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I haven't posted in a month. I've done very little since then, actually. I work a lot, and I waver between feeling blah and feeling ill. At the moment, I'm feeling neither, but closer to ill. I had a kidney stone that has since turned into a UTI, I think, and now a wisdom tooth that grew in without problems eight years ago has decided to be a douche and inflame my gums. Fuck you, dentin! Fuck you.
Anyway, I won't bore you with details about my failing health. Instead, I'm going to wax philosophic about life or something like it.
No matter who you are, I'm pretty sure you probably fantasize. You may call it daydreaming. But it's something I've done since I was little, something we've probably all done since we were little. Usually -- at least for me -- it involves some man, usually my current crush (real or imaginary), confessing his love for me. Sometimes, though, it has to do with other things -- becoming a successful author, for instance, or being able to drink Coke again without fear of kidney stones. (That last one is a bit of an exaggeration, probably due to Coke withdrawal.) Anyway, this is something we all do, right? We all daydream.
I've been watching Ally McBeal lately, which is a show from the late 90s to the early 2000s. Ally is a lawyer, and she's utterly, hopelessly neurotic. She's me, basically. She fantasizes a lot, too, because she doesn't like the world the way it is. In the second season, this fantasizing becomes so bad that she actually starts hallucinating, really thinking her fantasies are real. I've not yet hallucinated, but I'm afraid I'm turning into Ally. I find myself going to bed early, far before I'm tired, just so I can close my eyes and weave a story in which my current crush, who shall remain nameless, tells me he's into dudes, too, and we go off to cuddle while babysitting my grandma's dog, a shih tzu named Kloee. I take longer showers, I stay in bed after I wake up for a few extra minutes. Sometimes I find myself just sitting in my chair, doing absolutely nothing even though I'm in the middle of a game or a project, daydreaming.
I never used to do this, at least not like this. Before, daydreaming about crushes was something I did for a minute or two, just before I fell asleep. It was a trigger, basically, for my brain to release whatever chemicals it releases to put me to sleep. Not anymore. Now, it's all I want to do, really. It's starting to worry me, actually. I do not want to start hallucinating! There's another episode of Ally McBeal about a woman (not Ally herself) who has had an eight-year relationship with an imaginary man she created because she was so lonely. I do not -- do not! -- want to become that woman. Quite frankly, I'd rather start hallucinating.
This probably has something to do with the fact that I've recently developed a new crush. I can't get into details, but suffice it to say that it's been a very, very long time since I've had a crush, a real crush, one that I actually talk to and could imagine something happening with. (Those prepositions at the end of that sentence are killing me, but correcting them makes the sentence sound totally whack.) This, though, brings up my next point about which I'd like to wax philosophic: crushes.
Remember in high school when you'd develop a new crush, and for a long time it'd be fun? You'd see him (or her, but we'll just use the male pronoun now for ease's sake) and you'd smile. You'd giggle a lot around him. You'd blush. You'd feel butterflies, and it'd be wonderful, and even though you and he weren't together, you were happy. Sooner or later, of course, that joy would give way to frustration and anger and impatience. I mean, yes, that's inevitable. But you'd have those few months of floating on clouds with cherubim singing love songs. For me, at least this time, I skipped over that period entirely. I don't have butterflies. I have rabid vampire bats that fly around my brain like angry motherfuckers fucking angry because he and I are not boinking like bunnies in the springtime. I don't smile or giggle or blush. Instead, I take every move or glance or statement as a direct indication of whether or not I have a chance, which usually finds me contemplating bridge-diving on a minute-by-minute basis. And this crush is still so new! Where are my butterflies, dammit? I DESERVE SOME BUTTERFLIES!
So why?, I ask you. Is it because I'm nearing thirty, and my imaginary biological clock (imbued by the gay gene, of course) is starting to tick too loudly? Is it because the rest of my life seems to be falling apart, so I'm determined to find something that could make it better? Or is it because I'm fucking horny? (The answer to all of these, I think, is yes.) In any case, I'm frustrated. Frustrated because he and I will probably never get together, even if he is gay, because I'm socially retarded and living in a town where being gay isn't really cool and therefore, even if he is gay, he's probably so far in the closet he's in Narnia stroking Aslan's furry mane. True, that's frustrating, but that's not even why I'm frustrated!
I'm frustrated because I haven't really been lonely in a while. I mean, I have, but it hasn't been that noticeable. I was talking to John earlier, and I came up with a great metaphor! For a long time, the loneliness was like a cavity that doesn't hurt. You know you should fix it, but you don't bother or worry about it or even think about it because it's not really bothering you. Now, though, ever since I developed this crush, every part of me -- and I mean every part! -- is like OW OW OW OW TOOTH PAIN OW! (Perhaps not coincidentally, I actually do have tooth pain now... technically gum pain, but still, that's good enough for government work, as they say, so it's good enough for here.)
I'm afraid, though. It's November. I love autumn (J'aime l'automne, Flaubert once wrote) but this means Christmas is right around the corner. The holidays, as you know if you've known me for any length of time, are not a good time for me. The loneliness, it gets worse. Much, much worse. Last Christmas, if you recall, I was in a terrible, horrible place, and I'm afraid I'm going to sink there again this year. I can see in my head -- it's those fantasies again -- what a Christmas would be like if I had a boyfriend. Not a soulmate or a partner or a lover, just a boyfriend. But I can see all that, and then the rational part of my brain takes over and throws a brick that says NEVER GONNA HAPPEN right through the bay window of my dreams. I'm on the edge, you know, at the top of the slide, just waiting for something -- *cough* Christmas *cough* -- to push me down it. And I really, really don't want to slide.
Anyway, I won't bore you with details about my failing health. Instead, I'm going to wax philosophic about life or something like it.
No matter who you are, I'm pretty sure you probably fantasize. You may call it daydreaming. But it's something I've done since I was little, something we've probably all done since we were little. Usually -- at least for me -- it involves some man, usually my current crush (real or imaginary), confessing his love for me. Sometimes, though, it has to do with other things -- becoming a successful author, for instance, or being able to drink Coke again without fear of kidney stones. (That last one is a bit of an exaggeration, probably due to Coke withdrawal.) Anyway, this is something we all do, right? We all daydream.
I've been watching Ally McBeal lately, which is a show from the late 90s to the early 2000s. Ally is a lawyer, and she's utterly, hopelessly neurotic. She's me, basically. She fantasizes a lot, too, because she doesn't like the world the way it is. In the second season, this fantasizing becomes so bad that she actually starts hallucinating, really thinking her fantasies are real. I've not yet hallucinated, but I'm afraid I'm turning into Ally. I find myself going to bed early, far before I'm tired, just so I can close my eyes and weave a story in which my current crush, who shall remain nameless, tells me he's into dudes, too, and we go off to cuddle while babysitting my grandma's dog, a shih tzu named Kloee. I take longer showers, I stay in bed after I wake up for a few extra minutes. Sometimes I find myself just sitting in my chair, doing absolutely nothing even though I'm in the middle of a game or a project, daydreaming.
I never used to do this, at least not like this. Before, daydreaming about crushes was something I did for a minute or two, just before I fell asleep. It was a trigger, basically, for my brain to release whatever chemicals it releases to put me to sleep. Not anymore. Now, it's all I want to do, really. It's starting to worry me, actually. I do not want to start hallucinating! There's another episode of Ally McBeal about a woman (not Ally herself) who has had an eight-year relationship with an imaginary man she created because she was so lonely. I do not -- do not! -- want to become that woman. Quite frankly, I'd rather start hallucinating.
This probably has something to do with the fact that I've recently developed a new crush. I can't get into details, but suffice it to say that it's been a very, very long time since I've had a crush, a real crush, one that I actually talk to and could imagine something happening with. (Those prepositions at the end of that sentence are killing me, but correcting them makes the sentence sound totally whack.) This, though, brings up my next point about which I'd like to wax philosophic: crushes.
Remember in high school when you'd develop a new crush, and for a long time it'd be fun? You'd see him (or her, but we'll just use the male pronoun now for ease's sake) and you'd smile. You'd giggle a lot around him. You'd blush. You'd feel butterflies, and it'd be wonderful, and even though you and he weren't together, you were happy. Sooner or later, of course, that joy would give way to frustration and anger and impatience. I mean, yes, that's inevitable. But you'd have those few months of floating on clouds with cherubim singing love songs. For me, at least this time, I skipped over that period entirely. I don't have butterflies. I have rabid vampire bats that fly around my brain like angry motherfuckers fucking angry because he and I are not boinking like bunnies in the springtime. I don't smile or giggle or blush. Instead, I take every move or glance or statement as a direct indication of whether or not I have a chance, which usually finds me contemplating bridge-diving on a minute-by-minute basis. And this crush is still so new! Where are my butterflies, dammit? I DESERVE SOME BUTTERFLIES!
So why?, I ask you. Is it because I'm nearing thirty, and my imaginary biological clock (imbued by the gay gene, of course) is starting to tick too loudly? Is it because the rest of my life seems to be falling apart, so I'm determined to find something that could make it better? Or is it because I'm fucking horny? (The answer to all of these, I think, is yes.) In any case, I'm frustrated. Frustrated because he and I will probably never get together, even if he is gay, because I'm socially retarded and living in a town where being gay isn't really cool and therefore, even if he is gay, he's probably so far in the closet he's in Narnia stroking Aslan's furry mane. True, that's frustrating, but that's not even why I'm frustrated!
I'm frustrated because I haven't really been lonely in a while. I mean, I have, but it hasn't been that noticeable. I was talking to John earlier, and I came up with a great metaphor! For a long time, the loneliness was like a cavity that doesn't hurt. You know you should fix it, but you don't bother or worry about it or even think about it because it's not really bothering you. Now, though, ever since I developed this crush, every part of me -- and I mean every part! -- is like OW OW OW OW TOOTH PAIN OW! (Perhaps not coincidentally, I actually do have tooth pain now... technically gum pain, but still, that's good enough for government work, as they say, so it's good enough for here.)
I'm afraid, though. It's November. I love autumn (J'aime l'automne, Flaubert once wrote) but this means Christmas is right around the corner. The holidays, as you know if you've known me for any length of time, are not a good time for me. The loneliness, it gets worse. Much, much worse. Last Christmas, if you recall, I was in a terrible, horrible place, and I'm afraid I'm going to sink there again this year. I can see in my head -- it's those fantasies again -- what a Christmas would be like if I had a boyfriend. Not a soulmate or a partner or a lover, just a boyfriend. But I can see all that, and then the rational part of my brain takes over and throws a brick that says NEVER GONNA HAPPEN right through the bay window of my dreams. I'm on the edge, you know, at the top of the slide, just waiting for something -- *cough* Christmas *cough* -- to push me down it. And I really, really don't want to slide.