I am incredibly tired of your continued unreliability, flakiness, and general lack of consideration. You screwed up. Then you screwed up again. Then you screwed up again. You are really not very good at this whole living and learning thing that people tend to catch on to by young adulthood. You are well into your twenties. You know better than this. I know you know better than this because you have a real job that requires real responsibilities that I assume you fulfill since you appear to still be employed. Now if only you could apply your work ethic to women, then everything would be kosher.

What’s most infuriating about this is that I know you’re interested, so you really have no excuse for your idiocy. I’d tell myself that you’re “just not that into” me, but all evidence (your unreliability notwithstanding) points to the contrary. In fact, I’m not sure I even understand how it’s possible that two people who are extremely attracted to each other and somewhat accessible to the other are not having incredibly hot sex or at the very least enjoying a good meal. This has turned into one of those situations where I would much prefer for you to disappear permanently rather than continually flake out at the last minute. If you’re going to exit my life, just do it. Don’t leave one foot in the door, don’t pursue me with renewed fervor, don’t anything.

People often ask me how much my life has changed since I started writing this blog (that you may or may not actually know about — hey, surprise!). I’d make out a list, but the simple answer is this: nothing is the same. I don’t know if I’ll ever quite get over the feeling of anxiety that attacks whenever I enter a room, and I’m pretty sure that Google cache will haunt me into my sixties. But the one thing I am very grateful for is that when shit hits the fan, suddenly you reach a startling clarity in regard to what is most important to you in life. And everything else recedes to the background.

So what is most important to me in life at the present? Figuring out how to make this writing thing work and enjoying the company of people who will support me in spite/because of my utter insanity. I have spent the past year dealing with the fallout from this website. A lot of it has been very, very ugly. Quite frankly, I don’t need negativity. If I wanted to feel shitty about myself, I’d reread hate mail and troll the AutoAdmit boards. No, thanks. If last fall taught me anything about surviving my remaining years at Harvard while still blogging, it’s that there’s no room for anything but positivity. So that’s pretty much my current life philosophy.

The people who are in my life are there because I love them, because they make me happy, and because their presence enriches my existence. I don’t have time or patience for bitter, unhappy people (anonymous online critics) any more than I have time or patience for busy, flaky people (you). The latter may not seem as bad as the former, but when it comes down to it, I don’t fit your schedule and you don’t fit my standards. I am not about to compromise my way of living for a guy who can’t even pencil me in for a one-hour slot or call to cancel.

In conclusion, this is not something an apology is going to fix. Actions — if by some miracle of God, you change them — are the only thing that will help. Please get with the program or get the fuck out.

Cheers,
Lena

Consider this a sexy, condensed version of VH1’s Where Are They Now?

Some readers have inquired via email and comments about the missing men in my life, so I thought I’d offer up some explanations in semi-chronological order (not really). Hopefully, the following will help everyone understand why 1) these guys have dropped off the face of the earth — the planet being my blog — and 2) have left me single and disillusioned…

Berklee — When we last hooked up beginning of spring semester, he said, “I’m seeing a girl who reads your blog. Don’t identify me!” Fine. No more free sex. Let’s be friends.

Aidan — Exhibit A in “What Happens When You Blog About Transparent Cases of Housecest.” Or conversely, “How To Broadcast The Car Wreck That Is Your Love Life While Becoming a Celebrity in Three Weeks or Less!” Ahem, we’re friends. He’s also the only one currently within fucking distance.

Peter — Oh honey, we knew this wasn’t going anywhere anyway. We’re friends.

Kyle — Surprise! He had a girlfriend. We hooked up during an off-period and kept doing so after they were back on. I’m a bad person. We do not hook up anymore because I would like to stop being a bad person. We’re friends.

Sam — He had a kind-of girlfriend. Who I did NOT know about and who did NOT know about me. He told us both we were sexually exclusive. (I deserved this for the Kyle thing). NOT FRIENDS.

Riley — He had a girlfriend. Who I did not know about. And was my friend. And lived in a dorm five blocks from mine. Massive amounts of forgiveness (and a few punches!) later, we’re friends.

Mark — Good: Works too many hours to have a girlfriend, secret or otherwise. Bad: No time to blow money on me. Boo. His wallet and I are friends!

Summer Guy — Visited me in April. Always has a sort-of, kind-of, not-really girlfriend. Still talk all the time, still care deeply/want to have babies with him — but in a detached kind of way! And maybe ix-nay on the babies. We’re … you guessed it, friends.

In conclusion, I have a lot of friends I want to have sex with/take money from.

But kidding aside, Mark is my current fave, even if the possibility of this turning into something more is next to nil. And no, this has nothing to do with money, because I’m only a pretend golddigger.

Oh and the whole streak with guys who have girlfriends? Not broken. Number six was last weekend. Is there some kind of spray to deter taken men? Please?

A guy I briefly dated last April IMed me out of nowhere tonight after eight months of no communication. Following an eventful initial courtship, Mark disappeared completely — no phone call, no email, nothing. I didn’t even know what state he was in, considering his job’s ever-changing travel requirements. Needless to say, I was pissed. But according to his IM tonight, extenuating circumstances led to him venturing across the country, out of the country, everywhere but back in my life — for justifiable reasons I couldn’t argue with. That is, if he’s telling the truth.

So now he wants to catch up. He asked after the past eight months of my life. I gave him a brief synopsis of the last three and decided it was too much. How do you have a conversation when you don’t know where to begin? I am missing months and months of explanation. So I started by asking what I did every night back in April, “What city are you in now?” Not surprisingly, he said, “Manhattan.”

I get the impression that he’s trying to make amends for dropping the ball way back then. I also get the impression that there was a hint of flirtation this evening. So we’re talking about a bit of guilt and plenty of interest. I’m not surprised. Our spring fling was the most sexually charged relationship I’ve ever had. At five years my senior and over six feet tall, both the age and height difference made for some interesting experiences in the bedroom. Mark’s job was forgettably dronelike, his apartment laughably yuppie, and his wardrobe boringly corporate, but if anything about him made an impression, it was definitely his girth. He was, and probably still is, the largest I’ve seen/had/insert your own verb. I should get a fucking plaque for the expertise it took to have sex with him.

So where do we go from here? Maybe I’ll verify his explanation for his disappearance. Maybe I’ll fill him in on my thoughts about older guys who work for The Man. And maybe … Manhattan.