Saturday, September 03, 2005
Give Me a First Date...
...And I'll Give You a Reason Never to Fucking Call Me Again
I work as a paralegal at a law firm downtown full-time, and one day a weekend I work at the audio bookstore I used to work at full-time. A customer I have known since the begining is an older, Jewish lady. I once joked with her, asking why she hadn't found me a nice Jewish doctor to marry. Later, she attempted to play matchmaker by introducing me to a waiter at a restaurant she and her husband patronize several times a week. I called this waiter, and we had dinner last Thursday. He was handsome, but he was also older than I'm looking for, nelly as Will & Grace's Jack on crack and a speedfreak chatterbox. Still, he was a sweet guy, and we had a good time together. I thought we might have fun "casually dating," and I intended to make my lack of interest in a long-term relationship abundantly clear before proceeding.
Because I am lonely and starving for male affection (and because he constantly made cock-teasing comments), I kind of came on strong after our date. I thought maybe he was being a little coy and wanted to get together, in spite of his protests of tiredness. He promised we would get together on Friday, and I promised to give him a call. I called the next night and apologized for coming on too strong. He called me back but told me he was just too tired to get together and could we make it for Saturday. I was extremely disappointed, and (like an asshole) pressured him to do something, though not necessarily anything physical. (A word about me: I like getting off as much as anyone, but I'm not hugely into *sex* like your average guy. I like cuddling and being with a man, but I don't have to have a sexual encounter to have a good time.) In my disgust and rapidly escalating depression ("I wish I was dead...I wish I was dead"), I ended up going to bed at about 8:30 last night. I made myself get up this morning hours before I had to be at my part-time job. I got my ass to the recycling center and received $17.50 for 375 containers (mostly beer bottles). I went to work at the store and plotted out my financial future for the next month and a half. I volunteered for a shift tomorrow so that I could earn the extra cash I so desperately need.
When I came home, I was of course hoping for a call or two on the caller ID. But there was none. No call from my erstwhile date and no call from my friend (more about that later). I managed to maintain one shred of pride and to not call the boy I was supposedly seeing this evening (even after getting drunk, which I am now). I went online to write this blog entry and saw his "Dear (Michael St.) John" e-mail. I was going to paraphrase, but fuck it. I'm politely keeping anonymity and not mentioning names or posting pictures of my short-lived beau.
The "It's Not You, It's Me" E-mail
Hey "Michael":
Hope all is well and that you had a good day at work, or at least as good as can be expected. It was very nice to meet you and have dinner with you the other night, it's very rare to find nice guys in this town without all the BS. You must think I'm a total flake, which I'm not, only a partial one. After dinner I was already so tired from being up the night before so late with you on the phone. (Which I enjoyed). Then last night, Friday, I was so tired from the week and 2 nights in a row getting less sleep that I took a nap and rested and hung out with [omitted](my cat). Now the usual Saturday lazy day comes along and here we are. I think I'm still drained from the whole weekend last weekend in Laguna from all the excitement from seeing some old friends, plus the draining of my energy from the sun burnt I got. Last night and today I'm peeling and itching like crazy and trust me it's not a pretty site. Anyway "Michael", I want to be honest with you. I so appreciate what [our mutual acquaintance] was trying to do and as it turned out I met a really nice guy. However, cupids arrow didn't strike with me and I'm sorry. You are alot of fun, you're funny and I enjoyed spending time with you. That being said, I'm in the market for some new friends to hang out with to go to movies, shopping, etc. if that would interest you. If not I understand. Take Care "Michael" and thank you for being so kind.
Another Long Weekend Alone and Why I Wish I Could Be Dead If Not Unborn
So there I am. I did so much trying to prepare for having someone (even a casual dating partner) in my life. I took off a half day of work to prepare for our date (mostly with a nap). I got my car washed and cleaned out. I plucked, douched and generally fussed about my appearance. I bought new underwear even though I'm broke and can't afford it. All in all, I expended a lot of time and energy for something that, yet again, came to nothing.
My friend has his brother and his brother's family in town, whom I know on very friendly terms. One might think that I could sort of drown my sorrows in visiting with friends, but my friend never called me about getting together. So I ended up calling him. He was, as ever, friendly and forthcoming. He made mention of future plans with his brother and family, seeing if I wanted to join in. I don't know why he couldn't call me about these things, particularly since, when discussing his brother's visit last week, I asked him to call me about plans in which I might be welcomed. It's an alien concept to him that I might want to be asked to visit, instead of having to go down on my knees for an invite. It must be so nice to be so handsome, so self-possessed and to have such gorgeous ego boundaries to always feel secure that people will be coming to you, asking you to spend time with them, and not having to beg your way in and feel grateful that someone whose company you enjoy actually deigns to allow you into his presence.
The Blogger's Aftermath
Well, with this entry (on top of the one before it), I'm sure I'll manage to alienate the only decent friend I have in Los Angeles after five fucking years here. The fact that this is a friend I came into the city having is even infinitely more pathetic. My parents keep dropping hints about how I should get a paralegal job in Memphis, and their desire to have me back in the same city touches me more than I can express. But I can't imagine how horrible it would be to disrupt my life yet again, only to go backwards on top of going nowhere at all.
One of the book ideas I have (one of the many which will never actually be written) is for a book entitled Constricted. In it, a poor stupid schlepp dies, and everyone, including his only friend who is the center character, automatically assumes that he killed himself. However, they are all relieved to find that he died of a tragic asthma attack. Only his friend discovers, and later hides from everyone else, the fact that the attack was choreographed by the man himself. There is a lesson here in the subtext of my own writing idea. Since I want to die and since I can't bear the thought of inflicting a suicide on my family and since I'd like to control the manner of my death (since there are so many horrible ways to die and the only important thing in life is a happy death), the only thing to do is to make it look like an accident. Fortunately, I am an intelligent, creative, resourceful man whose myriad of talents are wasted and thwarted by anxiety and depression for anything constructive but who can at least deconstruct his own existence.
I work as a paralegal at a law firm downtown full-time, and one day a weekend I work at the audio bookstore I used to work at full-time. A customer I have known since the begining is an older, Jewish lady. I once joked with her, asking why she hadn't found me a nice Jewish doctor to marry. Later, she attempted to play matchmaker by introducing me to a waiter at a restaurant she and her husband patronize several times a week. I called this waiter, and we had dinner last Thursday. He was handsome, but he was also older than I'm looking for, nelly as Will & Grace's Jack on crack and a speedfreak chatterbox. Still, he was a sweet guy, and we had a good time together. I thought we might have fun "casually dating," and I intended to make my lack of interest in a long-term relationship abundantly clear before proceeding.
Because I am lonely and starving for male affection (and because he constantly made cock-teasing comments), I kind of came on strong after our date. I thought maybe he was being a little coy and wanted to get together, in spite of his protests of tiredness. He promised we would get together on Friday, and I promised to give him a call. I called the next night and apologized for coming on too strong. He called me back but told me he was just too tired to get together and could we make it for Saturday. I was extremely disappointed, and (like an asshole) pressured him to do something, though not necessarily anything physical. (A word about me: I like getting off as much as anyone, but I'm not hugely into *sex* like your average guy. I like cuddling and being with a man, but I don't have to have a sexual encounter to have a good time.) In my disgust and rapidly escalating depression ("I wish I was dead...I wish I was dead"), I ended up going to bed at about 8:30 last night. I made myself get up this morning hours before I had to be at my part-time job. I got my ass to the recycling center and received $17.50 for 375 containers (mostly beer bottles). I went to work at the store and plotted out my financial future for the next month and a half. I volunteered for a shift tomorrow so that I could earn the extra cash I so desperately need.
When I came home, I was of course hoping for a call or two on the caller ID. But there was none. No call from my erstwhile date and no call from my friend (more about that later). I managed to maintain one shred of pride and to not call the boy I was supposedly seeing this evening (even after getting drunk, which I am now). I went online to write this blog entry and saw his "Dear (Michael St.) John" e-mail. I was going to paraphrase, but fuck it. I'm politely keeping anonymity and not mentioning names or posting pictures of my short-lived beau.
The "It's Not You, It's Me" E-mail
Hey "Michael":
Hope all is well and that you had a good day at work, or at least as good as can be expected. It was very nice to meet you and have dinner with you the other night, it's very rare to find nice guys in this town without all the BS. You must think I'm a total flake, which I'm not, only a partial one. After dinner I was already so tired from being up the night before so late with you on the phone. (Which I enjoyed). Then last night, Friday, I was so tired from the week and 2 nights in a row getting less sleep that I took a nap and rested and hung out with [omitted]
Another Long Weekend Alone and Why I Wish I Could Be Dead If Not Unborn
So there I am. I did so much trying to prepare for having someone (even a casual dating partner) in my life. I took off a half day of work to prepare for our date (mostly with a nap). I got my car washed and cleaned out. I plucked, douched and generally fussed about my appearance. I bought new underwear even though I'm broke and can't afford it. All in all, I expended a lot of time and energy for something that, yet again, came to nothing.
My friend has his brother and his brother's family in town, whom I know on very friendly terms. One might think that I could sort of drown my sorrows in visiting with friends, but my friend never called me about getting together. So I ended up calling him. He was, as ever, friendly and forthcoming. He made mention of future plans with his brother and family, seeing if I wanted to join in. I don't know why he couldn't call me about these things, particularly since, when discussing his brother's visit last week, I asked him to call me about plans in which I might be welcomed. It's an alien concept to him that I might want to be asked to visit, instead of having to go down on my knees for an invite. It must be so nice to be so handsome, so self-possessed and to have such gorgeous ego boundaries to always feel secure that people will be coming to you, asking you to spend time with them, and not having to beg your way in and feel grateful that someone whose company you enjoy actually deigns to allow you into his presence.
The Blogger's Aftermath
Well, with this entry (on top of the one before it), I'm sure I'll manage to alienate the only decent friend I have in Los Angeles after five fucking years here. The fact that this is a friend I came into the city having is even infinitely more pathetic. My parents keep dropping hints about how I should get a paralegal job in Memphis, and their desire to have me back in the same city touches me more than I can express. But I can't imagine how horrible it would be to disrupt my life yet again, only to go backwards on top of going nowhere at all.
One of the book ideas I have (one of the many which will never actually be written) is for a book entitled Constricted. In it, a poor stupid schlepp dies, and everyone, including his only friend who is the center character, automatically assumes that he killed himself. However, they are all relieved to find that he died of a tragic asthma attack. Only his friend discovers, and later hides from everyone else, the fact that the attack was choreographed by the man himself. There is a lesson here in the subtext of my own writing idea. Since I want to die and since I can't bear the thought of inflicting a suicide on my family and since I'd like to control the manner of my death (since there are so many horrible ways to die and the only important thing in life is a happy death), the only thing to do is to make it look like an accident. Fortunately, I am an intelligent, creative, resourceful man whose myriad of talents are wasted and thwarted by anxiety and depression for anything constructive but who can at least deconstruct his own existence.
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Have you ever visited postsecret.com? I like the site, because people mail in secrets on post cards anonymously, and they put them online. It's nice to read them and realize that the things you hate about yourself aren't unique to you... that many people share the same "weirdness." So, this is what I think-- don't end it all-- write a book about it, like the writing you're doing here. You're a writer after all, and being that you are so good at deconstructing your own existence, and then writing about it eloquently, perhaps that creativity could be hardback material?
-E
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-E
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