Well, I'm writing.
Part of it is it that I want to cry. I want to feel a glass of wine (or two), I want to enjoy the solitude, feel alive in my own solace that is... that just. Is.
A part of me misses ex-GFs. A part of me hungers for the new ladies that are out there, floating, teasingly, just out of reach, wanted, like only someone I show the "real me" exists... unattainable. Therein, I suppose, lies the neverending source of angst. Why aren't I good enough as-is? Why must I put on the mask of confidence (or arrogance), the mirage of having it together, the distance of selective unavailability?
Why can't I just like you. Just want to be with you. Just hunger for it, not have "better things to do", have responsibilities. I do... for real. I just want to like you so much I'll set them aside. And that's... bad?
Or I can stay out too late, tease the animal that is a potential relationship that scares me. I can respond to an 11pm invite for tea and be put in a situation that can't end well. A situation that makes me an asshole for leaving, or her a slut for letting me stay, or me immature for wanting or not wanting or hoping or rejecting. Makes me feel evil no matter what I do.
But then, of course, I feel pretty shitty a great deal of the time anyway. And, likewise, maybe so do they. And so, then, why not have more sex? Why not have more teasing? Why not have more touch, more mock-intimacy, more pleasant dreams even if short lived? Why not?
I don't know why not. I think, generally, that more sex is good, that more intimacy, faux or not, makes people happy, that the world would be a better place if only we all screwed more.
But maybe I've been sad and angry and in pain for so long that it's just more comfortable. Maybe I like it.
I'm almost there. (sip of wine) I can almost feel the tears coming. I want them. I want to feel. Something. Anything.
I want to love and hope and dream. I want to be angry and hurt and feel pain and hate. I want to scream for no reason and laugh instead of cry. I want to cry just know I'm alive.
I want to remember them. I want to remember them all. I want to remember the pain from when they left. And I want to love the world enough to heal it, to heal myself, to gain, to feel, to earn... to deserve to be loved back.
Here they come.
Release.
--
I don't miss anyone today. Whether that means I'm over them all, or just used to the solitude is anyone's guess.
I must like it. I've rejected dozens of fantastic, attractive, intelligent women for seemingly no reason.
--
The contradiction is definitely there... I think of these "new", unattainable women, and yearn, yet know that once I have them and they want me on Mondays and Tuesdays I'll feel stifled, pressured, and smothered.
No, I don't get it. Yes, I think it's possible that someone out there could be compatible with me, as contradictory as I am. No, I have no idea how I'll ever find her drinking wine and crying alone. Yes, it's lame. No, I don't give a fuck.
--
Maybe I just need a god damn vacation. Oh, wait, that's right! I only do those with women I care about.
Sigh.
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