So the story keeps writing itself in my head this morning, and this part goes before the part below.

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I think I got played. Which is such a trip and a back handed compliment. Like the time my old boyfriend John screamed at me in the middle of a fight, “You are such a Barbie doll!” And I was like wow! He compared to me Barbie. What does that mean?

Does that mean my figure represented Barbie’s impossible idea? Or that I was cute like Barbie and that I was doll-like? Or did he mean I was just some plastic pint-sized idiot without a brain my head? See what I mean when I say it’s a back handed compliment.

Being played is like that. After a certain age in a woman’s life, you don’t really expect to get played anymore by a player. I mean, there’s the matter of the few extra pounds, the constantly harried expression from being frazzled at work all the time, there’s the defensive layers that have been built up over the years from too many dead end relationships and broken marriages, and then there’s gravity transforming what figure you had into some unrecognizable lumpy round shape.

So when a guy plays you, it’s a back handed Barbie compliment. Like did he play me because I’m attractive? Did he play me because despite all my physical and mental grumpiness I’m still attractive? Or did I just get displayed because I looked desperate, like no one’s played me in years, and well what do you when you’re bored a on a plane ride from LAX to Oakland with a woman reading an Anne Rice novel?
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I think this part should go at the beginning of my story anyway, you know setting it up as like this really weird and strange experience, and then maybe it was a dream kind of thing.