My Own Personal Version of Wasting Brain Matter on TV

I'm sitting here at the stupid day job totally unable to focus at all and trying to pretend like I'm not online by shrinking the explorer window to miniscule eye strain producing proportions so that I may add total blindness to the list of bodily injury my accident prone and irresponsible self has inflicted upon my person. I'm listening to Cathie Ryan croon in that sorrowful but lilty Irish way and obsessing over stupid boys. Of course. Why is it that with every half-assed diary I ever attempted to keep, the one universal theme that would motivate me to take pen in hand was stupid boys? I have a lot of other very important things in my life, yet this is the subject I choose to obsess over? It makes me feel hormonal and shallow, even though I know its generally avoidance. I guess its kind of like my own personal version of watching tv.

So today's obsessing is centered around wondering what the hell is up with Mr. Mama's Tatoo of All Trades and what the hell happened there. I think I'm just going to call him tonight or tomorrow and ask point blank if he's still initerested in hanging out or not. I generally prefer to just lay it out on the table rather than play the guessing games. What's been said is that he didn't want a relationship but wanted to date and get to know me (which I'm thinking is a fine idea since I don't want a relationship either with someone I just met). Then he never calls for a date, and never called this weekend to go see The Gates (which he did explain last night that he worked doubles all weekend and it was a totally flexible if you're free kind of thing). But last night he kept coming over to the table to talk, followed me outside for a cigarette, and I caught him looking at me on multiple occasions. So what the hell does he want? If he's interested why is he sitting on his ass, given the fact that I'm the one who asked him out in the first place so my interest shouldn't be a question. If he's not interested, than why is he looking at me, reading my blog over my shoulder, and following me outside?

I think its penile confusion.

Not that I ever know what the hell I want either, but I have no qualms about bunglingly attempting to state that out loud, thus thoroughly confusing everyone around me including myself, exponentially.