like do I go to grad school or just continue climbing the corporate ladder. The next most important question is, can I fuck that 31-year-old tart they just installed behind my desk without my current work girlfriend finding out? Her face is so basically perfect, I don’t even care that she has almost no tits. I have thought about fucking her in the stairwell a disturbing number of times, without a condom. I would definitely want to come inside her without a condom. I wonder if she would notice if I masturbated and came in her hair while she was on the phone. I think I’m going to start ordering two drinks at a time when I’m at all but the fanciest restaurants. Are my shoulders starting to seize up from my kettlebell class?

The thing about my co-worker (the 31-year-old, not the one I’m not fucking) is that she’s unlikely to get drunk near me unless it’s at work sponsored event. Could we fuck at one of those without anyone noticing? Probably not. It would be more ethical not to flirt heavily with other women I work with, but I think it’s almost inevitable. Our only stage upon which to play out romantic jealousy plots is work. This is extremely unprofessional behavior but it might not be able to be helped.

It’s now 10:01 (also the name of a very pretentious restaurant in my neighborhood), and no call or text from the coworker I’m not fucking. I can’t believe how thoroughly she’s dissing me. I wonder if a trip to the Llave del Infierno strip club and a handjob from a stripper would make me feel better about the situation. I could order two drinks at once.

Since I’ve been writing for about 15 minutes and produced about 800 words, I can surmise my writing speed is about 3,108 words per hour, which is really quite spectacular and should more than make up for the fact that I’m so inept at having real relationships. It’s probably the best idea to just go to bed now, so I can get enough sleep to encourage protein synthesis in my shoulders, lats, gluts, and quads. I’m supposed to go to a South-side lounge tomorrow with my friend Randy, and speak to a girl I find attractive, to get over my fear of approaching women. With the  anger I feel from being dissed tonight, I get the distinct impression that will be no problem. I should probably also meditate again before I get in bed, to cleanse myself of this negativity and re-center my mind in a happy and positive place that allows me to consider the very real possibility of a stable, monogamous long-term relationship with a woman who is three years my senior, has a much less valuable undergraduate degree than me, and yet somehow still makes 94% of what I make.

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