Now, granted, the reclusive personality cannot guarantee reciprocation of love and need for companionship. But I am granted the privilege of spending more time with the one I love, and am assured that the reclusive person, who does not like and appreciate the company of many people, likes and appreciates me. Life is very, very good.
So now, the task which will replace my obsession over how to bring up this neverending crush, is how not to overwhelm this woman with too much adoration. Time to play it cool, just enjoy the company, not be too needy. I can handle this. And, since I know how truly compelling this story must be, I'll be sure to keep you all posted. ;)
While you're there, check out the animations on The Other Side, if you haven't done so before. Particularly Mittens & Snowdrop, and Little Goth Girl. They are FABulous...
I have a bizarre yet powerful desire to drive to Canada over Thanksgiving weekend. It occurred to me this morning,as I was listening to American Woman by The Guess Who and trying to imagine how it must feel be a native resident of Canada, watching the often disconcerting behavior of the U.S. I am strangely fascinated by this huge, vast, largely quiet neighbor of ours. I have never been outside the continental U.S., not even just across the Mexican or Canadian border, and for some reason today I am feeling acutely landlocked. Maybe I will try to talk someone into driving there with me, since that would solve my dilemma about which fragment of my family to socialize with during the upcoming holiday. Hmm... who would be weird *coughs* -- I mean, adventurous enough to agree to such a strange request...? I'll have to give this some additional thought...
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So tonight I got into a conversation about parents/childhood/role models, and got all newly riled up about my usual rage-target, Daddy-0.
Why does childhood frustration live on
It seems that it can never be fully resolved because the feelings of being smaller and more vulnerable can never be separated from the memories. When I think back on times my father belittled me, or was disrespectful of my privacy, or insulted my intelligence, or tried to make me into some kind of slobberingly passive wifey-in-training, I feel a strange sort of ineffectual rage over the fact that my adult self can't go back into that moment and defend the younger me. Because if I could, the adult me would KICK MY DAD'S ASS!!!!!
(Now, some of you may be wondering if anger at Daddy is the key factor in my making plans to avoid humans with dicks for future long-term relationships. I have to say that first of all, I haven't ruled out guys altogether, and secondly, my attraction to women is positive rather than negative. Translated, it is about loving and admiring women - NOT about a negative reaction to men that therefore sends me running into the arms of the nearest female.)
I find it endlessly amusing that the very thing most people associate with mothers is my dad's most irritating habit - failing to sever the invisible umbilical cord. Only, since he is my father, this tendency translates into associating every positive, intelligent, distinctive thing I accomplish with the (naturally!) superior quality of his goddamn sperm. I honestly believe that this is what he is proud of when he makes a show of being proud of me or my siblings. He feels like a big genetically superior stud.
(**HUGE NOISY RETCH!**)
So maybe this should make me feel better about the fact that he is not proud of my recent decision to be honest about my sexuality and get a divorce. At least this very difficult (and in my opinion decent and fair and even rather courageous) move hasn't been placed in the shadow of some kind of grotesque Daddy cumshot. But in fact it makes me sad that the only way I can beat my father at his own ridiculous game is to disappoint him, to piss him off, to injure him in some way. I have to make him think I am not such a good person in order to knock him off his fucking high horse. And self-deprecation is really just not my thing.
My aunt's partner (I currently live with them - they are generous and wonderful and have taken pity on me) has insisted that I need to tell him how I feel, if for no other reason than the self-preserving result of unloading some of this anger. I know she is correct in predicting that if I carry it too long it will be harder and more confusing to let go of it, but it is tempting just to ignore his existence on the planet rather than suffer through the humiliating and delicate process of revealing my feelings without letting him hurt me.
So my plan is to finish the letter I started weeks ago, which was originally begun for the purpose of explaining to him that his latest little snub did not go unnoticed or misunderstood, but has grown into a general "for your stupid information, this is why I hate your guts" kind of letter. It's a last-ditch effort to give him a chance to redeem himself, and I am trying to be as nice as possible in the way I word it so the letter won't just be written off as the impotent rantings of a typical hysterical female (which is partly why I'm venting all my royal bitchiness here, to get it out of my system).
So feel free to comment and tell me your honest opinion as to whether I am completely insane, or my dad's behavior really is hideous.
Here's the deal: my dad claimed that he did not have time to help me finish a home-improvement project that my husband was supposed to do on a deadline and didn't, but then he immediately called my husband and offered to help HIM!!! What makes this perhaps seemingly insignificant slight such a big deal to me is this:
a) I basically NEVER ask my dad for help with anything because he is such a guilt-tripper, but I had swallowed my usual bitchy pride and decided to give him a chance to prove that he was on my side for once.
b) When I said I was planning to take money out of our joint account to pay for the project and do it myself, Daddy dear assumed that I meant I was charging my husband for my services (so he called Jeremy to offer to do it for free). If he had bothered to ask, he would have understood that the money I planned to withdraw was money I HAD PUT THERE!!! DUMBASS!
c) And last but not least, I am so wary of and familiar with my dad's socially retarded antics, I made a point of warning him (this is word for word, no exaggeration):
Me: "Don't call Jeremy and talk about this. I don't want you to bring it up. If you do, I'll be really mad. So don't do it. Okay?"
Dad: "Okay. I love you. Bye."
(So what does the stupid little man do - exactly what I just specifically told him would piss me off! Yeah, I love you, too, dickhead.)
Anyway. I guess I can finish the letter now and be respectful and all that bullshit even though it takes all my energy to think this letter will have any effect at all on his behavior. Deep breath. It only matters that I do it, right? If he ignores me again... well, that's his problem.
|What does my romance meter read?|