Moving Out

I’m looking for places to move to when the semester ends. I’m tired of on-campus living and it’d be nice to be able to set down some roots. I haven’t had a permanent place of residence since I’ve moved to America; I’m done living out of a few suitcases.

My current roommate and her boyfriend have offered to let me live with them if they find a house. Right now we’re looking for places close to where my aunt and uncle used to live when they were still in Maryland (white trash area where everyone has a trailer hitch and “methed up” teeth). There’s a promising house that’s a hop, skip, and a jump from a Gold’s Gym I used to frequent. I dunno what the trainers will do if they see me working out because I told them I had terminal cancer when I cancelled the membership. I’ll tell them it was a fuckin’ miracle, grace of god stuff. People don’t openly question miracles.

Anyhow, we’d probably have to find a fourth roommate to cover the rent. Alex expressed interest, and I’d be fucking stoked if he decided to live with us. It would cut his commute in half anyway.

Jacob, my team captain, is also looking for apartments closer to campus (walking distance close). He came over yesterday to talk about getting a two or three bedroom place and to make sure we have similar expectations. For instance, I don’t want to live in a closet, I want decent water pressure so it doesn’t feel like someone is pissing on me when I shower, the house needs to be clean enough for me to walk around barefoot (Asian household), and if he eats something I bought I ask he let me know so I can get more.

“What are your opinions on loud, crazy sex?”

“I do it and so can you.”


It doesn’t matter who said what because we’re all on the same page.

I’m excited.

A Tell All

This post scares me. It may seem silly to you, but for the time being, this matter is important to me.

As of late, I find my Dirty Laundry posts a little unsettling. I feel like I’m cheating on the guy I’m currently seeing.

And then this thought hits me: You might be nothing to him. You can’t cheat because you’re nothing.

Perhaps “nothing” is too harsh. A more accurate statement: You might be a placeholder until someone better comes along. Shit, that’s not much better actually.

It’s been eating at me for a few days now. Am I slipping into the friends with benefits territory? Am I already there? I really hope he’s just taking his time with me, making sure we’re good for each other.

It’s the not knowing that’s killing me. Do I need to jump ship and stop wasting time, or have I found a person I feel safe and comfortable with? It’s been such a very long time since I’ve felt that way. I’d like to think maybe I’m an all right enough person to be… “number one?”. Likable enough to keep around…? I dunno. It’s difficult writing these things because I feel I don’t deserve them.

My previous boyfriend was hung up on his ex. I was always second best, and it REALLY fucked me up. Everything I did she could do better in his eyes. It seemed like I would never be seen; I was drowning while he described the water. I called things off because I couldn’t handle being second best all the time for the person I cared about. He said he was sad, but I question the honesty of his words. I truly hope he gets back with her someday. Personally, I hate re-runs.

I guess I want to have the dreadful “talk,” and I’m scared shitless because it seems like I’m gonna lose him.

I want to post this, but I know he reads my blog. It’s currently 8:34 PM on March 22nd. I’ll schedule this for… noon on Saturday, the 27th. I reckon if I’m not too chicken shit, I’ll have had the conversation with him. Updates to follow (read as: I’ll either be happy or inconsolably sad). For me, no news is bad news.

Fitness Parameters

Green smoothies for breakfast five times a week. That’s doable.

Supplement shake for a meal five days a week. Ew. 

Run a 5k three days a week. This sucks.

Run a 10k twice a week. Ah hell.

Weight train every other day. Sweet Jesus, what is this?

Swim at least 20 laps after crew practice. I’d rather fuck a hot curling iron.

Cheat day once a week. Light at the end of the tunnel.

The first thing I’m doing once I’m a skinny bitch is buying a shit ton of lingerie to wear around the house.

The only way that shit’s coming off is if a man takes it off of me.