I don’t know, man. The day you start feeling for complete strangers and their plight because it resonates with you so much that you have to lay it all out, you have to wonder about things like the six degrees of separation and the tide and the cosmos and other random new age shit like that …
I read this last night and found it oddly … energizing? Certainly it lit some kind of fire under me and I felt I ought to go buy the boy ice cream or something. I’m so meddlesome.
Instead, a treatise on the nature of love – and shit like that there.
I fall for people at the drop of a hat. Always have. I can’t remember when I wasn’t pining for someone, lusting after someone, in a relationship with someone or running from someone, often after someone else. In these 27 years of life, I’ve decided that this is my natural state and I’d better love it or jump off of something high. It has a Sufi bent to it, looking for the eternal beloved, and I’m alright with that. It’s very tortured, it’s often miserable, but it’s fun. I imagine people into whips and chains and nipple clamps get a similar kind of enjoyment out of those as I get from getting kicked in the teeth by love regularly. Or maybe not.
I’ve been told on many a miserable occasion that if you stop wanting, you will get. I find this logic ass backwards and offensive. While it’s true that exuding neediness has only ever gotten me needy people who then suck the life out of me (not in a fun way), going “la dee da I need nothing” gets me nothing also. Except a quick fuck. When I’m looking for a quick fuck, this is okay. When I’m not, I’d just like to say, “Bugger off you and your stupid ass be-a-strong-woman logic, I’m gettin’ my mope on.”
The reason is that if you see someone beautiful and you don’t tell them because of how you’re going to look, what kind of ass are you? How did it come to pass that declaring the beauty and fabulousness of another became an act self-effacement? Might as well declare the world out of your league and do sex-for-one, love-for-none all your life. I’m dead against the notion.
Now there’s a difference between throwing yourself at people – being dil phaink – and being the adolescent puppy at the leg of the beloved going humphumphump. And perhaps there’s a fine line, easily trod on in the drunken hours, between the two states. But even so. Used to be I’d draw massive conclusions about who and what I was from the slightest facial tick of someone I adored. Mostly it was that I was fat, ugly and unloveable, confirming old suspicions, and I’d go away with my tail between my legs, a stew of misanthropy and self-loathing. That part wasn’t fun.
So I decided some things, and I don’t know how or precisely when I decided them, but it had to do with coming out, which I did late in life: people who don’t want me don’t really have to want me. There’s any number of people I don’t want, who have wanted me in the past. It evens out. Sex is nice. I have sex when it’s available and promises to be nice in some major way, emotional and not just stupid. I’m not the only me out there, I figure, so one of the people I love will eventually stick. Meanwhile, my life makes for good stories off and on, and there’s tons of other shit to do.
When someone does get close, though, I’m a ball of anxiety. And I’m in a situation right now where I like a boy and he may or may not like me back, it’s very unclear. And unlike in past adorations, here I have not, decisively not, gone up to him and told him I think he’s lovely and can we go out. I’m just spending wads of time with him and we seem to be getting on. This is a humongous source of anxiety for me because if he mentions liking anything or anyone that is not me, I decide that we’re in just-friends territory, and if he says anything even pseudo romantic, I decide that he must think I’m the cats best bits. It’s excruciating. As the Ani song goes, “love makes me feel so dumb!” But what can you do.
The patience is new to me. I’m not good at patience. I’m only exercising it here because, in the past when I have thrown myself at men particularly, I’ve known that I don’t really feel-feel for them, I just think they’re sort of hot and I’d like to see how it goes. It never goes gangbusters. When I’ve thrown myself at women, I’ve stuck for a little bit, until they realize that I’m all about the relationship, the future, babies and the works, and they’re usually younger and less about all that. And also they’ve been foreign, which doesn’t help, because we’re all determined to live in our homeland in the end and who needs long distance relationships. Either way, I have known inside, before starting, that this will probably not work. And whether through the law of self-fulfilling prophecies, or plain non-supernatural logic, it doesn’t work. It’s not real. It’s always a relationship with yourself, a wooing of yourself, with the other person as foil. Nothing wrong with that. I’m glad I did it. I learned all kinds of useful shit about myself. But I’ve definitely gotten too old for the drama. I’ve decided to have faith in my boobies and my conversation.
(Tune in next week for when Summer whines about how The Boy has disappeared off the face of the earth or done some other flakey, mixed-signal thing and completely fucked up her zen.)
* “hurl your heart at people, what else is there”