And then to give a guy a bogus phone number? What in the fuck is that supposed to accomplish? Make him feel like a big fat schmuck and get him even more resentful to your gender? Yeah, real cute. And no, this didn�t happen to me. I refuse to ask women for phone numbers in bars. This weekend also reaffirmed my reasoning behind that decision.
Seriously, I�m embarrassed at people�s behavior towards each other. What a fundamental lack of respect. If you�re not interested, just fucking say so. It�s really simple.
Eh.. whatever. We spent most of Saturday at Moose�s (see last entry), and while it was fun hanging out with friends and at some point, even my mom, I just have zero interest in this whole �chase� thing with members of the opposite sex. I�d fly wingman for Geoff, set him up and then promptly abandon him, which I�m not sure if it�s the �correct� way to do it, but good god, I�ve no interest in these people. I�m not here to prove myself worth to talk to them. I don�t need that kind of tedium. My value is intrinsic and not something I want to convince people of.
Which is why I typically only date women who I considered as a friend first. To do it any other way doesn�t make much sense to me.
Honestly? I want someone to, for once.. or, actually.. twice in my life, to put a little effort into me. And yes, I know what some of you are saying. That�s the guys job, I can�t expect something to fall in my lap, etc.. Well, oh fucking well. It�s of magnitude better then continually making a fool out of myself.
Granted, I�ll still take risks, depending. Joyce was a risk and the amount of effort I put into the �behind the scenes� of it was significant, when compared to the past, so I can�t say I�ll never put in effort, but that she has earn the risk.
But mainly, I�ll reciprocate. And that�s pretty much that.
Okay, I�ve helped move a friend most of the day and my hangover is still strong so I�ll leave you with this. I wrote it uh.. a few days ago. I gave inspirations the first crack at it, however..
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It�s strange, this surreal world around me. I am dislocated, disjointed, abandoned from it�s reality. I�m no longer at home here, forcefully removed by my own pity, perhaps? Perhaps not, who knows. I question the decisions I�ve made in the last 30 minutes. No, not decisions, a single decision.
�Weakness� echo�s in my head like a cannon ball striking a church bell.
I never used to be so weak. My skin toughens, thickens to a dense and dead barrier, shielding my senses from the stroke of the keys. Music playing in the background has a dream like quality but still manages to bring tears to my flushed cheeks.
The inner jester laughs at me, mocking me. �Melodramatic fool!� it cries. I don�t mean to be melodramatic, I�m just so very weary. Can�t I please just go to sleep? My skin is unnaturally dead until I lay down. My head swims and dreams come to me before sleep.
I�m laughing at some coy jest while sitting at a checkered dinner table. A pitiful candle burns on the edge of the table. Wonderful little candle with the life span of mere hours� Its life blood runs down the side of the table in rivulets, falling to the floor with a sickly drip.
The air is musty and wet, it�s still raining outside in the cold San Francisco night. An old man playing a guitar sits off in another room playing to no one. Not many have ventured out on this cold weeknight. It�s just the way she and I like it. She�s so beautiful, impossibly beautiful.
Sipping the wonderfully cheap wine, laughing at the faces we make after every swallow, we grin like school children as we gaze into each others eyes, enjoying the moment in the �hole in the wall� restaurant to it�s fullest.
The owner of the restaurant turns the lights in the main room even lower as the last couple leaves. It�s still early, maybe 9pm. It�s hard to notice the world when lost in the love of another. It�s been the perfect evening with the backdrop of the buoys in the harbor, ringing their warnings.
Our hands are always in constant contact, a tenacious grasp on the only thing that matters in the world.
My thoughts fast forward to the sounds of waves rolling onto the beach, complimented by the soft sound of rain falling upon our umbrella. The bitter wet air bites deeply on nights like these. Standing there on the beach with the lights of San Francisco glowing in the background, holding each other fiercely against the cold night, we kiss passionately, warmed by the fire that is our love.
I shake out of the nightmarish scene of love lost, knowing finally the truth behind those moments, the lies they represented. I slump down at the foot of my bed, head cradled in my hands, and drift in a world without meaning.
-G