I hate having hormones.

I hate having feelings.

I hate the two or three days a month when all three of those factors converge to fuck my entire life up. And, as in the past, today I wigged out and sent Married Guy an email that made me look incredibly foolish, and I can't take it back. At this point, I don't even know when (or if, even) I am going to hear from him.

If anything, I hope he at least sends me an email saying "You're a crazy fucking bitch. Don't ever talk to me again." Hearing that is better than not ever hearing anything.

I think.

My grandmother died right before my birthday, ten years ago from lung cancer. She was a life-long two-pack-a-day smoker, and avid coffee drinker. I don't think I ever saw my Grandma drinking anything but coffee. So there is this tobacco-coffee smell that is burned in my memory, and anytime I smell them, I think of her.

I used to smoke, but quit almost six years ago. And, since I have quit, I've noticed that when I am really, really upset, and usually when I am crying, that smell invades my senses. I can smell my Grandma again, like she's sitting right next to me. It's both scary and comforting at the same time.

I say that because I am terrified of anything that has to do with the supernatural. I won't watch scary movies, won't listen to ghost stories. I am a TOTAL wuss. I can't handle it. So, the idea that my Grandma might be letting me know that she is there when I'm upset is a little un-nerving.

My only supernatural encounter (well, aside from that smell, and recent dreams I'll talk about in a minute) was when I was about 19. My uncle (son of this grandmother) died (also of lung cancer) when I was 15. At the time, I was living with his family because I was having some problems with my parents. I woke up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom, and there, in the kitchen, in the dark, was my uncle. Just standing there, smoking a cigarette, reading the newspaper. I thought that I dreamt it, but when I got up, the newspaper was sitting on the kitchen counter.

And, recently, I have been having these strange dreams about talking to my friend John. The thing is, we are always in my room, talking about real things that are going on in my life (much of these dream talks have been about Married Guy). My friend Jeremy, who's into paganism, and witchcraft, and voodoo and all that freaky shit, says that we are really having those conversations, and that I'm not just dreaming them. Eeek.

As with my Grandma, the thought of it is both scary and comforting.

In the dreams, when we're talking about Married Guy, I ask John if I should break off this, whatever this is with him, and John just says "Well, is he hung?"

That is so classic John.

I don't think I'll never meet another person like him.