Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

I remember all those months I spent waiting for some bland version of mister Right to come hobbling along on an old, grey donkey to dustmop me off my feet. I remember snarling and sneering at happy couples who held hands, thinking, "Oh God, my sex life is over before I've reached menapause, and they're going to go home and fuck like rabbits." Then I consider all of the self-help book alternatives that do nothing but pass the time. Titles like, "Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus", "If the Buddha Dated" "How Venus and Mars Started Fucking like Rabbits", etc., but eventually skulk away from that aisle in Borders and go read passages from an Anita blake Thriller, where some vampire or werewolf is getting his head blown off with a 1995 Browning Hi-Power, hoping that no one cute'll walk by and think, "Hmm, well there's a weirdo. I wonder if she shoots milk out her nose or snorts when she laughs." Then one day, in the desolate halls of the community college, I came across this quiet young gentleman, leaning against one of the exit doors looking bored. We had a class together, but had never really talked. Instinctively, I invited this poor fool down to the library with me because of course he couldn't very well stand there doing nothing. There was internet to be surfed. And through some strange, cataclysmic circumstance, I ended up at his house two weeks later, showing him Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas for the first time. Following this, we had several phone conversations, various tete-a-tetes, and semi-dates that spanned the weeks, and we grew closer. I just didn't know how close he in fact thought we were growing. "Be my girlfriend or I'll shoot up the school", his eyes seemed to scream. "Be my girlfriend." And then one day, he just came right out and asked, and, as if in the natural progression of things, I agreed. Why did I do this? Wherein lied this stupid necessity to equate myself to a higher position in his life? When I actually had time to sit and think about the whole thing, I found myself less and less aware of the reason why I had given him so much of my time in the first place. About a week or so ago, he told me he loved me. And what could I say? I sat there and stared at him until he fumbled with his shirt and shot downstairs for a can of Coke. "I love you." He said, tentatively. I adverted my eyes. Shit I thought. Now where the fuck is this going?. I went home later on that night confused, and nothing if a bit catatonic. I had been dragged into some desperate stupor, because I couldn't, for the putrid life of me figure out how we'd got that far, and why. I was lonely and he was available. Fucking proximity infatuations.

Iz... that was one solid piece of good writing! I can't just now comment on the message but had to quickly jump in here and tell you how much I enjoyed reading that.

but here's some shit that ran thru my head I'll toss out at ya -

"Love stinks" (J. Geils Band)

"If you can't be with the one you love, love the one you're with" (Stephen Stills)

"Friends before fuckers" (mtmynd cecilism)

"Love comes and goes, it's how you feel about each other as friends that is important." (Yeah, not many buy that one, but fuck 'em.. fuck 'em in da head!)

what a great read.
iz, when you saw him, leaning, you lept.
he said 'i love you' well, thats fuckin tough.
i have no advice. i will only say, go get it.
go explore so long until you realize that you're fucking with his head.
when that happens.
stop.

Coolness....

Great stuff....

Are you fucking with his head or is he fucking with yours?Or none of the above?

I think you at least like him, and that is the precursor to love.

You could think too much about this and lose out.

Mr. Right is, of course, bullshit.

Now, re-reading your whole original post very carefully, here's what I think: You love him. You LOVE him. Get it? But you're intellectualizing too much. Drop the thinking part. It isn't helping you here.

LOVE him and live.

You're so FOS. I mean it.

i love the part where you're waiting for mister right to dustmop you off your feet.

i think dustmopping you've had.

now, if you set your sights on cataclysmic heart jet, you might just get your wish

(i love you)

judih

I like the way you string words together
But I don't love you

real chemistry is something that happens TO you.

it's not a thing you can orchestrate. you can't just tell yourself to be patient, or to look at his finer points. love will never develop out of that.

my strongest attractions have always caused me to drop whatever i'm holding when they walk in the room. that's chemistry. it can't be harnessed or manipulated.

if love was in the air for YOU, you'd know about it by now.

"If the Buddha dated", it sounds interesting, you have to pass to me that book!. Proximity-crisis.
I love your writings iz!,

Arcadia

You guys are awesome, and now I feel adored by all! *sigh*. Well, everyone seems to be saying different things, though some are just slight variations on others. There's no chemistry, Glorious A. I was with him last night, and when we kissed, there was no spark. I like him, sure, I think. But sometimes I'm so sure it's not enough. I agree with you Aby, that I'm FOS, truly, I am most of the time, and maybe I'm trying to hard to get things to make since, but I always had this vision of love as this shining, happy thing that well... dustmopped you off your feet. LOL. I'm still standing straight up and it's fucking boring here. Ratbag... I understand totally. I'll gather all my courage and move on, though it will be tough. *painful sigh*. Arcadia... If I find it, you can have it.

--k

A Moveable Feast, I can't remember the exact quote. Something like:
"I write best when I am in love."
I say no matter what, get every word out of it you can.

Indeed, great read Izzy.

You, like many of us, are more inclined to love that "dustmops you off your feet!" Indeed, that, drop everything kind of love. That love that overtakes even your very own needs and wants, that love that is like fire, it burns hot as paradise.....

So why not try something new?
See where it takes you.
Let him show you what it's like to be the loved one, the way you've loved.
Let him drop everything for you. See what it feels like to be on that receiving end.
Let him make you his every thought, instead of you being the one that feels that way.
Give yourself that experience.

But do try not to hurt him.
Because of course, you also remember how that felt....

smoochies,
H

I'll have to say, Hest, that's good advice, tempting indeed. MAybe I should just stop and give it a try. what could it hurt?

--k

p.s shit, I don't know what I'm doing.

When it comes to love, nobody knows what they're doing.

you'd think rabbit fucking would be happy happy time. it isn't. rabbits are prisoner to the over-compensatory fuck, driven by the existential mojave of their lives. they fuck to overcome the darkness response. they fuck to disinter deeply seeded feelings of inadequacy--after all, even cindarella preferred mice. they fuck to silence the freudian carrot. they fuck sister, brother, uncle, aunt--but never a squirrel or rat. they can't. the other rabbits would stop just long enough in their fucking to snicker. they fuck little drunken liza minnelli fucks. they fuck and fuck away their styrofoamless, not-one-channel-anywhere-to-sell-me-anything existence. they have to. with those teeth, anything oral would be suicide.