EVV1, Part The Second
A stranger observed that she doesn't know who I am, merely my name. And I'm probably more comfortable in this pseudonymous space, talking about inner rubbish and not outward rubbish, than otherwise. Plus, it will all come out eventually, and I suspect there will be few surprises for anyone. Part of my charm, surely, is my naive willingness to believe it's all different for me, somehow, that the secret things are secret and the things I don't want people to see or know aren't, well, seen or known. Perhaps I should adopt "Scooter" as a pseudonym, as that's all clearly bollocks. I've re-created TPT here because too many areas of my life are now "No Whingeing Zones", and you know what? Born to Kvetch, baby, born to fucking kvetch. Also, most of my friends have no patience for my shit any more - it's fun to watch, apparently, but not to provide fatuous comfort for, especially as the years roll on (and yes, I caught the typo in the invitation last night just after I sent it out. Apologies.). Thus, rather than having p2p'd episodes of my shit, I'll just dish 'em out for all and sundry.
OK, where'd I leave off? Emotionally Vulnerable Victim 1, numbered as Ms. Double-Barelled was taking pity on my state of aloneness and had another co-worker/enemy in mind with whom to set me up. EVV1, La Canadienne, well, she was a charmer. Deer in the headlights, frozen, uncertain, smart enough to know I was bad news, lonely enough to be persuaded out of her instincts, interesting enough for me to fall for, blank enough for me to paint the canvas. Alternately, smart enough for me to fall for, lonely enough that my "fallen sparrow" complex kicked in and I wanted to save this broken bird, interesting enough to cover what might be untold depths of blankness...
I knew from path-crossing (date? gag) 2 or 3 that the Proustian overtones were dangerous. The more firmly hesitant she was to get involved, the less I could resist her - there's nothing like the pursuit of that which we desire and how it becomes obsessive, a desire in itself. And indeed, the pursuit trumped all. As a blood relative observed, "You need to work out the differences between dating and falling in love." I seem only to have an on/off switch. EVV1 may well have been lobbying for dating, in hindsight, not ready for a relationship. I was wrapped up in my desire for the unavailable, the unobtainable, knowing full well, of course, that obtaining the object is death to the desire.
I'd like to pause here and point out that I may be an emotionally immature manipulative asshole who occasionally preys on women. That said, I'd also like to remind you that by reading this you agree that I am, in all cases, the real capital-"v" Victim. However improbable the contortions of history, perspective, time, or space may be, by clicking OK you have accepted the fact that I'm always the Victim, and that any unseemly pleasure I may seem to take in the misfortune of others is always vastly outweighed by the pain (public or private) I experience because of aforementioned pleasure.
Back to six weeks, the new three weeks. Luv! Lurve! Passion! Romance! Clotted cream and fan-fucking-tastic walnut and stilton scones in Central Park! Walking across bridges! Reading the NYTimes, intertwined on a sofa! Ah, bliss. Not a big eater, though. And a tendency to run around the entirety of Central Park every other morning. OK, recently ex-smoking me is willing to cut some major slack for the healthy and excercise-prone. But the working-class background, the raised up by her own bootstraps aspect, which formed a deeply compelling corner of the attraction, had some other implications. Wine igorance. Food finicky. Other expressions of OCD and not buried enough neuroses. I realise that some ridiculous proportion of New Yorkers are in therapy. I'm not, and probably should be. She was, and will probably need more, now.
Did I mention everybody's out of town? EVV1 should be back tonight, YCT is gone until the middle of next week, leaving lonely, lonely me here writing the saga. Gotta run and go meet a friend, now...But in the next episode, we have somebody playing me (for a change - about farking time), the difference between being attracted to people because they're attracted to you and attraction, and, time permitting, a hot and heavy game of footsie that ended up being with an inanimate object.
OK, where'd I leave off? Emotionally Vulnerable Victim 1, numbered as Ms. Double-Barelled was taking pity on my state of aloneness and had another co-worker/enemy in mind with whom to set me up. EVV1, La Canadienne, well, she was a charmer. Deer in the headlights, frozen, uncertain, smart enough to know I was bad news, lonely enough to be persuaded out of her instincts, interesting enough for me to fall for, blank enough for me to paint the canvas. Alternately, smart enough for me to fall for, lonely enough that my "fallen sparrow" complex kicked in and I wanted to save this broken bird, interesting enough to cover what might be untold depths of blankness...
I knew from path-crossing (date? gag) 2 or 3 that the Proustian overtones were dangerous. The more firmly hesitant she was to get involved, the less I could resist her - there's nothing like the pursuit of that which we desire and how it becomes obsessive, a desire in itself. And indeed, the pursuit trumped all. As a blood relative observed, "You need to work out the differences between dating and falling in love." I seem only to have an on/off switch. EVV1 may well have been lobbying for dating, in hindsight, not ready for a relationship. I was wrapped up in my desire for the unavailable, the unobtainable, knowing full well, of course, that obtaining the object is death to the desire.
I'd like to pause here and point out that I may be an emotionally immature manipulative asshole who occasionally preys on women. That said, I'd also like to remind you that by reading this you agree that I am, in all cases, the real capital-"v" Victim. However improbable the contortions of history, perspective, time, or space may be, by clicking OK you have accepted the fact that I'm always the Victim, and that any unseemly pleasure I may seem to take in the misfortune of others is always vastly outweighed by the pain (public or private) I experience because of aforementioned pleasure.
Back to six weeks, the new three weeks. Luv! Lurve! Passion! Romance! Clotted cream and fan-fucking-tastic walnut and stilton scones in Central Park! Walking across bridges! Reading the NYTimes, intertwined on a sofa! Ah, bliss. Not a big eater, though. And a tendency to run around the entirety of Central Park every other morning. OK, recently ex-smoking me is willing to cut some major slack for the healthy and excercise-prone. But the working-class background, the raised up by her own bootstraps aspect, which formed a deeply compelling corner of the attraction, had some other implications. Wine igorance. Food finicky. Other expressions of OCD and not buried enough neuroses. I realise that some ridiculous proportion of New Yorkers are in therapy. I'm not, and probably should be. She was, and will probably need more, now.
Did I mention everybody's out of town? EVV1 should be back tonight, YCT is gone until the middle of next week, leaving lonely, lonely me here writing the saga. Gotta run and go meet a friend, now...But in the next episode, we have somebody playing me (for a change - about farking time), the difference between being attracted to people because they're attracted to you and attraction, and, time permitting, a hot and heavy game of footsie that ended up being with an inanimate object.
posted by itinerarium at 11:49 AM
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