It wasn't a guy knocking. It was my neighbour. She was worried about me.
I mean, seriously...
I'm not the type to be a victim of love. I'm ambivalent, remote and aloof.
The book I'm reading, Blink, purports that peoples' understanding of themselves is often so wrong as to be laughable. Our self-definition(s) are so manufactured they border on the hilarious.
It means the reverse is true. I'm vulnerable, I care what people think and I'm plugged into you.
You should have seen me with The King. My eyes scanned him, up and down, like a lecherous old lady. I'd start at the top of his bald head then scan down to his calves. I thought he was perfect. Arms, legs, hands...personality, lips and wit.
I hope someone loves me like that someday. See's me like that. Head to toe, perfect. They may have, I didn't notice.
It's not healthy to want someone...
It won't happen again. From now on I'll just pretend to be vulnerable. Like her (the one from Thanksgiving). She obtained it all, the mansion, someone elses husband...the brass ring. But still, her house was cold. Trying too hard to be "cool" cold. Mexican tiles with brown leather sofas cold. A fireplace with no fire cold. Ever-Ready fake wood cold. Adultress cold. No boundaries cold. Looks innocent but isn't cold.
I'm not as intimidated as all that. I wouldn't want to be her. I'm not the adultress type. Plus, I'm more interesting...better read and when I'm not lying, I'm honest. I'm just not streetwise...like her. And I would never steal your husband.
I'm a Janis Ian song right now.
I may not be happy, but I'm respectable.
The plants are all dying and the house is a wreck. My cell phone is dead...I'd better do something.