Spare Ribs.

Two days ago, Josh poked me so hard that my insides exploded and have left me in a massive state of:

OUCH.

I've never felt such a meticulous and consistent pain before. It's as annoying as all get up.

This stupid pain in my side has left me with all sorts of problems and as it turns out, is more of a pain in my ass.
Telling your boyfriend how you randomly can't have sex with him because curling into a ball, or attempting to coil into the positions that he oh-so-loves, is not an option for our $200 nightly Hilton stay this upcoming Thursday, makes for an unhappy Andrew. Telling your boyfriend that another man has left you bruised and in a slightly less than agonizing state makes for an unhappy Andrew. Telling your friend Josh that you can no longer be his friend because your boyfriend has banished him from your all encompassing existence, makes for an unhappy Josh. Trying to make everyone happy, including myself, without sneaking behind the backs of friends and lovers makes for an unhappy diddums.

The grand poke has fudged it all up and now I'm all fudged up and unfortunately, the thing that's fudged up the most, are my poor and neglected ribs. Owie.

My attempts to just stop talking to Josh last night failed miserably. It's hard to cease all correspondance with someone on the drop of a dime. Especially when it's someone you enjoy being with, even if he is a pain.
I don't particularly know what to do about it and the pressure from Big-Brother-Mikey, standing on his perch, watching me protectively from Chemicals each night is making it more impossible, ONLY because he seems to be the personification of a guilt trip.

I can't just stop talking to Josh. But I probably should. For lots of reasons.

It's strange how life gives you the right cards to play, but somehow, you always manage to muck it all up, even when you've got luck on your side.