Well, that was dumb.

Weekend is over. He's gone as of yesterday evening...

I only yelled once, and was otherwise completely charming and fun and snuggly.

He realized how much he misses Miami.

And me.

He told me he still loves me. There was lots of spooning. And drinking. Some people saw us out and didn't miss a beat recognizing him... and me... together. We ate sliders and went to the Mai-Kai for cheese tangs and tiki drinks.

And now I have to bag any swelling crazy and remind myself that it's over, and it's for the best, and maybe someday I'll find someone that has all the attributes I love about him, but that doesn't have all of his crazy schtick. No one has been able to make me laugh like he can. The gays I've been dating haven't been... funny. The more I think about it, the more I think he may be my soulmate, and I'm just not supposed to be with him thanks to some cosmic joke. It's sort of cruel to still share this love, but know that it's star-crossed. He's the fatty drunken yin to my not-so-fatty, stick-up-the-ass yang... and I'm the retarded one for still being head over heels with my alcoholic chubsy with his blue eyes and his funny beards.

He may be coming back in March. March can't come soon enough.

Have at me. I deserve it. But I'm not the maudlin weenie I used to be, this is turning into something else... equally cancerous, but more resigned... less desperate and wishful.