It’s really not a big deal until I start caring. So… shit.
For what it’s worth, it makes more sense when you sing the title of this post to the tune of Madonna’s “Like A Virgin.” I’m not trying to suggest anything about myself, so whatever, it just works, okay?
I’m feeling defensive, but I’m not at all sure what the hell it is I’m feeling defensive about. It’s not like anyone’s done anything to me; if anything, I’ve had a great day. Wake up, get tickets to see The xx at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery, do some work, watch 6 episodes of “Buffy,” eat food, hang with cool people, yup sounds good alright what a fantastic day so what’s the problem.
I can get snappy sometimes, sure, but who doesn’t get snappy sometimes? It just happens, your patience runs its course and then boom, a bullet of emotion that comes out of nowhere and torpedos any hopes you had of maintaining a calm demeanor. It’s like cutting a taunt string or setting off a firecracker, a crash of a snap that brings you firmly into the folds of reality. Mmhmm, the time for flights of fancy is over, why don’t you come back to earth.
But this wasn’t a sudden snap. No… this was more like a whittling down of my desire, an ebb and flow that has since subsided into just the ebbing of weaker and weaker waves. I guess I could’ve seen it from the beginning, but I’ve been so set on seeing things in a certain way, so firm in my belief that no, this wasn’t like that time, this wasn’t everything it was appearing to be, and somehow, something good could work (thanks Two Door) and it would be fine, things would be so fine.
No. I don’t want fine. I don’t need fine. So what am I doing? I keep asking myself that, and it always appears that the chase itself should be enough. AS IF. If that really were the be all end all, I’d be like a confused dog, perpetually chasing the sight of my own tail around and around for as long as I could run.
No. In this case, screw the journey, it’s totally about the destination. About getting something that will make me smile without hesitation, not make me stay awake until 6 in the morning as I’m tossing and turning in my sheets, cursing the humid heat and ruing whatever small failure that has since metastasized into a major roadblock. As much as other people think it’s “cute” or “appropriate” or whatever, it sucks to be the hound in pursuit, to not know if you’re pushing too hard or pulling away too suddenly, to fret over every word exchanged, to worry and wait and wait and wait and wait.
So nope, that’s it. It’s been real, but the show’s over, everybody get back home safely, etc. etc. etc. Y’all were expecting a bang, but I think it’s safe to say that this was a whimper. And so it is that this hopeless sort of story ends.
Is it still considered a story if there’s only a prologue?
[Image: Annie Duels The Sun by Angie Wang]