How I started Saturday night:
How I ended it:
The end.
Happy Birthday April. 😉
Boy plans
I suppose I should I just know by know that a 22-year-old boy is not going to be good at making and then keeping plans.
This is my fault.
I’ve dated craptons of stupid 22-year-old boys and none of them ever has ever once ever been good at keeping plans.
So I should know better.
But this boy is driving me insane!
With his, “hit me up, I’ll be around”s and his “I’ll be home, so just give me a call”s.
Seriously.
Ug!
I hate it.
I want definite plans. I want to know exactly what time I should be at your house. And what I should bring. And what kind of shoes I should wear. And what we’re going to eat so that I can make sure to eat something different for lunch. And who’s going to be there. And if I need a jacket or not. And how much money I should bring. And what purse I should bring.
I WANT TO KNOW THOSE THINGS.
But he’s not like that.
He’s carefree, and go with the flow and “whatever man”
Which I like.
I do. I like it.
I like it because I find myself watching “Four Christmases” on his couch while he jumps next to me and then grabs my hand and a suddenly a crappy movie is the best movie I’ve ever seen.
And I find myself wearing his favorite Cubs sweatshirt and having Saturday afternoon lunch together at a very dim and very intimate TGI Friday’s while the rest of the world is running errands and then walking through Best Buy hand-in-hand on a whim and thinking about how much I love spending time with him.
And I find myself smiling all the time.
Those are the kinds of things you can’t plan.
I know that.
But this weekend, I wish, just maybe, we could set a time for dinner.
A weak week.
I’m having one of those weeks where it takes every single ounce of will power left in my bones to drive past Taco Bell on my way home at night.
One of those weeks were my job is hard, church is hard, life is hard, and my days are so jam packed that they seem to run into each other like pudding.
One of those weeks where I get home, throw my coat on the floor, poke out my contacts, flop into my bed and talk to my mattress like I’m on an IKEA commercial.
One of those weeks where I’m too tired to even bother crying from the stress of it all. And blogging requires all the slivers of energy I have left. And I want to write about how much I hate everything and everyone, but all those things and ones probably read this.
One of those weeks where spring cannot get here fast enough. And every single Taylor Swift song on the radio annoys the crap out of me. And I don’t even have time to read about the TV I don’t have time to watch.
One of those weeks that cannot end fast enough even if it ended yesterday.
I’m having one of those weeks. And it’s still mostly Monday.