10-29-01 - 10:23 p.m.

Well.

That's the best way to begin this one. Just...well.

I have to admit to taking great satisfaction in the fact that Estella is a dog. If you're a long-time reader or know anything about my vanity quirks, you'll know that I am very critical of others' teeth. I can stand small bits of crowding and discoloration, but good god damn, Estella's looked like...how to explain this.

Her teeth were like a complex mosaic that had been smashed and put back together by someone who could not remember how the original picture looked.

To put it kindly.

Her hair was brown, yes, but it was just barely past her shoulders and had clearly been dyed. It was dry and stringy and disgusting. She was twiggy and about 5'9" or 5'10". Her eyes were that freaky-ass barely-colored shade of blue, you know, the eye color that always seems to win the "Prettiest Eyes" category in high school yearbooks. She wore a pair of jeans and a really cute tanktop, an outfit I'd wear, but with it, she wore boots that went up to her knee.

Why would anyone wear knee-high boots under a pair of jeans? The entire purpose of boots like that is to show them off! As a result, her tight jeans seemed to bulge like she was wearing shinguards.

But enough about how she looked. Time to get to the important stuff.

I hate her.

I hate her because I like her. She's so damn nice and cute and funny and she speaks with a sweet little girl's voice and offered to do the dishes and told the most entertaining anecdotes imaginable and I hate her. She brought me flowers to put on the counter and gave me a big hug and didn't once comment on the fact that, heightwise, whenever I tried to look her in the eye without craning my neck I found myself gazing headlong at her flat chest.

Under other circumstances I'd take her shopping. We'd buy shoes. I'd buy her a pair of sandals to match her cute tank top, and she'd buy me a pair of seven inch platforms so I could look her in the eye. We'd get chicken caesar salads and fruit smoothies and wear our sunglasses atop our heads and slouch over a table at the mall and play "Find The Zonie" or "Spot The Nothern Californian." Then, in the car, we'd make up our own lyrics to "Tom's Diner" and chair-dance to Britney Spears and slap each other whenever one of us saw a VW Beatle.

But no. Instead, she came over, she ate at my house, made out with my best friend while I was hiding my eyes behind a computer screen, and then told me we should "get together sometime." When she was gone, I glared around the apartment. Bryan and Justin watched me like they thought I was about to explode. For a moment, I thought I was, too.

Rob came back inside after a few minutes of schmoozing and asked the three of us what we thought of her. I didn't answer right away. Bryan and Justin both gave their reluctant yet overenthusiastic approval and I said I thought she had hideous teeth.

Rob called me vain. I called him evil.

He said he wasn't in the mood to argue. I said I wasn't arguing, just saying what was on my mind.

Later on, though, I did what Janet has been trying to get me to do since I first started seeing her. I asserted my feelings.

If I was to write this in a fictional, melodramatic way, I'd tell you that I kicked open the bathroom door and stormed in on Rob, who was brushing his teeth. I'd say how I pinned him up against the wall and said to him in a low, dangerous voice how much his display had hurt me tonight. Then I'd describe how the president called and said I had to go in for some secret mission and had to go steal things from tombs and wear tight black clothing and have killer pouty lips and tie my hair back in a long braid.

But that's not how it happened.

Instead, he was watching TV after Estella had gone and I came in, stood in front of the tube, and said, in a weak and shaky voice, "Rob, that sucked."

"What sucked?"

"You bringing her here to try and make me jealous. That's really low and it's really cruel."

He stared at me for a few moments and then went back to watching TV, despite my legs blocking it. So I got frustrated and left.

But I came back, turned the TV off manually, and said, "I don't want her here again."

"But you said you liked her."

"I said she had bad teeth."

"But you two got along so great! I thought it was genuine."

"Just like you caring about her is genuine?"

(Cue hell breaking loose.)

Clearly my statement struck a nerve with him. He was instantly furious. He said that it was unfair for me to expect him to not date while I went around and had my men. I said that if he hadn't dumped me, it wouldn't be a problem. He said that I should at least be able to go a week without sex. I said I could easily go a week without sex with him, because it wasn't worth my time. That caught him a little off-guard and I wished immediately I hadn't said it. But he didn't stay quiet for long. He said that the only way I could go without sex with him was because with him, I have to include emotions, and god forbid I feel a single thing for anyone but myself.

I told him we were through. He said we had been "through" a long time ago. I asked him whose fault that was. He said it was mine. Mine because I refuse to commit to anything, mine because I won't let anyone get close to me, mine because I'm too cowardly to admit that I'm not hard-hearted and am capable of loving someone. And he's right, which is the worst part.

I know I'm capable of loving someone or something. Janet told me after Matilda died last year that the reason I'd have so much trouble getting over her was not the fact that she had been a faithful pet, but that I had let myself love her, and then she was gone. Janet said, and I'll never forget this exact quote: "You have an enormous capacity for love and you could do so much if you'd let people see that."

But I can't. And I know I'll lose everything because of that. But I just can't do it. I can't set myself up for anymore pain. Everything good comes to an end, and ends are always painful, and I'm just beginning to be content. I just cannot risk that.

I'm writing this from Kellie's house. I needed a night away from Rob. Just some time to cool down and feel sorry for myself. I haven't cried about this, though when I started thinking about Matilda, my eyes watered.

I'm not about to end this on a sad note. In financial news, I made the easiest $50 of my life tonight. Playing around with Bryan's webcam, I took a few quick snapshots of myself in my underwear and sent them to a guy I occasionally talk to online. He offered me $50 for my thong. I took it. He's sending the money to my PO box. Heeeell yah. (Footnote: I hate the word "thong.")

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