I've been hiding away from blogland for a little.

It's been a combo of things. An incredibly packed schedule leaving me dragging my ass to bed at 2AM a couple days in a row, emotional upheaval due to GV8 and my conflicting desires (and fears), and a comment that left me in a bit of a rage for a little under twenty-four hours... which is odd. It's rare for me to stay angry for that long.

But I could not bring myself to come in here and write with that rage weighing on my brain.

So I waited it out. Still irritated, but less prone to snapping.

I've got a few pet peeves.

1. Littering
2. Tailgating
3. Being Pedestaled
4. Being white-knighted
5. Ego- or ethnocentrism
6. People who aren't aware of personal space or their own physical boundaries. This isn't World of Warcraft, kids, I can't walk through you if you're standing in the doorway.

I actually do not know which I find more offensive, being pedestaled or being white-knighted. Both of them are incredibly demeaning, white-knighting for its lack of respect for a person's values and desires (among so many other things that I really don't have the focus to write about at the moment), pedestaling because one isn't being viewed as a complete person. You're being loved (or lusted after) because you're being idealized. Because someone doesn't know, doesn't get, the fullness of you as a person.

Some girls like being pedestaled, so it could be argued that a person pedestaling them does, in fact, understand them, see them as a full person, so well that they are fulfilling the object of their love's desires by pedestaling them.

However, being pedestaled creeps me out. It reminds me of religious fantasism, makes me feel like I no longer exist as an individual but, instead, have being a minor sum of a person's interpretations of who they see me as being, who they want me to be.

And who I actually am... discarded. Insignificant. Minor details.

It's not a matter of disliking myself so I end up distrusting those who would adore me, but a matter of needing to be understood. And anyone who would adore me, who would place me on high, does not understand me.

Much like when I receive emails from men who would read my other blog (and the occasional one from this blog) telling me that I was the girl for them, that I understood them, that they were perfect for me, that they would understand me better than anyone else, that we should run away together, be soul mates, etc.

Anyone who would send me an email like that... doesn't understand me at all. On an epic level.

Those emails make me about as uncomfortable as when my platonic guy friends try to shift into dating me, and I end up scrambling to put a stop on their intentions without embarassing them by showing them that I know very well what they're trying to do, that I've seen it so many times, and I'm simply not interested... but I can't let them know. It becomes this sad little vaguely choreographed number of me dancing out of the way, deflecting interested queries, dodging lips because "ooh, look at that!" or "omg, I haven't see him in forever, BRB!" or whatever childish number I have to play to preserve their ego and, ultimately, our friendship. Sexual pushes are telegraphed before they even execute them, I play innocent.

And wait and hope.
And wait and hope.
And wait and hope.

That they'll become distracted by another girl.
That they'll start reading my body language and the signs and back off, feeling relieved that they did not actually ask me out or try to steal a kiss (and that, if they did, that I didn't notice because I suddenly became "distracted" by something).

Or that, for the ones that can't contain themselves, that they'll push past a boundary of mine and I can drop all pretenses of politeness and respect, and show them what happens when they try for the passive-aggressive sexuality of a Nice Guy with a girl who has played this game before and always wins.

If you can counting "winning" as watching one of your friends change from friendly and caring to desperate and disrespectful, discarding friendship and shared history for the chance, the freaking chance, to either a)hit that or b)forcefully sweep you off your feet into an emotionally one-sided relationship.

Lust overpowering simple respect.
Overpowering boundaries.

You'd think it would be good for a girl's ego, but you'd be wrong.

It makes you feel like an object, in a way. And not the fun, being objectified, whip-me-beat-me-spank-me-make-me-write-bad-checks way.

You get objectified when your objections cease to matter. His personality drops away, the easygoing behavior, the friendship- all discarded. Traded in, really. While he converts to desperate animal brain in a lycanoid shift, you become the prey. He doesn't remember why he wants you, only that he does.

Object of the hunt.

It makes me feel like I'm in a straitjacket.

Which is how I usually feel when my words cease to matter. When, not only am I not being listened to, but someone is taking action around me, involving me in their plans and ideals without actually caring about my plans and ideals.

An object. An object they've idealized.

An idol? When people impress upon you their desires, and tell themselves that, really, you're the one that wanted a goat sacrificed at your feet. That you needed those virgins. That you'd have supported Bob"s theft of his neighbor's wife.

What was that movie, when there were two opposing sides shouting "God wills it!" at each other in a frantic frenzy?

This is what you want. You know this is what you want because someone has told you so.

And they know what you want because they've constructed an image of you based on their intrepetations of your words and actions, not verifying, unless it is to confirm their own ideas.

You're reconstructed.

The You? The Version 1.0? Not so much.

You're a doll now. They pull your string and the words they've recorded themselves play back at them. Trapped inside, they position you, they move you, and in their mind they make love to you until you're moaning their name.

The girl that Jack built.

How a boy feels...

Realized last night, after posting, after being texted by Mr. Pseudonym Pending, that I'm hypersensitize to my male (platonic or sexual) friends.

This year has been, not exactly a nightmare, but a frustrating tangle of my guy friends admitting, in one way or another, deeper feelings for me.

Feelings I have not returned.

And, sure, you're sitting there, all logical-like, saying, "Well, so what? You can't force yourself to have interest for another person. You didn't lead them on or anything."

Guys love to try to white-knight me. I know this.

They feel incredibly special and close to me when I talk to them about the things going on inside my head, my conflicts, my vunerability. They think that we're bonding more than I bond with others, that I'm sharing special things, that I'm showing trust in them, that I'm seeking them for advice, that our friendship is deepening.

What they don't realize is that I'm not sharing special things. They're things I discuss with multiple people. I'm not opening up. My walls are immense. The bonding they're feeling is created inside their own head because other girls don't act like I do. Other girls don't do this. Something must be special, something must be unique.

And I'm incredibly physically affectionate with my male friends. I express myself through touch. So it's not unusual for me to curl up in bed with one of them, to put my head in their lap, to press my thigh against theirs when we sit next to each other, to rub their backs when they twist something, to walk with shoulders rubbing, touch them when I want to show them something, hands on their shoulders or lower back when I want them to move.

I touch a lot.

So I end up creating this male-female relationship where I am very physically affectionate and comfortable with them, where I'm revealing "secrets" and "vunerabilities" and, in turn, they are revealing actual secrets and vunerabilities while attempting to "fix" me, doing shared activities, going out to movies, meals, clubs, concerts, and it becomes this near inevitable thing where I'll get a phone call, a text, an email, or be stopped for a "serious conversation".

And then I feel horrible.

I feel like I haven't laid down enough boundaries.

That I should have brought up the men I was sleeping with more.

Or made "you're such a good friend"-type comments.

Because I'm the aware party. I know what I'm doing. I know that I'm triggering these things. I've seen this before, done this before.

I'm the responsible one in this situation.

For not just laying it down as soon as I see those signs start cropping up. The probing questions about my relationships, the physical contact that isn't casual on their end, the attempts to save, the insulting of the men I sleep with. Tiny of dozens of little fractures that they make in an effort to break the shell of the platonic friendship I have enforced upon them.

It makes me feel like I'm committing emotional statutory rape.

Because they don't know what they're doing. They don't have the experience. They're children.

When I got that text message on Saturday for the DP, that night I went out with my clubbing friend. The one who made me the mix CD of songs he could see me dancing to. The one who guest-lists me at the clubs. The one who I run to when one of those guys at the clubs will not leave me alone so I press up against him and whisper in quick panic "grab me, act like you're my boyfriend, NOW" so I don't have to spend the next few hours dodging those men who can't read my body language. The one who I talk to when I'm upset, the one who tells me about his family, his life, his issues, his female problems.

He's expressed interest in me. He's asked my friends about me.

He's warned others off me. Not aggressively, but enough.

So I just dumped the DP on the table. Like it was just another day in the life of me. Which it kinda is. I left the club early, hugged him goodbye, he knew where I was going. Left shortly after I did, actually.

I hate having to build these walls.

I hate the barriers.

I hate worrying that I'm going to end up hurting yet another of my friends.

I hate the body language, the behaviors, the predictable words.

The sinking feeling I get in my stomach when I realize they're going for it, my mind racing to figure out a way to verbally cockblock them without embarassing them, without damaging our friendship, without insulting them or rejecting them outright.

This is something I loathe.

I hate rejecting men. I hate the damage it does.

I hate feeling like it's entirely my fault.

But what am I supposed to do? Completely change my social behavior? Never express myself with them? Never be truly affectionate? Keep awkward, physical walls in place? Declare the minute I start hanging out with a man regularly on a social level that I'm not going to date him ever, so-please-don't-even-think-about-it-thank-you?

Who am I supposed to talk to, if not my friends?

Or am I only allowed to talk to my straight female friends so this doesn't occur?

There's got to be a better way to handle this.

I don't like these feelings of guilt that crop up because I have knowledge and awareness that these men do not. Amusingly, if they did, I'd find them desirable.

Which makes perfect sense.

It happened earlier this week with the text I mentioned in an earlier post, I'm still trying to stop the slow descent with my clubbing friend, one of my oldest friends told me on Tuesday that he loves me as much as he loves his girlfriend of four years. I know, I've known for a long time, that he has been in love with me. I did not realize the level.

Then there was Redding, who went so incredibly wrong. Near obsession. Near stalkery, even when I flat out told him no, never. Near begged him to get over it.

And all the other little incidents that I've had to stop, gloss over, with others.

It's no wonder I don't respect most men.

You'd think I'd be a pro at this by now.
You'd think I'd have the zen by now to know that this happens and there's nothing I can do about it so I need to stop worrying and watching for when the next one starts to go.

Apparently not.

I hate rejection so much, I squirm when I reject others.

Another thing to address.

It's all I really need...

I was Nice-Guy'd earlier this year.

This is something that rarely happens to me.

For one, it's hard to be subtle around me. I'm kinda sex, sex, and more sex. It's a topic that comes up a lot, along with relationships, desires, communication, internal struggles... people talk about this stuff a lot with me. So it's hard to hold back, when you're trying to play the Nice Guy card.

For two, I tend to intimidate people with my sexuality. Odd, but true. So those who run the Nice Guy game tend to be easily frightened off.

However, this one, he would not be deterred.

Backstory:

He contacted me through my other blog about this time last year. I flat-out told him I was not interested in him as a potential partner, but I would like to be friends.

He was a little butt-hurt at my rejection, but he said a platonic friendship would be better than not knowing me at all.

I started going through a rough patch shortly after we started talking and he was one of the people I would call when I felt anxiety building, when I wanted someone to talk to. I continued to hold my platonic-friends stance, and he continued to state he was fine with that.

He lived in northern California at the time, but was moving down here, closer to me (this was already in the works, and not inspired by me). So he came down to visit me and some of his friends in the area. I offered him crash-space for one of the nights, and took him to Knotts Scary Farm since he had always wanted to go.

It was a perfectly fine night. No awkwardness, no odd touches, no silence moments of discomfort. Just a normal, relaxed night.

The next day, I drove him down to his friend's place in Vista. We had planned on hanging out together with his friends all weekend, enjoying the weather (the sight of marines everywhere) and just relaxing.

As soon as we got down there, he changed. Started being flirty, gropy, full of innuendo, blocking me off from male friends, offering to cuddle with me while I slept, constantly in my personal space, constantly making references to sexual activity... it was awful.

Not wanting to offend his friends, not wanting to cause a scene, I just clammed up and kept as far away from him as I could, not making eyecontact in case it would spur him to talk to me.

It continued to build.

Finally, I got to leave. I shot up the 5 freeway so fast, just to get away from him, feeling incredibly violated and dirty, letting the miles rapidly growing between us be a balm, to soothe me.

I wanted nothing to do with him.

A little later, a few weeks, a month, I get a call or an email. I don't remember. An apology for his behavior. That, because of emotional circumstances with some of his friends, he acted as he did.

I was hesitant, but willing to give him another chance.

He wanted to send me a box of random things that we had talked about. So I let him. He ended up packing in more than I expected, more than he should have. I thanked him. He offered me money, to get out of a financial bind I was in, I declined.

He starts emailing me that he keeps thinking about me.

He emails me that he's obsessed with me. That he dreams of me.

That reading about my sexual adventures online, about the guys I go out with, makes him incredibly jealous, and so very hurt.

And that he can't stop thinking of me.

I tell him that it's okay, that he just needs to get over it, that I'm not interested.

I give him space for a few months, hope that he'll meet someone else, that feelings will subside.

I give him a call to check in. We talk, things seem normal.

I call a week or two later. We talk, things seem normal.

Another week, I call, we talk, I mention that I had just met GV8 and how happy I was with him, that I might get into a relationship with him, if things go well.

He freaks.

He starts going off about how I'm making poor decisions, that I'll never be happy if I date this guy, what could I be thinking, why won't I listen to him, what could I be thinking, etc etc.

I told him he was being selfish. I told him that, even if he does not agree with my decision, he should accept that I am the one to make it. That he shouldn't be so upset over my relationship choices.

We lapse into awkward silence. I say good-bye. He says good-bye. I hang up.

I don't call again. I don't attempt contact.

That happened in March, I believe.

Last night, I went out with C and Redwing again. Redwing mentions that a girl he's been sleeping with is a devoted fan of my other blog and, oddly, is friends with the Nice Guy (AKA Redding on my tags).

And that Redding told this girl, who loves my blog so much, that he hates me.

When I heard this, I almost saw red.

I gave this guy chance after chance. Even when he was being awkward and lustful, I admonished him politely, accepted that it was just a part of him, and continued to remain friends with him because I had faith that he was being honest with me when he told me he was getting over me, that he had accepted that we would never be more than friends.

Time and time again, he told me he had accepted this.

And time and time again, his words or actions proved otherwise.

But I continued to place my faith and friendship in him.

And he hates me?

This man, who told me he had no issues, that he had sorted through everything and was at peace with himself and one of the healthiest people he knows, hates me??

I was nice, understanding, respectful, communicative, and accepting. I set boundaries and I asked him to respect them and he repeatedly did not.

So in what part of his brain does he get off on hating me? What trail of logic is set forth that causes him to find me as the villan in this piece? Someone please explain it to me.

Only this moment holds us together...

I've been putting this off for a couple of months. Mostly because I've been too busy to bother organizing it all. But the bags of books in my trunk were spilling all over the place (which isn't that bad, unless you're like me and couch-surf during the week, which means that chaos is Not Allowed Inside The Vehicle) and I needed to sort out the ones I have read (and relocate them to my abode) and the ones I have not.

And then make a list. Lists are useful, especially when I can't remember if I already have a book or if I still need to buy it. Which is often.

And... my phone keeps going off.

Amusing text mini-conversation for the day:

Redding: "Like I said, I'm waaaaaayy out in the hills ATM."
V: "Cow tipping?"
Redding: "Nah, awards ceremony. One of many the past few weeks."
V: "2009 Cow Tipping Awards?"
Redding: "I hate you."
V: "You love me."
Redding: "I want to stick my penis in you. That's totally different and quite compatible with still hating you."

After the laughter subsided, I realized that it has taken me since last September to finally get him this comfortable with me. It's hard, I realize, when rejection occurs. It's even harder when the person rejecting you has such a variety and excess of lovers and you can't quite understand why you cannot be among their number. He wanted more, I wanted platonic. I'm the stronger personality.

Well, that's not true.

I can be the stronger personality. He's more bullheaded, but I make him awkward. So I take the dominant position.

Then, months after him supposedly accepting that platonic friends "fate", he confesses that he hasn't at all accepted it, and he still fantasizes about it.

This, combined with other events, makes me wonder how many of my guy friends and acquaintances have masturbated in my name. I'd be disturbed... but I'm not. I'd be flattered, but I realize that most of them have this idealized concept of me that they're wanking to.

Which, really, isn't that far of a stretch from most standard relationships.

Christ, it's 9. I was planning on Nyquiling myself into a stupor at 7. I need to stop doing this to myself. I need to sleep in, need to stop going out every single freaking night. But then, who knows what I might miss? I was supposed to kick off my social life for the week tonight, then taper it back down next Monday. But I was exhausted all day, even though I slept 8 hours.

I've turned down my friend's birthday party. I wanted to go- I mean, how often do you get to see a girl strung up in a tree in brightly colored underwear and then smacked with a cane until she throws condoms and lube at you?- but it just doesn't fit in with my schedule.

I started reading Didion's Play it as it Lays. That's the first piece of fiction of hers that I've picked up, and I'm enjoying it. I'm also going through Against Love. It's interesting, reading that right after Baker's Sperm Wars, which I'm going to read again because it was so damn good, and so very on the money when it comes to my operating system. I think that last chapter was the most romantic thing I've read in a long while.

Not that I haven't read romantic things, just that my idea of romance tends to be a bit... skewed.

I've been thinking of Hardwood Floors a bit of late. I miss him, in this odd way. Yes, he's out on the road, touring and the like, having adventures and meeting all sorts of fabulous people. But I miss being around someone so intense, so damaged. We lined up so well.

Someone commented on my screen name, Poetry of Flesh. HF helped inspire it, lying together in bed, talking about our projects and ideas. Then the tattoo was gained.

Visceris.

Of the flesh. Belonging to the core, the heart, the innermost parts of anything.

I remember being out at the Bay Cities Deli in Venice, and lifting my shirt to show some friends how far along it was. Some guys were sitting at a table about twenty feet away. I got to see the double-takes, the "oh holy crap" expressions. That delighted me to no end.

Same thing, at the tattoo studio. When the artist thought I had the image reversed, negative space.

People just don't get that much solid black on their ribs.

Girls don't come in and ask for an eight hour sitting.

Twelve hours later, I've still got another hour or two to go. When I can find the time.

Bah, I'm getting tired and rambling.

I stopped by Starbucks on my way home, to sit out in the sun and read some more of Play it as it Lays. There are three reasons I do this. One, I love to read. Two, there's a guy with some attractive tattoos on his forearms- not quite sleeves, though. Three, there's another guy who is this cocky loud bastard that I would love to ride into the ground. Just give me the opportunity.

However, today there was a man I hadn't seen in a few years.

They call him Rooster, because he's such a dick.

The first and last time I interacted with him, I proceeded to out-asshole him, not react to his prods, and kick his ass at rummy repeatedly. Which I told him I would do but he insisted that, being female, I could never accomplish such a feat. Especially since he was such a seasoned card game veteran.

Guys don't like it when you do that and then don't sleep with them. Where's the compensation for crushing their manhood in front of their friends? I would've felt bad about the whole thing, but... no. If you talk big, you need to be big.

I was amused.

I don't bother approaching that group anymore. I have friends in it, but I'm good, thanks.

I've been flipping out the CDs in my car like mad for the last few weeks. Usually I keep one CD in for several weeks, learn each song, learn the order, memorize the lyrics (all of this unintentional, I just drive a lot), etc. I went from Placebo's MEDS to Goldfrapp's FeltMountain to Massive Attack's Mezzanine back to Placebo, then to Royksopp, back to Massive Attack, toss in some Rollins spoken-word, shift to Torrini's Love in the Time of Science, over to some IAMX, to Depeche Mode, and now I'm back to Royksopp. I'm starting to feel like a musical schizo.

But it makes for totally unrelated blog post titles. I can only imagine rereading this blog years from now wondering where the hell I got the titles for these posts. I love messing with my future self.

I picked up Vicky Cristina Barcelona because enough people in the PUA community have mentioned it to make me feel uninformed. I was going to watch it tonight, but got distracted with books and a keyboard.

Apparently, someone in the movie is has the seduction type of the Rake from Greene's Art of Seduction. I am annoyed by the Rake. I remember reading that tome, thinking to myself of men I know that have used the line, "You're so _____, I just can't control myself" on me or my friends. Yes, pick a random flattering adjective and I, too, can be yours in minutes.

Easy Bake Oven for men?

That behavior flips a switch in my brain. A switch that immediately triggers a, "Oh, no, he did not just throw that goddamned line out there. What a freaking idiot. This is ending now."

You know what I respect? Control and honesty.

If someone tosses out that line to you, they're either lying or lacking in control. Yes, I'm sure, there are other reasons and shades of gray, but I'm just going to go with the basic truth/lie here.

If they're lying, it's just another line. It's a goal. It's a dialogue, probably one that has been used many times. That's fine. But it's common. It's overdone. It's so very, very overdone. I don't mind lines being used on me. If someone is using lines on me and I'm falling for them, that's wonderful because a)yay sex! and b)I'm learning something new. Something I can apply in the future, something that will make me better.

So when someone tosses out that line, and they know it's a line, they're either inexperienced and unpracticed and therefore lacking in interest to me because I expect better quality than that, or they are actually experienced, but they haven't been paying attention to me because if they had, they would realize what does and does not do it for me because I speak it loud and clear.

If they don't realize it's a line, if they sincerely mean it, that's a sign to bolt. Nothing says "yay crazy stalker" like someone who has no control around you. I've had one stalker too many and way too many men caught up in the concept of me, I really don't need another one. And, then, if they're sincere, that tends to mean emotions. That means that even if I want to sleep with them, I can't, because they will take that as a sign of emotional participation/investment on my part.

Because that's what girls do, right?

Emotions and sex?

Or is that chocolate and bon-bons?

Hair and nails?

I need to get better at identifying this "female" stuff.

And it's interesting to me, writing this, and thinking of very recent journal entries. I'm like this fractured person, without actually being broken. I'm just bent at odd angles.

I remember, in 2003, I bought a new car. I still have this car. I went with my father, I needed him to co-sign with me because I was only 19 and didn't have the credit needed to get a good monthly rate.

When we found my current vehicle, he said, "V, this is going to be your car for a long time. You need to make sure it has a high safety rating and that you take good care of it, because you're going to be shuttling your kids around in this car."

At the time, I my reaction was along the lines of, "Kids?? WTF?" and staring at the car, wondering if I would even live that long.

Six years later, I'm still childless, still husbandless. I can't even imagine finding a suitable partner. It doesn't enter into the equation. The guys that I end up dating (you know, seriously dating, long-term type stuff) always want me because I'm this wild and hard creature. I'm always strong, I'm always taking care of anything and nothing ever, ever breaks my shell. They respect and value strength and survivability as much as I do, they focus on it in their own lives, and so we mesh well.

But then they realize that there are parts of me that are so soft, and they tend to lose respect. They don't understand the submission, they don't understand that the ability to compromise is strength, that when I'm giving up something for them, I'm doing it because I know I can take the discomfort, and I'm happy to do so because there's no point in both of us being uncomfortable.

I've been called a she-beast. A predator. A shark.

A lot.

One of my many guy friends actually wrote a story based on my personality, combined with the fairytale of Beauty and the Beast, except the Beauty was also a beast. He published it on his blog. I loved it. I was fascinated by the idea that I could find a beast to love. That there was someone as wild and wrecked as I am, but still manages to function and maintain sanity.

But the more I think about it... I'm not a she-beast. I'm a girl-beast. One day, I hope to be a woman-beast. But that will take time and effort, things I'm more than willing to invest. Every day, I work on myself. Every day I examine myself and see how I can be better, how I can do better, and push myself towards those goals.

Growth has become my life.

And now I better toss up this to-read list so I can finally go to bed.

Slouching Towards Bethlehem - Joan Didion
Pastoralia - George Saunders
The Geneaology of Morals - Nietzsche
A Supposedly fun Thing I'll Never Do Again - David Foster Wallace
The Mating Mind - Geoffrey Miller
Get in the Van - Henry Rollins
The Star Machine - Jeanine Basinger
Mama Gena's School of Womanly Arts - Regena Thomashauer
The Ethical Slut - Dossie Easton
Animal Man #1 - Grant Morrison
Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World - Haruki Murakami
Journal to the Self - Kathleen Adams
Full Moon, Empty Hands - Lee Mallory
Preacher: Gone to Texas - Garth Ennis
The Little Prince - Antoine de Saint-Exupery
Fight Club - Chuck Palahniuk
Translations from the Poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke - MD Herter Norton
Tender is the Night - F Scott Fitzgerald
The Real Toy Story - Eric Clark
The Wall - Jean-Paul Sartre
Being and Nothingness - Jean-Paul Sartre
Fanatic! - Henry Rollins
World War Z - Max Brooks
Bang! - Henry Rollins
Pulp - Charles Bukowski
Polio Flesh - Henry Rollins
Howl and Other Poems - Allen Ginsberg
Cyrano de Bergerac - Rostand
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time - Mark Haddon
Kafka on the Shore - Haruki Murakami
Deadpool Classic - Various
The Year of Magical Thinking - Joan Didion
Notes from the Underground - Dostoevsky
Crooked Little Vein - Warren Ellis
No Country for Old Men - Cormac McCarthy
Sam and Max: Surfin' the Highway - Steve Purcell
Gut Symmetries - Jeanette Winterson
The Corrections - Jonathan Franzen
CivilWarLand in Bad Decline - George Saunders
Fear and Trembling / The Sicken Unto Death - Soren Kierkegaard
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance - Robert M Pirsig
Jonathan Livingston Seagull - Richard Bach
The Blind Assassin - Margaret Atwood
A Confederacy of Dunces - John Kennedy Toole
East of Eden - John Steinbeck
Road Fever - Tim Cahill
The New York Trilogy - Paul Auster
Fragments I Saved From the Fire - Mary Anne Ashley
Middlesex - Jeffrey Eugenides
The Dharma Bums - Jack Kerouac

Looking over this, a)I think I'm missing a bag and will have to go look for it and b)I'm an idiot if I think I can finish all of this by the time school starts in August and keep my social schedule. Also, I need to compile in all the recommendations people have tossed my way, so I can check things off as I purchase them.

Note to Self: spend less money on books. Jesus Christ.

Well, tomorrow night launches off my socialness for the week. Lunch plans for tomorrow were cancelled earlier today, so I'll get that respite, I suppose. I have that release party on Friday evening... I may cancel on my date. It's iffy. I enjoy the band, love to see them perform again, but do I really want to be up that late with everything else that's going on this weekend? GV8 lets me sleep in because he's wonderful like that, but if I occupy his bed (in a state of unconsciousness) until 2 in the afternoon because I'm so damn wiped, I'll feel like a complete ass.

I need a Magic 8 Ball.

Before I can open my all too eager eyes...

"You're one of the most unique people I've ever met."

"...that doesn't really sound like a good thing when you say it."

"Yeah, there was a little kid around. What I wanted to say was that you're one of the most fucked up people I've ever met."

"Well, golly, thanks."

I hear his sigh and then, "You know what I mean. You've embraced your damage so fully, made it such a part of you. The only thing you have solid in your self-concept is sex and desire. Everything else is totally amorphous."

"I know. I'm working on it."

"You hate being vunerable, you hate showing weakness, but this is something you have to do."

"I already am."

"Are you?"

Do you remember...

"I'm obsessed with you."

The words make me stop, make me look again.

"I don't use that word lightly. But I am. I dream about you, fantasize about you, and get jealous when I hear about your male exploits."

He continues.

"I can't imagine any sort of future with you. None. We'd self-destruct, and I know it. But I can't help but want to try."

I don't attempt to stop this flow of words. I don't tell him the truth: that he only wants me because it will make him feel better about himself. That me wanting him in return will validate him as desirable and worthwhile.

He knows we are wrong for each other, knows that I would eat him alive, but he still wishes and wants... and he doesn't know why.

I did not do this on purpose.

I swear I did not.

It just happens. I stop paying attention to what I am doing, start relaxing, and then my platonic male friends elevate me to pedestals without my knowledge or consent. He's not the first. He's no where near the first.

He tries to buy me presents, offers me money if needed. I just have to tell him what I want.

I could financially ruin him, but my ethics get in the way.

I could tell him the reasons why he wants me the way he does. I wish I could point him to chapters in books, to short paragraphs about seduction and desire, about the games that I have naturally been playing for so long that people come to me for advice and instruction.

I could.

But I won't.

Turmoil

He says, "And that is exactly why I realized we could never date... because you don't find peace in yourself. It's just the way you are."