Tuesday, March 24, 2009

And then, God created a "Saturday"

Once upon a time in a not so distant land, in a time that seemed almost comprehensible there lived a girl who took pride in being rather intuitive. She may not have been the prettiest, smartest or funniest damsel on the block, but she was always a decent judge of human character and sexual preference. She took certain pride in her flair and ability to grasp the essence of most people, thus channeling it as important survival technique in an overtly vicious world, shielding her self from the company and influence of those she deemed less favorable.

This served as a great mechanism for categorizing people and storing them in neat little boxes that she had created in the rather chaotic realm of her imagination, a meager yet important way in which she brought some method to the madness that played havoc in her head each day.

The valiant and heroic protagonist of this tale, in her hunt for some much needed relaxation and carousing journeyed to a dear friends weekend bash in hopes of participating in some good old fashioned revelry. Hope they say is a funny thing, it’s essential it have some in healthy, moderate doses, but like it is with most things in excess, a little too much optimism can more often than not lead to overt disappointment, or so she had learned from the times gone by.

So with little expectation other than the humble urge to have a moderately amicable evening, she stepped into the playing field, gallant but cautious. Meeting new people and being your glaring best always seemed like a chore to her. It’s a rather daunting task, to be observed and perceived by all those faceless names, your brain whirs with a million thoughts trying to frantically cling onto that one great idea that could sustain a somewhat appealing conversation of decent length, all the while your eyes narrow with a hard gleam, your retinas contract in a sometimes futile attempt at visual recognition, you end up looking like you wish to skin the other person alive at that very spot with a brand new butcher knife, when all you’re are trying to do is earnestly contemplate if you have ever seen them before.

As if the act of arousing a stranger’s interest in a remotely interesting chatter isn’t Herculean enough, there is of course the painful humiliation to bear when he casually flicks his wrist from left to right and mouths, “see you around” without so much as asking for your phone number, crushing any vestige of hope that you might see him again, without coincidence playing a part in any future meetings, if they do occur that is.

You make a respectable exit form a lackluster meeting and move of to the next set of people in hopes of emulating a magical moment you may have witnessed in fiction before. Your conversation opens with a tentative smile as you wait for the perfect cue to interject with something remarkably witty. You succeed, he laughs, you laugh, you look, he looks, you look again this time more closely, you notice the hair (it’s styled and fashioned in a distinctly peculiar way), you observe the voice modulation(there is a certain whiny drawl to it), your grin widens as your mind goes “the dudes gay.”

The pressure to be infinitely charming and attractive eases, you slip into a causal but relaxed banter, everything seems great until the fine gentleman turns to you and says with a swagger , “so where can I meet some hot chicks in the city?” You want to erupt into fit of laughter but politely bite down a snigger, name a few places and make a quick exit, doubting for the first time your general intuitiveness about people. There was a time when gays were gays and straights were straights and our heroine could distinctively tell the difference between the two. As she inquiringly peers down at the generation below her, she is perplexed about this new hybrid crop of youngsters whose outward appearance is distinctively queer, but are unhesitant about declaring their affections for the fairer sex, talk about confused!

As the night progresses, so does the levels of alcohol in everyone’s blood stream. By then our anonymous lead is somewhat over the initial disappointment of being blatantly rejected by someone she considers a fine specimen of the male variety. She gingerly holds her plastic cup filled to the brim with suspiciously large quantities of alcohol and “mingles” through the limited confines of the space. Her eyes gleam unnaturally from the liquor rapidly coursing at an alarming rate through her blood stream; her cheeks flush form the heat of the vodka, little beads of sweat form on her forehead indicating the advent of what promises to be a stifling summer. All insecurities and anxieties that may have previously been a cause of great dismay now seem frivolous. She is truly having a wonderful time, because nothing anyone says makes the slightest sense!

Friday, March 13, 2009

Sometimes it feels like Never

I hate mushiness that crops up in this general order of existence. Okay that’s a lie. I do secretly enjoy it, but I am terribly, terribly embarrassed to admit it, even to myself. How I have pined for all those exceedingly romantic, unrealistic moments to crop up in my very own life each time I have read ridiculously passion filled verse from the numerous romance novels that crowd my bookshelf or sighed with utter longing and desire each time I view an nakedly endearing moment between two lost, lonely soul craving for love at its finest in the numerous chick-flicks that I have watched time and again in great secrecy.

Dates are important. Birthday’s, birth anniversaries, death anniversaries, random encounters with perfect strangers who remain just that or sometimes manifest into something more are all days that play a monumental role in shaping our lives. Whether we choose to admit it or not, we are all enslaved to these days, they are absolutely pivotal to our existence. If they haven’t materialized yet then we wistfully long for them in our most private and intimate thoughts, even if we are in denial about them in public view.

August 1st is one such day in my life. Yeah, I know it is a ways away and normally the thought wouldn’t as much as cross my mind if I was engaged in a tormenting or time consuming endeavor, but since life is trudging along at its own lazy, meandering pace, I am suddenly left with a little more free time during the day than advised for a well balanced existence, which gives me the unnecessary opportunity to ponder about the ghosts of my past and think about all things melancholy. The empty mind is indeed the devils workshop, or in my case the killer of all thoughts remotely happy, after all isn’t tragedy oh so poetic?

Normally I am not the fatefully self-deprecating types. Sure, I do it time and again because it is fun and in my most witty moments, it even draws a few laughs from those appreciative of a scathing sense of humor, but for the most part, I would like to consider myself to be a poised, well-balanced human being. I love myself too damn much to ever have the audacity to end my own life, however trifle or trite it may seem, even to me.

Everyone is allowed to go through a bad patch, as am I, it’s all a part and parcel of what some wise asses term as growing up. In my weakest moments I have gone through bouts of self pity and acerbic loathing, which I have done infinitely well to mask from the rest of the world. The deep sadness that sometimes plagues my soul never lasts more than a few days, okay sometimes maybe a few months, but no longer than that. No matter how hard I try, it is extremely difficult to kill that self assured girl that lies somewhere within. Sounds like a great mantra to save yourself from going completely mental, but it is also a sure fire way to single-handedly destroy any vestige of a love life one might have once possessed. I mean let’s be honest here, most men prefer the damsel in distress, the woman ridden with trepidation and mental imbalance is far more alluring than someone who seems infinitely capable of handling her own business.

Most men have a God complex, I have it too. In more ways than one I sometimes feel like the messiah, specifically placed on this planet to bring salvation to all poor bastards that need a shoulder to cry on. This makes me an excellent friend, but a horrible girlfriend. When ever a life altering implication threatens my mostly regular existence, I prefer to retreat within myself and solve all crises at my own accord and pace. No self respecting knight in a snazzy Armani suit could possibly tolerate the thought of his “girl” being completely adequate and adept at cleaning up her own mess.

Men who tell you they prefer independent, strong women are terrible liars, sure they may appreciate the beauty of it from afar, can even clearly comprehend the merits of having such a person in their lives, but the neutral, third person perspective is a lot more fathomable when it is non-applicable to your own situation. When such a person does enter their life, it is more than enough to make them feel infinitely inadequate and terribly helpless and run off to the next dim-witted bimbo that needs help lifting her mammoth suitcase into her carousel at the nearest large airport.

This long, seemingly meaningless rant does have a purpose. I have carried my own large suitcases for way too long. The result of which I will be single for two whole years August 1st. Normally, I wouldn’t feel so overwhelmingly sentimental about it, actually I’m really not, but then ever so often you see something or someone in particular that trigger those long dormant fairy-tale fantasies that leave you breathless with an unexpected pang of longing.

Celebration doesn’t really require any real legitimate reason. People engage in all sorts of carousal for the silliest reasons, so I figure I should take this with a stride, swallow the overwhelming sense of hopelessness with a tight, clenched smile and gulp down a few vodka tonics and forget how pathetic I feel in a much occasioned drunken stupor.

It all seems like a hilarious, cruel, unfair joke, since I don’t even feel the compelling need to date on most days. All I want is a regular stress-busting romp in the sack three times a week, no questions asked. I guess some of the seemingly easy quests are the hardest to execute.