One Day at a Time

Yesterday I tell a friend that I can't move to California, that "Mars doesn't moves for boys." Or in with them
"Yeah, tell him to move for you," she quips. "Yeah, right, something like that" I say back, knowing that this boy is certainly not moving anywhere for me, much less back to Chicago.

We talk today for the first time in a couple of weeks, the first lengthy time anyway, and I listen to myself tell him, "Oh no, don't move back. Didn't you just get done saying how you have to stay in Cali because of the greenery and laws?"
"Yeah, but I'd be closer to you," he says back.

Aw shit. What's that supposed to mean? Why can't I figure this whole dating thing out?
Yes, yes, I know what that means, exactly what it sounds like. But what I can't figure out is what I want. Sometimes I'm totally hot for this relationship and want it to work, and other times I'm like "Nonononono, I can't be in a relationship! Am I? Are we dating? Really? Are you sure, because I'm not. Despite the distance? Aaaak. Really? Prove it."

Times like this I wish I were married and didn't have to deal with this all. And then I think about that and how my friends and I are quickly drawing lines in the sand between ourselves based on this and then I doubt that I'll ever find the right guy and that I'll have to settle and that it's all a lesson in futility and why even bother and how come no one can hold my interests and how come no one's everything I want and am I going to end up sad and alone and bitter and am I already and isn't it better to be alone, to travel by myself and do all that I want, when I want, how I want?

you see what I mean? Jesus. It's like I'm a female Woody Allen. Only hotter and with more weight to toss around. I posted a blog on my MySpace account a while ago worrying about silence at mealtimes with the future "partner" and Jay told me that I need to relax, that I worry too much.
The thing is, I don't worry about these things, not really, but I DO think about them too much. I should just let it all go.
And that's where the worry should come in. Not on my behalf. But his. He should worry. Right? Because if I'm thinking these things now then maybe that means he's not going to have to sit around in silence with me ever...
Ugh. Drunken blog posts do no one any good. Writing is supposed to help me untangle the thoughts in my head, but I feel even more knotted up now, with no purpose in mind and no point on the page.