Diary of a Sex-Starved Pseudo-Mennonite, Part 48

My mother called yesterday and asked for an update on the latest fellow to text his way into my vivid imagination. "He ghosted me." Mom paused for a moment, I think to make sure she heard me right. "What's that?" I dug deep for my hardened, streetwise voice. "It's when they just stop texting or talking to you." She paused again, her silence heavy with incredulity. "Why would someone do that?" I accessed my heart-buried-in-cement tone. "It happens all the time. It's awful. And I'm not even online dating." The whole concept was so upsetting to her that my mother quickly changed topics. The primary source of my default AmishNess, Mom is sometimes cutest when confronted with the myriad examples of dehumanizing experiences we as contemporary knuckledraggers face. My mom should wear a t-shirt that reads "Does Not Compute." And why should she want to understand such crass behavior? A recent widow ambling towards 80, the last thing I want my mother to have to contend with before she meets her maker is a dick pic tailed by a ghost.

After a benefit-of-the-doubt grace period, I gave the ghoul an opportunity to make it right. I texted and asked if I had scared him off. He said no. He decided it was a bad idea. I lived in Chicago and he had alot going on. I said okay, but we could still be friends if he wanted to talk about what he had going on. No response. I suspect he read my blog and got afeared. I don't hide the blog. In fact, I lead with it. Which probably explains the state of my love life.

My childhood was ghosted by cowardly men. Turns out my adulthood is, too. I tell my new male friends (who would be boning me right now if I let them) that if a dude is scared of the blog, he's probably not for me. This is another way I attract narcissists. They seem to be the only men so egotistical that they don't fear my mighty pen. They look forward to the challenge of breaking my pen (and my heart) in 2.

My ex-husband lead with compliments of my writing. Effusive compliments from a man who found fault with everything and everyone else. Then he used his powers to convince me to leave my writing program and rebuff a publication offer and quit a TV editor job and start over at the bottom. A receptionist who no longer writes. Now that's love.

I am so grateful for Daisy so I don't have to learn how to spoon myself. First thing every morning, I kiss her and hug her and tell her she's a good girl and rub her belly and gush about how smart and pretty she is and tell her how much I love her. I give her what I wish I was getting. She wags her tail and leans into me.

Until Next Time, Sweeties!

Ness Sweet Ness