I’m busy. Too busy to write, but not busy enough to whittle down my boy collection, so here’s a few updates, just to keep y’all in the loop.

The Nice One. Now, here’s a shocker for everyone: once he started to pull away, I became all the more interested. He’s been re-evaluated as pretty great in terms of personality and character, and he makes me laugh. We have great banter. Very Gilmore Girl-esque. He gets my humor and will laugh at my stupid jokes and fire clever comebacks when I am expecting a rebuttal. He also does little things that are adorable like sign emails “xoxo” (what?) or give my back a few scratches when I am feeling frustrated/stressed/tired. The thing is though, as much as he makes me laugh, the amount that he makes me smile is still undetermined. Nor does he make me blush or keep me awake at night. Which is unfortunate, because otherwise, this one would have some serious potential.

The Realtor. Also known as the opposite of The Nice One. Whereas The Nice One is somewhat obtainable and accessible, The Realtor screens my calls one minute and makes innuendos the next. Inconsistent and irritating. It’s all a game and I am too tired and too busy for games. For example, when he asked him about my Friday night, I told him that I napped from 7p to 1am, waking up just in time to receive drunk phone calls from friends for two hours, he said, “I was awake then too! Who was drunk dialing you? Booty calls? Your dudes? I should have had you come over, ha ha.” The next night, I was awake, DDing in his neighborhood at 3am, and since that was our little comment from the previous evening, I thought I would call and make some suggestive remarks (with which I had absolutely no intention of following through). He screened. As he always does. He rarely answers texts either. It’s tiring. But. He makes me smile. And nervous – in a totally good, totally addictive way. And that’s some crack that I just ain’t ready to quit – even knowing how unhealthy it is.

Oh, and I saw his apartment – I stopped there at his insistence under the guise of signing real-estate papers. I’m pretty sure the papers could have waited a few days (it was a renewal form for my garage rental, for God’s sake), but he was adamant and I was somewhat in the neighborhood – and curious. No grand tour was given, but we sat in his relatively clutter-free living room with his crappy couch and expensive tv, bitching about the Republican National Convention and flirting slightly. When it’s just us, in a comfortable environment like that, without the walls of unanswered communication, I almost want to ask, “Why aren’t we dating again?” But then I remember that I don’t actually want to hear the answer.

The Firefighter. I’m over my overanalyzing bullshit. We’re back to being buds. Well, at least I have decided that we are, but we haven’t talked so he could be thinking something completely different, but who really cares because I prefer to live in my own world anyway. His opinions are irrelevant. I do wonder about the future though. I hope that the next time I see him, we’re completely normal. If we’re both single, I wouldn’t be against something happening; if one of us is taken, I hope we can still share a couch, same as we’ve done since high school, complete with platonic cuddling. I just don’t want weirdness, and I am pretty sure there won’t be, because I think I will be done festering by then. (PS lovely how I started this paragraph saying that I was done with this analysis and then proceeded to analyze. Did you expect differently from me?)

The Kid. Oh, you didn’t think I would leave him out, did you? We talk (too often) but I am not obsessive about the talking – not like I used to be. I do wonder what it will be like if/when we ever meet again. In many ways, I feel like I was shown how a magician performs his tricks. Now, the show isn’t magic but all a charade … even though the tricks haven’t changed. No magic is actually taking place right before my eyes. It’s all trickery. I just can’t ignore the man behind the curtain. In other ways, it’s been over a year and I still miss him and we’ve both wondered to the other, “Why aren’t I over you yet?” Neither of us have an answer.

And those are the current four. Or, as my Baby Cakes calls them, my arsenal. He tries to give me advice pertaining to all of them, saying that I need to either hook up with them or break all ties, but he seems to forget the lucky number three option: string them along. With number three, I can maintain my comfort zone and not get hurt. It took me a long time to get to this stable ground, and even after all this time, I am not sure I’m ready to jump off another cliff, hoping that I either won’t fall or that my parachute will open in time to save me. But I’m creeping close to the edge, all the while maintaining my stable footwork and staying safe. And maybe I’ll stumble or maybe I will be pushed or maybe I will continue to observe the view. I guess we’ll have to wait and see.

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