Ring Ring...Psych

Upon my return to the book which is the source of my despair, He's Just Not that Into You, I am learning more truths. The big'un? If he's not calling, he doesn't care.

Even guys, with their charming cluelessness, know how to work a fucking phone. If you're on their mind, they call. It occurs to them. It doesn't matter why they have you on the brain--maybe they're busy appreciating renaissance-period art, and think that your love of post-modernsim warrants a good old-fashioned ribbing. Maybe they're thinking of you in that black lacy number giving a lap dance. Whatever. They call.

We know this from the courting period, when it is important to impress. We know that guys can, in fact, get their shit together and dial digits. Even if they have fat ass fingers and little to no brain power, they call. They also are generally resourceful enough to substitute some other form of communication for phoning if the dial tone scares them in a deep dark place.

So, when the phone sits dormant, when that special ringtone is absent from your consciousness, and there is no pleasant and familiar vibration in your pocket, it hits you.

You don't matter.

He is somewhere else, doing someone/thing else and doesn't give a flying fig about you or your day or your schedule for the weekend. He ain't telling you no stories. Hopefully, you too are doing someone/thing else and it doesn't even occur to you until you are ready to pass out from coming so hard or laughing so deeply or digesting such a full belly of fine foods. Or all of those things.

When you realize this, you will be better off. The pain ebbs away eventually and it morphs into a truth. Soon it becomes a callous and you accept that things work out the way they're supposed to.

Zinger. g