Wrapped within this sad/pathetic shell of a body, I harbor one great talent- the ability to completely shame myself in order to get what I want.  It's not something I'm proud of.  Not everything we're good at, and are willing to admit we are good at, is something to be proud of.  I'm just saying that I have no problem making a complete idiot of myself; sacrificing dignity for what I ultimately feel is more important than my pride.  The system isn't perfect.  In fact, I'm sure that half the reason I'm sitting here telling you all of this, instead of out enjoying the memorial day sun, is because of the system.  It's a fundamental truth; if you wear your heart on your sleeve, someone is going to rip it off and smash it to pieces.  Don't pretend not to know this.  Let me provide you with an example; something to illustrate my point for your benefit.  Take this weekend.  There's this guy (and isn't there always "this guy"?) who I've known for a while, and he's pretty cool.  In fact, he's always been cool, ever since the first time we hung out and played chess together.  It was last year, and he had this bonfire party; everyone was hanging out around the fire and having a good old time, when I saw the host, and we started talking for some reason.  If you asked me one thing we talked about, I couldn't tell you.  Makes me think of that NFG song The Story So Far; you know the one;  "I can't remember the time or place, or what you were wearing, it's unclear about how we met, all I know it was the best conversation that I ever had."  Blink and an hour had passed, we were in his room, listening to the music on his computer.  Which is when I discovered his chess set, just sitting out on the table, begging for us to play.  It takes a really sweet guy to do something as dorky as play chess with you on a Saturday night and not blink at the randomness. And from that moment, we were kindred.  I could spend hours lost in conversation with the kid, watching movies or just gazing at the stars from his rooftop.  It's one of those kind of relationships you see in old movies; the typical adolescent romance Alexa and I tried so desperately to re-create in our younger years.  He was the only person I could ever feel comfortable with falling asleep in his arms.  It's strange how you learn that there are different "types"  of cuddlers, just as there are different types of kissers, and these attributes define us.  Other guys would sit there like a dead fish, lost in dreamland.  Or they'd think they were being sly, and try to cop a feel or rub up against me or something.  He never did that.  We fit together perfectly; my head nestled in that comfortable place on his chest, listening to the bomp bomp bomp of his heart while he traced the constellations across my back.  No matter how the night began when we first hung out, the end result was alwasy the same, and he was donned "cuddleslut".  We'd stay like that until 5 in the morning, when my curfew had long since been broken, and we'd stagger to his truck, disoriented from lack of sleep and nonsensical conversation.  He let me steer his truck on the way home, even though I didn't have my liscence and couldn't (slash can't) drive to save my life.   I don't know how else to describe our relationship except in instances, because when I try to categorize, it gets lost in the murmor of cliches and stereotypes.  I felt like I could finally breathe when he was around.  But of course, everything changes.  The only sure things are death and taxes right?  God, I really should learn that.  Because I keep assuming that people remain the way they are imposed in memory; I forget that as I grow and change, they do too.  Which brings me back to this weekend.  And back to "the guy"  who you know a little bit about now.  I think it's important you have some history on the situation; a speck of rationality in my irrational behavior.  I tried to bring back the past.  Say it with me; Amanda is a dumbass.  There.  Doesn't that make you feel better?  If you ever find yourself wondering, what the hell is this girl doing with her life?  Remember; I'm a dumbass. I don't need a reason; that's just who I am.  So, friday night rolls around, and we're supposed to hang out.  That is, Cuddleslut and I are supposed to hang out, and I'm exited.  Times 5 million plus twenty plus one. Of course, the cosmos are against me, so I get sick.  And not just regular sick, but sinus infection sick.  Puking up green stuff sick, if you want to know the truth.  Thanks fate, that's sweet of you.  So I call cuddleslut, all pouty, and tell him that I can't come but I reaaallly reeallly wanted to and we should hang out later this weekend if I feel better and Im so sad and can he call me later?  Amazingly, he says he will, like I knew he would, because I know him.  Or I thought I knew him. Anyway...So I get a call later that night and he doesn't remember the conversation the next morning for some reason we'll just leave open, but I was exited I got a call from him that night anyway.  And I'm feeling a lot better that day and taking medication so I can go out that night!  *insert happy face here*  Of course I invite cuddleslut to go to the party I'm going to that night, because maybe we can play chess or something, and he's just a fun kid so why not?  My answer; maybe.  Let me tell you, this was a shock to me.  Seriously, this felt like the first maybe I'd ever gotten from him.  Ever.  In my exitement, I'd mistakenly assumed that when he said he wanted to hang out, he actually meant it.  Silly me.  But of course, I assumed that the maybe meant yes (say it again with me; Amanda is a dumbass...) So when he didn't call that night to get directions, I assumed it was a mistake.  Which is why I called him again, to tell him I wanted him to come to the party and I missed him and couldn't wait to see him.  His answering machine was very understanding.  But he must have not gotten the message, because (surprise!)  he didn't call back.  Well.  His phone must have erased the message!   So I call back a third time, this time as we're driving to the party, and I tell him that he should come to the party and I love him (woah there girl...) and I miss him and totally want to see him.  The line between dumbass and superdumbass had been crossed, and the phone calls should have stopped there. Which of course they didn't.  He got another call from me that night, about mid-party- and I'm not exactly sure what I said to him then, but my phone book says I called him so I'm assuming it's true.  But of course, I wonder what I told him, so I have to call him the next day to find out.  Now let's think rationally for a minute.  If I'd called him three times the day before, and he hadn't returned any of those calls....do you think he was really that anxious to talk to me?  Exactly.   Regardless, he did get a call, and we actually talked, which was a miracle in itself.  Encouraged by the sound of his voice (and deceptive niceness), I asked him to see a movie with me and some friends that night.  His response? "I don't have a ride...."  and of course, when a ride was offered, he "didn't want us to go through any trouble."  When he said that, it was like being hit with a brick wall.  I don't know why it took me so long to figure it out, I really don't.  Just...when you think you know someone, and you're absolutely positive that they're the one person on this planet who would never hurt you, it's stupifying to consider that they might not even like you.  That in fact, they probably think you're this really annoying person who won't stop calling.  Which I was.  And it all came back to me in a rush; how desperate I must have sounded, how pathetic and whiny I was.  It wasn't cute for me to tell him every two seconds that I missed him and I loved him.  Because the feelings weren't reciprocated.  I was talking to a complete stranger; who in the hell was this kid?  Who the hell was I, to degrade myself like that for someone I didn't even know?  At the time I was watching Texas Chainsaw Massacre, but scarrier than seeing the severed limbs of teenagers on screen, was the realization of who I'd become.  It's a misguided assumption that if you offer all of yourself to someone, they'd be happy to take it.  Not so true in this case, it would seem.  I'd inherited the habit from my dad of making grand gestures.  Where you just make a complete idiot out of yourself, in the vain hope that the end result is as grandiose as the effort.  But like any fragile thing, if you play to carelessly with your heart, it's bound to get broken. And it is.  And I am.  And I'm not sure that I want my "talent"  anymore; I don't want to heal completely, just so I can make the same mistake again.  I don't want to be cautious either. I just don't want to care any more.  It hurts so much to care.  Everyone hurts you in the end.  Not on purpose of course; but name someone you've never been hurt by, and you're naming someone you either don't care about, or don't know very well.  So I'm striving to be talented at being indifferent.  Of being numb.  Sure, it's not as fabulous as being happy, but I'm being realistic here.  One baby step at a time.  Let me be numb for a little while.  Once I've accomplished that, then maybe I'll start to worry about being happy.