Sweet Mother Of All That Is Holy, I Am That Girl.

Which girl? THAT girl who breaks up with people on her blog. The Foreigner who says he never reads it, read it yesterday. I was mortified. We still went out for drinks as planned. To the weirdest bar in Dallas, The Grapevine. It's on Maple. They have the best music and the weirdest clientele. It's fantastic. They use whatever glassware they can find so every drink I had came in a different (i.e., bigger) glass and they fill them up all the way. It's alcoholic Heaven. I had a great time. It's hard not to when you're getting felt up by a queen named Gary.

But wait! There's more!

I am also THAT girl who drinks exponentially larger vodka tonics and ends up crying in the parking lot. I KNOW. I HATE THAT GIRL, TOO. I can only hope that all the black eyeliner and mascara I was wearing was smeared all down my face. I wish I hadn't given up getting my jeweled false eyelashes on straight. I would have cried them off and I can imagine one stuck on my mascara-streaked face, all heaving bosom and hysteria, "DON'T LOOK AT ME! I HATE YOU! THANKS FOR BUYING ALL MY DRINKS! I'LL TALK TO YOU NEXT WEEK! I SAID I HATE YOU!"

It was the messiest, most ridiculous, most out of control me The Foreigner has ever seen. But at least it was honest. That's what happens when you don't say what you think. Bottling things up is bad. You're just making the inevitable explosion that much worse the longer you pretend EVERYTHING IS OK. So don't.

There now, don't we all feel better? I certainly do. I'm not sorry and I don't feel guilty. I feel a little protective of Drunk Crying ReadBecca. It's not her fault. She was just pushed to the limit of what she could take. I put her to bed with a little kiss on the forehead.

She's fine.

Breaking News: I Do Not Have Tuberculosis.

So the new jobby-job starts on Monday. Woo! I bought scrubs and bright t-shirts to wear under them so I don't look like an inmate. It's A LOT of khaki. When I open my own practice in ten years, I am wearing whatever color I want. Bank on it.

Also, I haven't entertained The Foreigner in six weeks. This is a good thing. No need to console or commiserate. I'm cool with it. The whole scenario wasn't really "me." Having been a slutty girl for a number of years, and having been celibate for a number of years as well, I've decided that they both suck. Both periods of extreme behavior were for all the wrong reasons. So eff that. I'll tell you what I really, really want - what I really, really want.

I want to fall in love and get married.

I mean it. I am not kidding. I'm still not into the whole parenting thing, but sign me up for a cool husband who wants to be nice to me. I want a happy, cheerful man who makes me laugh like crazy. I have darkness enough for two, so broody, moody and bad-tempered men are not on the list. That eliminates all my ex-boyfriends, except maybe one and he's married so he's not on the list anyway.

There actually is a list of qualities I want in a husband. It's a Love List. I saw it on Oprah. The first thing I put on it was "loyal" and the last thing I put on it was "thinks I'm beautiful and sexy." I also have "manly, but not an ass." That might be my favorite. I didn't put anything on it about pancakes. Or nationality. I've opened the door for actual Americans. But it's a long list and I don't want to overshare it.

I'm talking about oversharing on my blog. Ha. I see how ridiculous that is. I'm aware. I'm also aware that there are things you don't know that I would never, ever write about, so I could seriously overshare like a thousand million times more than I already do. I'm just saying. (I love the idea of people yelling at their computers, "WHAT? THERE'S MORE?! GOOD LORD, WOMAN!")

So that's what I'm up to these days. Thinking about getting hitched. I think I'm more ready now than I've ever been. Things are looking up. Excellent.