I'm SUCH a loser

I know this type of negative self-talk helps no one, least of all me. It certainly doesn't put me on the straight and narrow path to loving myself but it's true. Just when we thought the humiliation I endured after being told to put my self-important nagging ways securely where the sun don't shine, I had a texting accident. If it sounds a tad bit like wetting the bed at 12 (not that I'm familiar with that), then you've grasped the mortifying feeling precisely.

I had just completed a post-mortem with Boston when my teenage cousin asked if we could go to Times Square. Our only outing had been to go see "A Night at the Museum" at the IMAX and he was getting cabin fever. It was cold and drizzling, possibly the worst combination of weather patterns other than rain and ice. OK, not actually even close to the worst but it sucked. We get there and his eyes grow wide at the sight of all the giant, neon signs and billboards. I make him pose for a couple of pictures. "Why don't we ask someone to take one of both of us?" he suggests. "Because I don't feel like getting my camera stolen today," I retorted.

We ended up at Virgil's BBQ although I was hardly in the mood for food. Apparently, my hands and mouth had a different agenda altogether because before I knew it, I had enhaled almost a whole sandwich. My cousin stared in disbelief. "I thought you were sick to your stomach?" As we walked back into the rain, I looked back to see my cousin having a knock-down drag-out fight with his $2 umbrella. Not only was it inverted but every spoke had come apart from the flimsy fabric and was threatening to take one of his eyes out. I couldn't stop laughing much to his irritation.

Are you still reading? Then, you're no doubt waiting for the texting accident. I'm getting to it. My friend texts me and at the same time, Boston texts me. I respond to her question about how I am. "I got the big heave ho but I'm OK." A couple of minutes later comes this reply: "What?!" FROM BOSTON. Was it a Freudian slip? If it was, what part of my fucked up psyche wanted to concede brutal rejection to the man who had so kindly cut ME loose?! It gets better. I sent my girlfiend another text defending Boston- she questioned his "cajones" or alleged he had none- that said: "He has cajones. This time it was all me. Btw, he got that last text." Keep in mind, I'm multitasking- guiding my cousin to the subway while texting two people simultaneously. I ended up calling her after I got off the subway because it was raining and I couldn't deal with the typing anymore.

Today, I'm working at the Associated Press for the first time, in the TV News division. Everything is moving along somewhat smoothly when I get a text from Boston that says, "And that one did too.." My blood ran cold. "?" I asked. Then I looked through my phone and saw that I had sent HIM the text about the cajones. It was too much to bear. I called him later to find out if he hated me, "I don't hate you, it's just weird." I should feel good about this: Boston has confirmation that his decision to cut and run was a smart move. Myself on the other hand, I'm hoping that maybe I can go to a hypnotist to keep from contacting him again.