On Strangers In My Bed

I'm searching through my hard drive in a desperate attempt to locate the file that contains an entire year's worth of writing. And when I say I'm desperate, I mean frantic. A few months ago my computer fucked up and my dad had to restore my drives. It was looking like I didn't lose anything but now? I am not so sure. And I'm sort of panicked.

I did, however, find a few gems hidden in random folders. Things I never published because, at the time, I was worried about hurting or offending someone. This may be one of my favorite bits that I've come across so far. In advance, I am going to say... sorry Mom.

I wake up groggy, grouchy and with a splitting headache. I have no idea what time it is or what happened last night. A classic hangover, but something I never experienced until recently. I guess what they say about getting older is true. I roll over, pull back the covers and am just about to attempt to crawl to the kitchen for ibuprofen (oh miracle worker!) when I realize I’m not alone. There is a beautiful, passed out boy in my bed. Suddenly, I’m concerned; I don’t have a concept of the time, but now I’m beginning to think that maybe I’m confused about the year, too. There hasn’t been a strange boy in my bed in 6 years. Shit.

It’s Easter Sunday and I’m supposed to be at my grandmother’s house for lunch. I guess it’s a good thing my family is laid back, because I’m a train wreck. Stranger boy rolls over and opens his eyes. Hello, awkward. I look at him and give him a half-smile, climbing out of bed to get dressed and get him the fuck out of my apartment. Strange ass is one thing, strange ass that slept over is a whole ‘nother problem in my book. If I wanted to share my bed, I’d still be in a relationship. But I didn’t, and I hadn’t been in a relationship in 4 months.

“Do you want some water?” I say, throwing on a tank top and cropped jeans. I toss him a bottle of water and his shorts… please, please take the hint, dude. I don’t want to get mean.

God, I wish I knew what this beautiful specimen of undergraduate ass’s name is. But I don’t, and I’m honestly only concerned because I’d like to say “Whatever-your-name-is, please get the fuck out.” Don’t get me wrong, I’m going to still use those exact words, but it somehow seems much less rude when the person’s name is involved. And I’m also slightly worried that this one isn’t a college student. What if he is a local? Oh god, that’s the last fucking thing I need right now.

Four months ago, I moved back to my hometown. I wish I could say that I had a better reason than “I quit my job, moved back to Columbus for my abusive ex-fiance, realized shortly after I moved home that I didn’t actually like him, and ended up living with my parents again.” But I don’t, and here I am. I truly, seriously thought I would never live in this town again. At least I only lived with my parents for a month before moving into my own place, a cute apartment close to the private college located here’s campus. And, apparently, easy access to hot college soccer players… at least, I’m assuming he’s a soccer player. Or at least hoping he is a college soccer player. Seriously, what the fuck have I gotten myself into this time?

Looking back now, I realize what an appropriate kick-off this weekend was to my newly single life. Because my life now? Is what it was previous to nearly making a huge mistake (six years is was more excusable than a lifetime). I love the perspective I've found since moving back to Ohio. So many doors have been closed and new ones are opening up, despite my best efforts at self-sabotage.


I'm also completely ready to take on a new city this time. Get ready, motherfuckers. I won't accept any repeats of a few of the things that happened to Mitch in her time dating in the city... but I guess those are stories best saved for posts made while I am high as a kite on ambien.