Maybe it’s just fucking Craig’s List or any buying-selling equation, but I’m miffed at myself for allowing myself to be pushed around a bit.

Today’s episode involves my saying that I was selling a monitor, but I wouldn’t be providing a testing environment. It ain’t hooked up to anything and it’s in a room where it ain’t gonna be hooked up to anything.

I thought I had been clear. Take it or leave it or bring a laptop and hook it up yourself, if you need to see the screen.

The thing is when I described the not hooked up situation, I took into account the situation of my apartment (trashed beyond comprehension as I go through EVERYTHING and sort what’s leaving). More importantly, I took into account the work going on here — I don’t want to get in the way AT ALL of the guys fixing up my bathroom; I want my bathroom; I need my bathroom.

Dumb shit that I am, though, I caved to the requests of the nice man, and I let him move shit around, including my PC that broadcasts this network in which I can type onto the Internet. I allowed him all around the various rooms of my apartment, which I in truth had no intention of happening, if for no other reason than it makes me nutty to have someone surveying my currently fucked up state.

I hate myself when I go along with stuff that makes me uncomfortable. Especially, when it’s the result of a guy saying “Don’t worry” or it’s sister phrase, “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything.”

What the fuck is it with men saying shit like “I’ll take care of everything?” Is that part of the conditioning to make it more likely that you can broadcast a bit more splooge and propigate the species?

I wasn’t actually concerned about the computer getting plugged in correctly again, after it was disassembled, if that was the “everything.” Who the fuck do you think put it (and the network and all other electronic equipment around the place) together in the first place? Yup, little, old, female me. Can you believe a chick could do such a thing?

Or maybe the “everything” was that you were comfortable with my clutter. But, you see, that’s all well and good, but I’m not comfortable. Me. Myself. Strangely, I like to be comfortable in my own house, and that sometimes means limiting people (especially total strangers) complete access to my abode.

On chatting I told the nice man this domain name, and maybe he will find this and determine I am an absolute bitch. I wouldn’t say absolute, though. It’s just that sometimes it’s hard to push back when someone keeps asking all friendly like to cross the internal boundaries we all maintain.

The good girl dilemma, say “no” and risk rudeness upfront or go along and sulk about it later. For fuck’s sake, why does it bug me and why do I worry that someone like the nice man may not think me nice?