So after a recommendation by my former imaginary boyfriend now on permanent hiatus, Vivid Blurry, I started reading this kid’s blog, front to back. He’s a sexually frustrated overthinker with masochistic romantic tendencies and a failure complex. Way to steal my bit and have an actual following of readers from the gay blogosphere. I think I’ll just go over here and douse my head in rubbing alcohol.
As I’ve been reading, I’ve become keenly aware that the most intriguing posts are autobiographical rather than critical. That is, as a reader I’m more drawn to his life rather than his thoughts. Huh. That’s something. I still fully believe that a blog should serve its author’s needs first and foremost, but there seems to be something in this kid’s formula (tragic clubbing experiences + unrequited lust + daddy issues - abstract freeform - lame attempts at poetry) that really seems to work for me. I also dig the fact that his readers are internet randoms rather than his friends, which is not to say that I don’t love me the comments from my peeps, but I’d be lying if I said I never held back from certain biographical details due to who might read them.
My new plan is to write more about everyday stuff as my life, when not bogged down in the fact that I’m isolated in a city of 4 million, is actually pretty funny sometimes. Or tragic but funny to other people. For example, I offer the following IM exchange with my newest never-gonna-happen object of infactuation:
NGHOI: How’ve you been doing?!
Me [trying to sound busy/sexually attractive]: Going places, seeing people, doing things. All good stuff.
Me [believing my goals had been achieved]: You know it! I am extreeeeeeeeemely important now haha.
NGHOI: Happy for you!
Alright, seemingly inoccuous but let’s deconstruct, shall we?
In my verging-on-Olympic-level of specialness of the way my brain works, I am thinking that the appearance of being busy should lead to his pining for my attention/affection. Essentially, this should have read, “Happy for you to be near me at all times forever” or “Happy for you to sit on my face.” Either would have been acceptable. But no. In my sick interpretation this simply means “Oh good, maybe you’re making other friends [ed. Ha!] and will leave me along for a while.”
Ugh. And the best part is that this is me being nonchalant about a crush. You should see me when I’m just gone. Like, full Thelma & Louse, over the edge gone. Ask Friend S. She knows and it ain’t pretty. The fact that I'm even posting this potentially inflammatory information is just proof that I'm so getting over this one. Afterall, I'm sure that the subject of my nex nocturnal emission is just around the corner. Yeah. That's right. It's been so long since I had sex that my reproductive organs have regressed to their 14 year old state. Jealous? Thought so.
In other news, I had a quasi-date the other night at *swallows own vomit* Jack Astor’s. Abnormally Tall Paramedic wasn’t uninteresting; in fact, he kind of exceeded my expectations, apart from deeming a polar fleece zip-up an acceptable garment in which to be seen in public. Yet, despite the fact that he bought a bruschetta appi for us, I still went home early with a headache. My destiny as a Jewish housewife is clearly shaping up well.
Also, for the first time since I was 12, the bottom of my feet do not look as though they are in posession of scales. I guess there is such a thing as universal balance of karma.