I'm not getting into the gory details on this, but let's just say that last Friday night was hard on my dignity. It was one of those occasions where returning to my own space brought it home to me, hardcore, that maybe some of the other planets are best left uncharted.
I spent most of Saturday holed up in my apartment, nursing my wounds, feeling like hammered crap, and meditating on how much totally unnecessary drama gets instantly ushered into your life as soon as you think something totally ludicrous, like: "Hey, that guy's kinda cute!" That, and mainlining the first season of "Lost" with my monkey, who is a total angel for getting me some Fanta, and putting up with how many times I told him Dr. Jack was HAWT. Seriously.
I'm not sure how many of you are aware of the facts, but, where love is concerned, I've been on a long hunger strike. My last foray into the world of romance was, I think, a little more intensely awful in the final analysis than I could really take with any degree of equinamity. I mean, I'm not mad, and I'm glad the perpetrator found his way out if that's what he needed, but... yeah.
At this point, I would pretty much sooner drop dead than let any guy think he could actually get under my skin, and if I like a feller, I either tell him flat out, like you would tell a joke, so we can all laugh at what a dumb idea that is, or I clam it like the good lord intended. At this point, honestly, I'm not even sure your average guy that I might meet COULD get under my skin. I'm pretty tough, and I've had a long time to dream up abstract perfections that are never matched on planet earth. At the same time, I can't shake the feeling that where this topic is concerned, my brain is an unreliable narrator, and whatever it's telling me is probably bullshit; even that last sentence, which is fully motivated by the sheer desperate HOPE that it's an unreliable narrator, because, if it is reliable, I am doomed.
Anyway, I decided to give this one guy some encouragement last week, even though, in fairness, I was not fully convinced that even his charms, and they are myriad, were worth the trouble. Now, predictably, that modicum of investment feels like it was a mistake, because, as usual, I can't help being sucked into the black hole energy-sucking vortex of having to think about it, wonder about it, and wait for him to announce the judgement he has no doubt passed on whether or not I'm worth his trouble, etc. Predicted (and justifiable) answer? NO.
God, I love romance. BRING IT ON!
Then, last night, I went to see Walk The Line for the second time, and by the time Joaquin Phoenix was knocking it out of the park man-in-black-style with "Ring of Fire" and asking Reese Witherspoon's June Carter to marry him in the middle of "Jackson", I had chills, and a single picturesque tear rolling down my forlorn cheek because I just know that all my chances for a real love story are all but used up now that I'm a crusty, hard-hearted 36 year old single parent with no money in the Czech Republic, and don't bother contradicting me, liars.
Yeah, I'm feeling sorry for myself, what of it?