Univited.

Apparently I'm like crack to Bluetooth and as such would interfere with Suitemate's appointed job of figuring out how he likes Clingy at the free movie Saturday night. Suitemate said it, not him.
Let me explain:

Once upon a time, a girl I'll call Clingy wanted to know what a boy I'll call Bluetooth thought of her. There had been vague talk between the two of them about starting along the path of young love, but he became distant and inconsistent in his enthusiasm (here measured by instances of contact and hanging out in the traditional, non-euphamistic original meaning). She then called upon her young loyalist known here as Suitemate to gather a group together for an outing, including Bluetooth without telling him Clingy would be going. It worked. He agreed.

They're going to the Saturday night movie and Suitemate's suppose to figure out how Bluetooth feels based on how he acts for two hours in the dark in the same group as Clingy.
I have been uninvited.

Several things (just let me put aside the instinct that I have been played, too, so I can at least pretend to be objective):

• This is a bad idea.
• Who thought this was a good way to figure anything out besides the exact amount of awkward those stupid little theater seats can hold for two hours?
• Seriously. Suitemate told me to not come because I distract Bluetooth. I am clinging to my objectivity as hard as possible when I say that maybe the fact that another girl distracts him is a sign that he is not entirely interested in the first girl. 
• Nobody knows what Bluetooth is thinking. Bluetooth doesn't know what Bluetooth is thinking. Don't try to interpret because it will be wrong. It's not a boy thing; it's a human thing. 

*hands over objectivity*

• I wonder if Bluetooth thinks I'm going. I wonder if that's the reason he's going. It's not like he's telling me anything anymore, either.
• You know what's depressed me the most over the past 10 days or so? Feeling like my friend (Mike) and my sex (Bluetooth) have both been yanked away from me just when I started getting the most comfort from them. I want them back, goddammit. 
• I was almost over the sex part, too, until Suitemate told me all about this plan.
• This is a really, really bad idea.

I'm going to the student movie fest on they're having on Friday. Suitemate (and, presumably, Mike et al) doesn't want to go. There's a chance Bluetooth will be there. He might've made one of the student movies. (See last sentence of first non-objective bullet point.) 
Of course I care. I wish I didn't but I do. But he'll be there or he won't be there and I'll get laid or get over it either way. Right now it's making my head hurt and my soul itch really badly.
I'm hanging out with Katie Saturday. Dear fuck I need a drink and a place to bury my cell phone and sit on my hands for the next week.
 

Wanker.

Bluetooth sent me this text message at 11:30 this morning, while I was buried in practicum learning something useful about condensing news stories for SMS:

Thanks for the offer. :-) I "handled" it myself.

Take it away, Rage.

DON'T LEAVE ME HANGING for TWENTY HOURS while I'm DEPRESSED and LONELY and WONDERING WHEN THE FUCK I'LL EVER GET TO CUDDLE ON A CHEST AGAIN OH GOD WHY--ahem. *mops up face* AND THEN TELL ME HOW GREAT MISS PALM AND HER FIVE SISTERS TREATED YOU.
Also, GET A BETTER PUN FOR MASTURBATION. YOU LACK ORIGINALITY.

To be fair, he did say he was trying to get work done at the same time. You did what you could without being a clingy hussy about it.

Mike's roommate once asked if I ever get Joan Cusack. I get her "You fucking asshole!" deleted scene in High Fidelity, yes.

"It takes a dirty mind to run a clean paper."

A note on fuck buddy manners.

My RAGE: LET ME OUT!

My rationality: Oh, come on. Are you seriously this bad at handling boredom?

RAGE: AND MIND FUCKERY. DON'T FORGET THE MIND FUCKERY.

Rationality: Okay. And the mind fuckery. But still. It's not that big of a deal, you don't want to be in a relationship, and who cares if--

RAGE: DON'T RESPOND TO A PSEUDO-CASUAL TEXT FROM ME BY SAYING YOU'RE HORNY AS HELL AND THEN NOT RESPOND AFTER I SAY LET ME KNOW IF YOU WANT HELP WITH THAT.

Rationality: ...You know, I think you're right.

RAGE: DAMN RIGHT I AM!

Rationality: He's not really worth your bad blood pressure, but--

RAGE: CAN I?

Rationality: Fine. Go.

RAGE: RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGE!!!
*explodes*

Rationality: We need to make more friends.

I want my mother.

Oh, Suitemate. I take it back. You're as confused as I am about almost exactly the same people.
I want my mother, too.

My dog wants to help.

Here's what we discovered after talking about Suitemate's confusing date with Mike during which he gave no signs or explicit outward expressions about how he feels about her:

• Guys don't know what to do with us and we don't know what to do with them.
• ...Yeah. That's it. 
• Fuck no I didn't tell her how involved I am or was with Bluetooth. Our thesis stands alone plenty well fine thank you without additional evidence and judgey judgment judging my sexual morals around here. 
• But seriously, I understand, Suitemate.
• NO, RANDOM PERSON I SORT OF KNOW IN THE COMPUTER LAB, I DON'T WANT TO EXPLAIN WHY I BROKE UP WITH MY BOYFRIEND.

My decoder ring's in the shop.

"Please don't call and embarrass me this time. Please?" Oh God. I HAVE become that aunt.

They're down there again.
Mike and Suitemate have once again commandeered the dorm common room for an entire afternoon/evening of movies on his laptop and the dorm couch. They're going to end it with a field trip to an actual movie theater to go see True Grit. I have not been invited.
*runs to check cell phone*
No. Nothing.
I understand. I do. Suitemate is in love with Mike. Mike is sort of aware of this. He wants to figure out how he feels about her. That can't happen if I'm sitting there making vulgar jokes between them (but what other jokes are there to make?).
It still hurts my feelings in an automatic sort of way that I would pay a lot less attention to if my Katie wasn't sick and my Bluetooth would text me about anything besides the frozen cherry cheesecake he was going to dethaw last night.
That's the only communication he's sent me for a week. I hoped it would morph into "hey let's have sexytime" from him. It hasn't. It won't, and I'm not going to beg. But silence kills me so very fucking slowly, bleeds me out over 12 hours. I won't fully give up until I go to sleep tonight.

This is why I don't want a relationship. Even just arranging for sex and watching other people try to start dating is making me angsty.

And, Fellow J-school Practicum Seniors, I like you guys and I want to stay a chum-tastic group and everything but I don't want to think about our work on Saturday. Can we joke about it on a Monday through Friday basis, with the possibility of getting drunk together after five days of shared torture?

Current voices in my head: Nora Ephron and Carrie Fisher. I've been reading their essays and memoir, respectively.

Robots (Live).

I couldn't do it.
The robotics team met in the machine shop tonight, aka the first night they've probably started anything visually interesting. I grabbed my camera and safety glasses and stood on the street corner and stared into the universe until I finally convinced myself to at least walk over there and then I saw the lights on and BF's car and one of the student's mom through the glass door sitting reading her paperback as usual and I couldn't do it.
I couldn't walk in there when he hasn't talked to me since Election Day and I couldn't walk into His Place on a boring Wednesday night any more than I could walk into it with a slick layer of Bluetooth sex clinging to my last night's clothes.
The robots are his. They've always been his, and I couldn't do it.

Hell with my other weekend plans.

I loved your class, Dr. T.

This entry is also called YOU People Figure It Out; I've Got Editors to Deal With. With Which to Deal. Whatever. I Don't Care Who Goes to the Free Movie.

On a sidenote...you know, I really don't have it in me right now.
I want ice cream. In celebration of tangible proof that my diaphragm works. Gross? No. Life-affirming. And across the street, so I will need a jacket.

"It's like we're spelunking instead of reporting." I helped Procrastination Guy file his bio copy correctly in Word today. It's probably the most competant I'll feel all semester.