Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.
Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.
Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero
Friday, February 04, 2005
Along with my monster headache, yes, I still have it, and frankly, I’m hoping it is an inoperable tumor because I’m better off dead anyway, I’ve come down with a terrible case of HWNMNBS. This is one of the worst bouts I’ve had in a long time and it’s all but debilitated me.
Love: The ugly underbelly.
I never could get the hang of Thursdays...
Or, why is everyone always picking on me?
Or, why do I bother?
Or, if this is just life, I’ll just decline, thanks anyway.
Or, Nobody likes me, everybody hates me, think I’ll go eat worms
It’s days like these when I really, really, really long for a very different life and for things which might have been.
Long, trying, tiring days at work with an idiot boss, demanding clients, surly coworkers (I’m going to go Postal on TEETH very soon and that both scares and pleases me.), headache which will not go away, friends with serious problems, my own problems and issues...this is when being in a good, solid relationship with someone you trust and love, someone who reciprocates that trust and love, is really helpful. This is what it’s all about. Someone who understands and cares and is there for you, to just be with you, to talk it out or quietly just be together makes all the difference at the end of this sort of day. I know because I had someone like that once. It was nice. It made the rest of life tolerable. A little oasis from the world, a place to lick your battlewounds, gain strength and courage to get up and get back out there, and once there, the smug safety and security of knowing you have someone who loves and cares about you, someone who understands and will be there for you when yet another difficult day hits.
It’s not about flowers or exotic trips or lavish gifts or, well, anything being heavily marketed for Valentine’s Day as romantic. (Something else causing a lot of stress in my life and making me hope I have an inoperable brain tumor) It’s just having someone who cares and someone to share a laugh.
It’s days and times like these when I miss him most. Because he used to get it. I never had to explain any of it. He knew when I needed to talk about it or laugh about it or talk about something else or just be quiet.
I don’t have regrets. I make the best choices I can in any situation, I try to be informed and look at options from all perspectives and then make a decision which is not always the best for me but the best choice for the situation or, you know, the greater good. Yeah. I’m swutting Mother Theresa.
The good thing about that course of action in every choice making situation is that you eliminate guilt and regret. You know you did the best thing for the situation based on what you knew at the time. You don’t spend time looking back on the past microexamining every detail about what you did and what you could have done and what might be different now had you chosen a different course of action.
The bad thing about that course of action in every choice making situation is that you sometimes end up wishing you’d been more selfish or not been so swutting “good.”
Which is a different kind of regret which isn’t really a regret at all.
It’s more of a self hatred thing.
I have always contended that I do not regret meeting and allowing myself to get involved with HWNMNBS. I love him, yes, present tense, even now, even after all this time and all that's happened and all that he's said and done to me. I hate that I can't stop loving him. I hate that I don't hate him. I hate that I'm ugly. I hate that I'm not good enough for him. But. I have no regrets about those things. I can't change any of those things, those are things beyond my control. I gave him the best I could, I put all of myself into making it work, I invested all of my heart, brain, body, soul, time, money and effort in him and us. I let him in my life and allowed myself to be vulnerable. And I've paid the price for that. Retail. Not on sale. No discount. Full, marked-up, high street retail price.
I’m sick of dating. I’m sick of trying to move on. I’m sick of knowing what and how I want to feel about and with someone, and not feeling those things with anyone. I’m sick of being judged. I’m sick of not being good enough. I’m sick of being a loser. I’m sick of being alone. I’m sick of missing him. I’m sick of trying to pretend I can get over this. I’m sick of deluding myself that I have any chance at any sort of a real relationship with any other man. I'm sick of hoping there's one man out there who will want to be with me regardless of my looks and, erm, um, baggage.
If I could have one do-over in my life, it would be the precise moment, and I know exactly when it was, the date, time (to the exact minute) and place, in which I decided to follow my heart and get involved with him.
If I could go back, I would ignore him. I wouldn’t look in his eyes. I wouldn’t listen to his words. I wouldn’t hear him laugh. I wouldn’t feel his hand in mine. I wouldn’t let him hold me. I would simply ignore him and walk away.
I hate that it has finally come to this, that I have reached this point. Because the times with him were the best in my life. I’ve never laughed more, never felt so alive, and have never been happier than I was with him. And I hate that I wish those times never happened because I know it’s not right to feel that way. If I were a better, stronger, more emotionally stable and well adjusted person I wouldn’t be going through this. I could smile at the good memories, learn from the bad ones and move on to the next one.
But I’m weak and sentimental and I love him and I miss him. And that really swutting hurts. A lot. Lots of a lot. I’m miserable and most of all, I’m lonely without him.
And so, today, I am making the milestone proclamation:
I wish I’d never met him.
I regret all of it.
Yes. She Who Has No Regrets, has finally achieved a milestone moment in her life.
Her first regret.
Never in my wildest dreams did I think my first regret would be HWNMNBS. Oooh, look how I've grown. Look how my life has changed. Look at all I've learned about myself.
I'm not saying I like having a regret. I don't. I don't like it one bit. But. There it is. I have one. A big swutting, horrible hornet's nest of a regret. This is a new feeling for me and it's going to take some time for me to get used to it.
This is going to sneak through the editorial board, from my HWNMNBS-Free zone, no less, because I’m really swutting suffering and I’m not sure if I can or will post for a while. If I can, I will. Take a look around the archives if you need a Trillian fix, I’ll try to pull out a few highlights.
1:26 PM
Wednesday, February 02, 2005 Supersize This
I've been to Brobdinag.
No I am not delusional from an overdose of acetaminophen and codeine. Well. I might be. But I have been to the closest thing to Brobdinag those of us who are not Gulliver will get. I have a mega headache, going through acetaminophen like, well, like it's really good candy, and Bone is out of town and needed me to run some errands for him in his car, and there it was, looming on the horizon: Costco. Where I knew I could snag a two thousand count bottle of Tylenol for the price of a 500 count bottle at regular stores.
I have a love/hate relationship with Costco. Yes, they carry some really good stuff and really low prices. But. The whole jumbo economy family size thing is not exactly convenient or necessary for a single women who lives in a compartment. I learned something about myself on this recent trip to Brobdinag: Now that I'm in an elevator building I'm slightly less able to ignore the lure of 50 pounds of apples. When I lived in my old place, all I had to do to break the Big Savings! spell was to envision myself dragging jumbo economy family sized anything up four flights of stairs.
I admit I am weak willed at the thought of saving money or a good bargain. (hey, I am Scottish and single and do I seem like I'm made of money?) This makes me prime target for Brobdinag's, I mean Costco's, special brand of marketing. They don't actually have marketing. Per se. They don't advertise apart from a few occasional direct mail or newspaper inserts. Their marketing relies heavily on word of mouth and company enrollment. That's how they first got me. We got a free membership through work. Well. We had to pay for the membership but they gave us a $50 gift certificate upon buying a membership, so basically, Costco paid me $5 to join. How could I resist?
And you know what they say. Once you go warehouse club, you'll never go back. It's true. The jumbo size seduces you, awes you and satisfies you like no regular grocery can. It's a little scary at first, seems a little out there, what will your friends and neighbors think? I actually hid the fact that I had a membership, I was embarrassed and ashamed that I would stoop to that level. It seemed so, so, suburban. But now I'm out and proud. I've even converted a few friends and family members to swing my way. When I go to a "regular" grocery, in the back of mind I'm thinking, "it's a better deal at Costco." It does spoil and change you.
There is a seduction. The whole experience is very cleverly engineered. Do not be fooled by their bare bones appearance. That appearance serves two functions: 1) It's cheap and easy for them, 2) it fools you. Once you're inside the confines of the warehouse club (which should be the first clue something's amiss - it's a warehouse) it's very disorienting. You lose all sense of normal consumption needs. It's exactly like going to Brobdinag. Everything's proportionally big. The ceilings are extraordinarily high. There are no windows. This is intentional. If you could see outside to get a site line perspective on the parking lot, you'd realize that the gallon sized vat of olives enticing you is so large it's going to have to ride home in the passenger seat of the car. The shopping trolleys are oversized, proportionally, so when you thunk the 48 can case of baked beans in there there's: a) room for tons (literally) more stuff, and b) it doesn't seem like way too many cans of beans for a person who is not a cook at a state penitentiary to be purchasing. (I always feel like Lily Tomlin in the shopping scene in the Incredible Shrinking Woman wheeling the trolley around Costco. And I'm tall. I cannot even imagine how disorienting this experience must be for average heighted women.) Proportionally, 450 fl. oz. of laundry detergent doesn't seem like much when it's shelved next to 75 lb. bags of gerbil food. A mere case of Veuve Clicquot makes you wonder if just one case will be enough when it's placed next to birthday cakes big enough to be cut into 100 generous servings.
You roll the enormous trolley around, snatching up all the great over sized bargains. They have everything. Bicycles, cheese, booze, office supplies, clothes, computers, televisions (wide screened, of course), refrigerators (family sized, of course) live lobsters (I avoid the whole meat area, I strongly suspect they have livestock milling about somewhere in there, too. I see people with what appears to be entire sides of beef in their Costco trolleys. A = Live Lobsters, = B = Dead Lobsters in Trolleys, then by comparison, B = Enormous cuts of beef in trolleys, = A = Livestock), toilet paper, furniture (big, seriously massive furniture), condoms (I'm curious about a guy who has to buy condoms at Costco, is it the need for size or quantity which sends him there?), caskets, (I've only seen them online, so I'm not sure if they're economy sized, too, big enough for the whole family. Or available only in multi-packs) And even recently a Picasso. Yes. Real bona fide original Picasso was sold at Costco.
It's a merchandise carnival. And all those enormous sizes and quantities. And all those sample areas. They have all those people cooking and baking and brewing up goodies to try before you buy. This is not because Costco are great hosts or that they are concerned you might get hungry or thirsty while you shop. All part of the plan, my friends, all part of the plan. Because most of us will have a moment of insecurity and doubt before purchasing a jumbo sized package of anything we've never tried. It's one thing to buy a can of soup and not like it. It's another to buy 48 cans of soup and not like it. We might just roll that big trolley right past the display, admonishing it with, "eh, too much of an unknown, too much of a risk" if it weren't for the in store samples. "Here! Try one! See? It's good, really it is! Buy two cases!" This also serves as a way to entice people into buying something they would never otherwise purchase. I'm a vegetarian. Once, in a Costco far, far away, they were doling out samples of cute little salmon puffs. All the people trying them were oohing and ahing and grabbing up economy sized packages of the things. Caught up in the frenzy, I bought a box, too. So that I'd have something on hand to offer my carnivore guests. I served those things for months. Another smart move on Costco's part, they have a lot of frozen food which you can keep for up to six months in your freezer! And yes! They sell freezers! Big ones! Pick one up on your way to the check-out!
The check-out. Ah, the check-out. The moment of truth in most stores. But in Brobdinag, erm, Costco, the delusion continues. Still under the spell and seduction, I always find myself looking at the contents of other peoples' trolleys. I always see stuff in other peoples' trolleys I either: a) didn't see while shopping and want, or b) wonder what the swut they're going to do with that much of that. "Crazed, dazed and super economy size brainwashed victims," I'll tut-tut as I plunk my 40 can case of baked beans and case of Veuve Clicquot on the check-out conveyer belt. Also proportionally huge and heavy duty. Look under the check-out conveyer belt sometime - the mechanics rival anything Henry Ford could have imagined.
They don't have grocery bags, only boxes leftover and hastily cut into what is supposed to be carrying shaped and sized cases. But they're never sized or shaped to easily carry. They claim this is ecologically friendly and also helps keep their costs, and ultimately their prices, low.
These are lies.
If they offered grocery bags we would come to our senses at the checkout and return items which would not fit into a grocery bag to the shelves before purchasing most of the items.
So the first slap of reality hits doesn't hit you until you've paid your money (and look at your savings!), had your receipt examined and highlighted (I have no idea why they really do this other than to make us feel, well, I'm not sure) and you get to your car.
You see a lot of SUVs at warehouse clubs. And moving vans. Do these people shop at warehouse clubs because they have over-sized petrol guzzling vehicles, or do they have over-sized petrol guzzling vehicles because they shop at warehouse clubs?
The rest of us, who either own, borrow, rent or ride in regular cars, spend an hour in the parking lot trying to fit the six items we purchased into the car. "But I didn't buy that much...I normally fit a month's worth of groceries in here...four of us went on a three week cross country antique buying trip in this car and had room to spare...it's just one jar of olives..." If you can tear yourself away from your personal space and organizing dilemma, take a look around the parking lot. The same scene is being played out in cars across the lot. Arguments and even outright fights among spouses and friends are common. "What the Hell are you going to do with 80 rolls of toilet paper?" "What do you mean it's 'a good deal?' We don't even have a dog!" "I don't care if it is your membership, this is the last time I'm bringing you here! Get your own car!" Ahem. That last one hit a bit close to home.
I was strong on my last trip to Brobdinag. I went in for a jumbo size of Tylenol, and I came out with a jumbo size of Tylenol.
And a big jug of laundry detergent. And a bulk pack of CD-Rs. And two Gregory Peck movies on DVD. (Yes, even their swutting movies are in multi-packs.) Two enormous bottles of ketchup. (but I'm keeping one for a friend, really I am, as soon as he's home from out of town I'm giving him one, really) And that's it. Really.
Tuesday, February 01, 2005 There are 4 billion people on earth. 237 are Scanners. They have the most terrifying powers ever created... and they are winning.
10 Seconds: The Pain Begins. 15 Seconds: You Can't Breathe. 20 Seconds: You Explode.
eh. At least it’s quick.
Day 2: The Pain Continues
Yes. My life is imitating art. But I seem to be stuck at the 10 second mark. Someone please get in touch with David Cronenburg and ask him how one moves on from the pain part to the explode part.
Someone is apparently scanning my brain (could it be my (needs a new nickname) boss? TEETH? The director of my company? A client? Who? Who is doing this to me?! So many plausible possibilities...)
Make. It. Stop. Please. Kill me or leave me alone. The pain! The pain is torturous. I’m no good to you in pain!
(I have a massive headache.)
Shhhh. Don’t talk so loud.
I HAVE A SWUTTING HORRIBLE HEADACHE, SHUT THE SWUT UP.
No. I can’t “just take something and go to bed” because I’m managing 5 projects all of which are on ridiculous deadlines which is why I’ve been at the office 12 hours a day for the past week.
What’s that?
Oh.
Yeah.
I suppose that could have something to do with it.
But I don’t usually get stress headaches.
Here’s a weird coincidence.
This headache hit me around 2:23 AM. At least that’s what time it was when I woke up because my head hurt really badly and I thought maybe I was dead or dying from a head implosion.
When I was getting ready for work I put on my watch and checked the time.
My watch battery apparently died at, you guessed it: 2:23. That’s where the hands were frozen.
I’m not kidding.
I am not superstitious, I don’t believe in ghosts and apart from karma and love, there’s nothing which cannot be explained rationally and scientifically.
But.
It’s kind of weird.
Will you please be quiet? I’m suffering here.
Suffering.
And must the lights be so bright? Must we really have an office bathed in fluorescent lighting? Really? Is it really necessary? I’m sure it’s unhealthy.
Turn down the bass on your radio. Please.
Oh wait. Sorry.
That’s my heartbeat thumping in my head. Why does that happen? Why when you’re sick or have a headache can you hear your heart beating in your head? It seems cruel to me that physiology would allow such a thing to happen in our bodies.
Brain: “I’m bored. I can’t believe she’s actually sleeping. Do do do, da da da, do do do, da da da, they’re meaningless and all that’s true....bored bored bored. Bam thwok, wakka wakka wakka. Bored. Bored. Bored. I wish she’d wake up and do something. This dream she’s having is really stupid. I’m going to send a bunch of really weird images to her maybe that’ll wake her up. Hey, eyes, get ready, I’m sending some really bizarre visuals your way.”
Eyes: “Shut up, we’re trying to get some sleep.”
Brain. “Bored. Bored. Bored. I know! I know how to get her attention! I’m going to give her a headache of Scannerlike proportions. Bwa ha ha.”
Heart: “Brain, that seems pointless and mean, you know better than any of us she needs her rest. Poor back and knees are aching from all the lifting and moving she’s been doing the past few weeks. Poor toe is only now able to bend, and finger four, well, I mean, that’s going to be some scar. And she’s under a lot of stress, what with moving house, a lot of projects at work and that date and HWNMNBS.”
Brain: “Shut up Heart, not everything is about HWNMNBS. Get over it.”
Heart: “I try, but I can’t. I know it would be the best thing for her if I could just, you know, heal, but I’m broken and broken hearts don’t just up and mend themselves, now do they?”
Brain: “Yeah, whatever. I’m sick of that argument. Get over it so she can have some sort of a life. The rest of us shouldn’t be made to suffer just because you’re all broken and fragile. ‘Poor old broken heart, wah wah wah.’ Cry us a river.”
Heart: “You can’t possibly understand. It’s not all rational and logical and explainable. Brain, you’re smart, but when it comes to matters of the heart you don’t know the first thing...”
Brain: “Borrrrinngggggg. Brain to heart: B - O - R - I - N - G. I want to play. Let’s wake her up, really give her something to complain about. I’m thinking headache. I’m thinking Scanners. I’m thinking let’s get the ears in on this, too. You know that thing you do when she’s sick, you know, beat really hard, like pounding, so she can hear it in her head?”
Heart: “Awww, come on Brain, that’s so irritating. It just makes her mad and everyone else suffers because of it, especially you. Remember the last time we did that, when she changed the light bulb and fell, and aw geeze, Brain, no. The poor girl has suffered enough.”
Brain: “Silence! I mean, Noise! I want heart pounding echoing in her head noise now! I command thee!”
Heart: “Oh brother, you’re not pulling rank again, are you? Because I have no problem wallowing in self pity and ignoring you.”
Brain: “I’m telling you for the last time, Heart, pound in her head NOW!!!”
Heart: “Okay, okay, fine. I’ll do it. But I’m not going to enjoy it.”
Brain: “That’s it! That’s it! She’s waking up! Ooooh, good one heart. In the silence of the night that’s very effective. Good job! With the thoughts I'd be thinkin' I could be another Lincoln if I only had a what, people?”
Body parts, in unison, resignedly: "A brain."
Brain: "That's right, a me!"
Yeah. Not a pretty place inside me.
Someone, somewhere in this zip code, is smoking. No wait. It’s smoker’s breath. Someone on this floor has had a cigarette in the past 24 hours.
You know, I guess it’s not really so bad if I close one eye and keep the other eye half closed while propping my neck with my hand which is propped on the desk.
It’s so swutting cold in my office. No wonder I have a headache. It’s probably Legionnaires' disease from the gale force wind masquerading as ventilation in my office. I go home and wrap myself in as many layers of sweats and fleece and blankets as I can so I can warm up from a day in the office. Apparently we’re in training for relocation at the Antarctica office. I can’t even say it’s because we didn’t pay the utility bill because they’re blasting swutting air conditioning. In January. In Chicago.
Yeah. I’m real cranky when I have a headache. Real cranky.
So, what happens when you exceed the maximum daily dosage of acetaminophen? By a lot. Like if you take two day’s worth in 8 hours? Liver damage? I can live, or die, with that. What if you add a bit of codeine in with that? Not that I would abuse codeine, of course. Because I wouldn’t. The US government doesn’t allow you to have codeine without a prescription anyway. I trust my health to the US government. If they say I can’t have codeine without a prescription, then by George W I will not bring codeine into this country or into my body without a prescription. But you know, I’m just wondering, you know, for curiosity’s sake, what would happen if a person did take codeine after exceeding the maximum daily dose of acetaminophen. Unborn children? Hah! You’re joking, right? I’m so past thinking I might have children one day I’m considering a hysterectomy. I’ve even slacked off worrying about eating enough folic acid. Yeah. I know. Let’s not go down this road right now. I’ve had a pounding, near blinding headache for two days. I don’t care about my liver or unborn children because neither are going to be of any use to me if I can’t work and lose my job and have to live in a box under a viaduct and die of exposure.
Delusional?
Really? It causes delusions? Seriously? That might not be a bad thing.
Especially if I can get a few dates lined up for this weekend.
2:24 PM
Monday, January 31, 2005 Then Again, Maybe Not All Hope is Lost
I've met someone.
A very dangerous someone.
Someone who has given me renewed faith.
Someone I never thought I'd meet.
He's intelligent.
He's sincere.
He's really swutting funny.
He's plagued by irony.
He's responsible.
He has a career.
He has friends.
He is on good terms with his family.
He's not from here.
He travels a lot.
He's sarcastic.
He's caustic.
He's cynical.
He's jaded.
Oh.
And.
He's tall.
He has dark green eyes.
He has thick dark hair.
He has a wry smile.
And a sardonic smirk.
And a sexy swagger.
He's a vegetarian.
He's...
exactly like me.
(Without boobs and with (I presume) a penis)
I found the male version of me.
I should be really happy, right?
Wrong.
That renewed faith he's given me?
It's faith that I do not want and cannot date someone like me.
Even though someone like me is the only chance I have of being understood, the only vow this coupling will result in is a suicide pact.
He's a few years older than me. He's been around a couple more blocks than I have.
I have seen the future, and it is: Bitter, negative and resentful.
He's given me faith that I do not want to become That Person.
Somehow, through all of my angst and woe and why me, why me, I have managed to not become bitter.
Jaded, angry, cynical, sad, nonplussed and confused? Yes.
Bitter? Not yet.
Resentful? No way.
I know I am on the express train stopping at those two stations, but I'm not there yet.
This guy, I think, was sent to me from the future. "Take a long, soul searching look at this person, Trillian. He is you if you're not careful."
How do I know this?
During the course of our three hours together, one person thought we were brother and sister, another person thought we were a couple celebrating an anniversary. Which I take to mean we look like one of those couples who have been together so long they look like each other. Or, there is, in fact, something my parents have never told me.
Those remarks made to us resulted in some humorous dialog between us. Which is good. He can laugh at himself and at an awkward situation. He is: Nonplussed. I like that. Sort of.
I don't always exude enthusiasm.
Throughout my life I've been told (repeatedly) that I look intimidating. Or bitchy. Or stuck up. Or too intelligent to mingle with the common folk. (I get that one a lot in various forms, particularly from men who barely know me, which really irritates the crap out of me. Is this supposed to be a compliment? Advice? I should "dumb down" my look? How do you do that? More peroxide? More blue eye shadow?)
But.
These remarks are made by people who have not had the pleasure (ahem) of seeing me when I am passionate about something. Or when I am happy/excited for/encouraging someone else. Or when I'm with HWNMNBS or even thinking about him. Or when I'm out with friends. Or when I'm playing with my cat. Or when I'm at a concert. Or when I've had a few drinks.
This guy, Male Me, cracked a few smiles, wry ones, and a sardonic smirk or two. I like that in a guy.
But his eyes are soulless.
Life has beaten him up and robbed him of his ability to let go and enjoy the moment.
He is too smart to take anything at face value.
I know the feeling.
I'm that way, too.
But.
What I discovered through this guy, Male Me from the Future, is that deep, very, very, very deep in me, so deep I didn't realize it was still lurking there, is a particle of hope.
Hope that I don't end up Dead, Like Him.
He's very aware of himself. He knows and talks about how he is and what happened for him to evolve into who he is. He's tried the medications, the therapies, the alcohol...
But he's realistic. He is not deluded. He sees things for what they are. He looks in the Mirror of Truth every morning. He sees himself as who he has become. A nice, intelligent, sincere person who's endured some of the worst life has to offer the species human.
Character?
Oh yes. He has character.
He is wise and witty.
And weary and wary.
Boring? No way.
He's too aware of himself and too polite to let himself brood and bore.
I know.
Definitely not the kind of person you meet very often.
Which is why I believe he was sent to me from the future. "Trillian, stop looking in your own Mirror of Truth for a minute and look at this person. He's too far gone, there's nothing which can be done to save him. But look and learn. Save yourself before it's too late."
He's given me faith in my ability to be open to possibilities.
He's given me faith that I am not as far gone as I thought I was.
He's given me faith that I have not lost all hope.
Yet.
The problem in all of this tangled web of hope I wove?
Once again I got home and collapsed in a puddle of self pity, self-loathing and tears.
Why, why, why?
I'm so lonely...
and the broken woman tri-fecta:
I miss him so much...
Oh yes. Male Me gave me hope, all right.
He gave me hope that maybe, somehow, some way, some day, HWNMNBS will decide he's had enough chasing after pretty girls and decide apart from looks I'm the only one he really loves or wants.
And that kind of hope I don't need.
How'd I get to that place after a date with Male Me from the Future?
Well, because, I always end up at that place (I am Miss Havisham), and because this time around I thought I was close. I thought maybe, maybe, finally, someone like HWNMNBS but not exactly like him. Different from him in enough ways to be like him without being a replacement HWNMNBS.
Because now I know I had more hope going into this date than I realized at the time. I really, really, really wanted this one to be different. I wanted this one to work out past a first date. I wanted this one to maybe, you know, be someone.
But he's not.
And I'm not different for him.
I'm not someone.
Sure, we got along okay. Sure, we had actual conversation. Sure, we had a few real, honest laughs.
But he's passionless and dead and hope-less. And I'm passionate and on life-support and minutely hope-ful.
Next to him I'm spunky. Seriously. He even said so, "You know what you are? You're spunky. You got spunk, kid."
I know. Me? Spunky? Not quite.
Well.
Actually.
Next to him? Yes. I am spunky.
It's all relative.
And I have absolutely no idea if he meant that as a compliment or a criticism.
He said he liked my boots. (thanks, they're new)
He said he liked my coat. (thanks, it's old)
He said he liked my sarcasm. (thanks, it's old, too)
He said he liked my eyes. (thanks, they're perceptive)
He said he liked my hands. (thanks, they're, erm, capable)
But he didn't say he liked my spunk. He merely commented on it.
To him I seem spunky. And here I thought I was nonplussed.
It's all relative.
In retrospect, I think that was when I began to realize Male Me was sent from the future to give me a message, to make me realize I still have a particle of hope left in me. I did splurge on new boots (okay, not specifically for the date, but still, I wore them for the first time on our date), I did put on the cute outfit requiring uncomfortable undergarments. I did spend (a lot) of time on my hair and make-up. I did wear my slutty coat. A completely hope-less woman doesn't do any of those things. I thought a nonplussed woman would do them as a matter of course. But I was wrong. You need a particle of hope to bother. That's the message I got from the future via Male Me.
Male Me from the Future did his routine as a matter of course. For him, the real effort was trying to meet women in the first place. Because he is trying. But not because there's any shred of hope for a "real" relationship inside him. He's going through the motions because he knows that's what he should do. (Apart from hoping to have sex, which is his only real ambition with women, and I don't think he wants from me because I'm ugly and because, well, somewhere in all of that I don't think either one of us was sending any of those signals. And it would be really weird having sex with him because it would sort of be like having sex with myself which I can do any time I want without the emotional issues of sleeping with someone new. Not that it's any of your swutting business. But just so that the few of you who always ask me if the sex was good can be spared sending me that email.)
And that's what I miss about HWNMNBS. No, not the sex. Well. I mean, yes, the sex, but not now, not here. I miss his spunk. His perception. His cheek. His spark in the eyes. His ability to get enthused and passionate about mundane things. He has hope. Okay, that hope is no longer for or with me, but, he has hope. I've been really jealous of him about that. As hurt and lonely as I am about all of it, I look at him with awe and wonder, not the "How can he do that to me wonder" (okay, sure, every now and then there is that awe and wonder) but the, "I wish I could bounce back like that" wonder. The "he dumped me because he's hoping for something better" wonder. He's got hope. He's got spunk.
Apparently I've got some spunk, too, and a shred more hope than I thought. But by my calculations (using a complicated formula involving Male Me from the Future's birth date and my birth date) I've got 2 years and 5 months to do something about myself and my life before becoming Male Me from the Future.
