This is how serious my Relationship is getting:

“Dinner?”

Yes, darling. We’re having dinner with Will and April tonight, then seeing Star Trek. I shoot off a few suggestions, and I’m so glad I have him around, as he points out important things like:

“Hungarian all-you-can-eat buffet? You hate buffets.”

I also hate Hungarians.

Okay, I don’t. I’m just saying that. But really, I love that The Boyfriend™ knows this bizarre little fact about me. I love that he cares to remember it. What I don’t love is the disappointment I feel when I realize that Vampire Barbeque is a buffet. You shouldn’t be allowed to go wrong with places that serve Vampire Barbeque because when it happens, people like me are left with this strange void in their life, a place where Vampire Barbeque should have resided, like in the left coronary artery.

So while he’s looking up a few other places to dine at, I distract myself by doing something very serious. It’s a decision I’ve procrastinated on since The Boyfriend™ and I became exclusive. I knew I’d have to do something about it, but I just didn’t want to. It’s a very serious financial and personal decision that will also have a tremendous impact on our relationship. I didn’t want to get it wrong. It’s just that I’m just not sure that The Boyfriend™ and I are at this certain stage in our relationship, though the buffet comment warms my heart. I mean, he knows my credit score. Isn’t that serious enough? How can my finger still tremble? How can I constantly close my web browser, unable to make a decision? Why am I not sure about committing with such entirety? But I can’t keep putting this off any longer. I must make a decision: one or three months? (I just can’t bear to look at the six months, because I know choosing that payment plan would jinx us, like, tonight).

“Darling.”

“Yes?” he asks.

“Do you have any plans to dump me in the next three months?”

“Uh…no?”

“If I choose three months, you cannot dump me until August 8.” He is locked in and committed to me, no matter how bad my PMS is, and even if I buy that hairless Sphinx cat in order to taunt him with it for the next 15 years. For the next three months, he is The Boyfriend™ even if he makes feeble attempts to say that he isn’t. I will get him drunk (two beers should do it) and have Kat von D tattoo it on his ass like a cattle brand.

“But since you’re moving I’ll be hanging out at your place more, and we could be spending more time together just chilling.” Okay, for that comment, it’ll be a henna’d cattle brand tattoo.

And though I know this is a super sweet comment, I don’t think he’s looking at the full scope of what he’s saying: I lack an Xbox, cable TV¬¬hell, even a TV. If I were to stop writing for a moment and turn around, I’d be looking at his TV, some plasma-filled thing that’s wider than I am tall, and with speakers that resemble a three-year-old dressed as Darth Vader (creepy shit when you wander downstairs at 2am to get a glass of water). Somehow I think he’s mistaking my new apartment as a fun place for a man to be, like “Romper Room” (well, actually, that’s a terrible analogy, because The Boyfriend™ would not think “Romper Room” is a fun place to be, but a child molester would, so what I really should compare it to is, like, Spearmint Rhino or some other strip club, but then you might think my new apartment has poles and there’ll be Victorian strippers there, and suddenly I’m living in a London brothel––wow, tangent). So really. I mean, I know my new place is all cool and Victorian, but…really? I think I have a couple Magic decks somewhere, but otherwise, you’ll be hanging out at a place that’s more than architecturally Victorian, baby.

But back to the WWF Relationship SmackDown! (available only on PlayStation). “You cannot dump me until it runs out. This is the law.”

“I think me buying you a plane ticket to Lake Tahoe in July is a bigger sign I can’t dump you. Then again, the last girl did.”

“Yeah, but I’ve been to Vegas and Oakland with you. And if Oakland didn’t do it, I’m sure Tahoe won’t. I mean it’s Oakland…”

“She went to Vegas and Oakland too.” Hm. Apparently The Boyfriend™ has an M.O. For my sanity, I’m not going to think about this. Instead, I blink. Then look back to the choices before me on my laptop screen:

$14.99 for 1 month reoccurring
$41.97 for 3 months reoccurring (save $3).

$41.97 for relationship security sounds like a great deal. I love American because you can’t pay for relationship security in socialist countries; instead everyone is equally miserable there. So I buy my happiness through renewing my World of WarCraft subscription while he continues talking: “I posted a pic of us on my guild website and said you’d be transferring soon.”

“It’s done. Three freaking months of me committing to you and to you committing to YOU DID WHAT!?”

“I’ll pay for your server transfer.” To compliment the pussy waxing, apparently.

“A pic of my character, right?”

“No...Of you and me. We have a forum for that kind of thing.”

Um, what exactly is “that kind of thing” because images of furry porn swim before my eyes––some with tentacle-laden octopus costumes and slave girl Leia outfits. Suddenly, I need to make the best of this situation, whether it deals with reality or not.

“Tell me it’s a picture of me dressed as my undead priest for Halloween.”

“You dressed as her for Halloween? You are a dork.”

No, no, I didn’t. I was just saying that as some bizarre form of comfort to myself, a complete and utter rejection of reality as a coping mechanism (which sounds strangely like a description for schizophrenia). But what would be wrong with dressing as my WarCraft character for Halloween anyway, Mr. I’ve-Got-A-First-Edition-D&D-Boxed-Set? After that comment, start dreading Halloween, motherfucker.

However, there are more important things afoot right now rather than how I’ll possibly make a perfect rendition of my Dark Shroud of the Scourge, let alone remove my entire jaw for the evening of October 31st (which, as I’m fully aware, is his sister’s wedding):

“Well, how good do I look in that picture?”

“It’s the one of us at XS.”

Ohhhh….At the Wynn nightclub, where my tits are popping out of a leopard print dress. So I’d say I look pretty good. Excellent.

“One of the ‘holy boobage’ shots?”

“Yup.”

“Holy boobage” should really be called “Holly boobage,” because she was kind enough to point out the obvious: your tits are out of proportion with the rest of your body, girlfriend (well, hers are too, so neyh!).

Anyway, I’m not sure how I feel about this. On the one hand, his entire guild now knows that I’m not an ugly cow, that I don’t sit around playing WarCraft all day while eating tubs of chocolate malted crunch ice cream with the anti-freeze ice cream scoop. On the other, I’m terrified that his guild’s off-tank will download that picture, Photoshop The Boyfriend™’s face out and beat off to it every time I’m healing him in a raid––then blame the healer when he dies (typical).

“Out of curiosity, which one?”

“The one I look the thinnest in.”

It’s good to know that we’re both equally as vain.