Serious Musing

Actually, now that I remember it, John did do something. He turned and cringed. Bastard. Then he got up off his couch, went into his room, came back and started singing a song with the word "goodbye" in it (I can't remember what the song was). And then he acted like I hadn't said anything to make him go away for awhile. As I sat there in silence, I contemplated killing him. Hell, if I'm in a bad enough mood, I still contemplate killing him. Now that he's back ("from outer space"), I can't stand the sight of him. I just desparately want him to go away. I'm training myself to be ignorant of his presence. Now that I have a more pleasant distraction in my life (Mr. Blond), it's so much easier to forget John exists.

Wow. And I think back to The Writer. I really liked him. He is 34 or so, now married, had been divorced twice. He lives elsewhere now but occasionally I think of him. We talked more than we had sex and it was okay (or, rather, okay...I just wanted to get laid). That was the pick-up experiment. The memory of The Writer leads to another memory of sleeping with (once, and it would never happen again) a Palace of Rock regular (who isn't a regular anymore). That was a bad idea. A very bad idea. (So was having sex with John, but that's a whole 'nother story/really fucking bad idea.) And then I think about Hoopdy Boy. I never slept with him. (Which is just as well. That probably would have been a baaaad idea.) And then there was just a radom guy I slept with. That was the end of the experiment. Could I really just randomly pick someone up at the bar? The answer is yes. (A November scorpio...and yes, they're not as wussy as the October ones.) The only thing that surprised me was the person who is seventeen years older than I am. I had no idea he was that old. And I really liked him a lot. But then I lost interest in him. Why I don't know. Maybe because towered over me by at least a foot. Maybe because he wasn't my type of eccentric. Maybe because he was so much older than I was. Maybe because he stopped coming to Classic Country Music night. Maybe because I like Mr. Blond.

Or maybe I just got tired of quasi relationships with guys. But here I am starting one again. I'm going to get burned. I know it. I'm going to get hurt. Or maybe I just fear that I'll get hurt. Maybe I just assume that no one ever really likes me. Maybe I assume that eventually I bore people to death. Maybe I assume that I get annoying after awhile. I start to feel bad about it. Maybe I feel that I get obsessive when I have no right to be. Maybe...too much "maybe". How do I ever survive it? Simple!

It's all in my head.

I wish I could trust people. I wish I wasn't so weird about sharing my feelings. (Of course, I take comfort in the fact that I choose to believe that NO ONE reads my weblogs. My friends say that they do, but knowing them, they don't read it regularly. I also prefer being anonymous...and in being anonymous, it is much easier to be who I am. Real life is just a game and I get to play interesting characters.) Or maybe I find anything that approaches a real relationship threatening. I think that's the one. The idea of being that close to someone actually frightens the hell out of me. I'm intensely private; my thoughts, my feelings, my past is my own, my own to wallow in and contemplate. Sharing it with someone else is scary. I don't want to share it with anyone unless I get married...and I will get married and it will be for life. But then there is Mr. Blond. I cannot not share my feelings with him. It just comes out with ease. And that makes me feel uncomfortable. I end up wondering exactly why I have no control over it. The most hilarious thing about it is that was how I felt about John. I could tell John anything. I could even let him read my poetry and -- gasp! -- my book of random musings. And this is how I feel about Mr. Blond. I have to physically restrain myself from saying things (which, by the way, he has a knack for knowing and trying to beat it out of me!). And that is prolly why I like him. I can be myself. I am intensely afraid that I will say something and then he'll never speak to me again (big wonder why I feel that way...). Since I have this fear, I vow never to do that to someone. I may not like or agree with what is said, but I'll listen to it just the same. That is just how I am.

And then the five year relationship comes back to mind. It was fine and dandy. That is, until he did something that so deeply hurt me that I couldn't stand his presence. It should have ended in that one moment. I should have thrown him out of the house. The only thing that stopped me...the thought of having to explain it to my mother. There are so many things that she does not know about and has no right to know. I waited for a long time before doing what I had to do, which had to happen. It was inevitable that it would come to an end. I held on for six miserable months...and dammit, I'm so sorry I did that. I feel really low about it now. It was so stupid of me to treat anyone like that. But then the devilish voice in my head says, "Oh, yeah? And what he did was nothing? So you're the bigger heel? Society really has you in its grips now...." And all of this whirls around in my head while I clutch my coffee (or beer) and wait for Mr. Blond to appear. At least I feel better when he's around. I want to be his friend forever. Then again, I wanted to be John's friend forever too...but that was different. I walked into it knowing that he was a complete asshole and that, despite my hopes, we wouldn't be friends for long. John is like a child; dealing with him is like dealing with a fifteen year old brat. I guess I only have myself to blame...the relationship was really predictable. I just was mad that he was so fucking stupid. I made so many jokes and comments to him that he not only didn't get, but didn't get after I explained them at length. (An example: We were talking about crack rock and I made a smart ass comment about hitting him with a real rock. It was fairly obvious what I was talking about. But he just kept on going with the idea of crack. That is, until five minutes later when it dawned on him that I was referring to a real rock. At that point, I took my hands off of my beer mug. I was this || close to hitting him with it. But this anger makes me feel like a hypocrite...Mr. Blond tells many jokes that I don't get. But the thing is, he explains them and then I get them...for the most part. Maybe one or two escape me, but hey, I'm a moron, remember?) But there's more to his stupidity, though. He just really was a dumb person. It was so bad it made me cringe. His stupidity physically pained me. But he was sooooo pretty I dealt with it. I think the fact that he was an arrogant asshole pissed me off...I didn't have tolerance for him. I'm okay with the rest of the world. Or maybe because I really, really liked him and I couldn't tell him that because I knew he'd never speak to me again inspired my psyche to hate him. That made it too difficult to deal with. That made him a stupid person who not only didn't know his own feelings, but couldn't handle anything that had to do with real emotion. I have no tolerance for that.

And now, imaginary friends, I have to stop writing. Actually, the fact that I wrote this down makes me feel better. I already am thinking my night will be good. Writing...the only therapy. Ah, isn't life grand?