Relax. Don't think about the way I treat you.

. . . and I hate . . . elevator music

Words of wisdom from the muzak at Aubrey’s in Maryville (where I work):

“Love is stressful, or it’s gay.
Love is trouble, or it’s play,
But it’s heartache either way.”

Well, that just about sums it up, doesn’t it?

Actually, I think love is more like a stomachache, a nauseous, burning sensation throughout the entire body. The body is invaded by a constant vital chill, like nothing else matters, like one’s entire being has been seized by a lightning bolt of terror and ecstasy. Love is something not good for one’s health, with only two possible cures: the obtaining of the object of one’s affection/desire, or, failing that, something to jolt one out of moronic solipsistic fantasy. I spent way too much time in high school waiting for the latter, hopeless in my pursuit of the former. But now I’m beyond that, right? Or maybe what I’m calling “love” would be more aptly dubbed “infatuation,” “perversion,” or “projection.” Hm.

This little masochist is closing up her dress
Yes, it’s official everyone: I no longer entertain any notions that I might be a masochist, in the physical sense or otherwise. I’ll spare you the details of my method of discovery (not nearly as naughty as you’re imagining), but just rest assured that pain fucking hurts, and it’s not for me. I know it’s unavoidable, but, if I can help it, it’s not going to be a part of my social life.

Love is a battlefield
Also, I’ve recently received mind-blowing insights into my whole interpersonal dynamic, and I am starting to understand why I thought I wanted what I thought I wanted. This is all terribly vague, I know, but let me explain it this way: I am very often attracted to things that I have convinced myself I don’t possess. This phenomenon goes beyond sex or romance; its influence ranges from friendships to taste in music to my choices in the consumption of consumer goods. If you can convince me that you have something I don’t intrinsically contain or possess, well then, baby, I want you. This is sick, I know, but it also makes sense in a Darwinian way. We seek out that which will complement us and make us a stronger force against the chaos and unpredictability of the world, “natural” or otherwise.

Well, you know what? Fuck that shit. I may be a primate at heart, but I live indoors with electric heaters, plumbing, and nuclear radiation to heat my food. I can move beyond this “instinct.” Yeah, Freud and Jung both wrote a lot about “self-actualization” and uniting the anima and animus and all of that within oneself. That’s a good idea. But like the Buddha said, (paraphrasing) “Unless you experience what I am telling you, you do not truly know it.” Right on. That’s why revelations like the one I’ve had recently are such blessings. Now I understand what Alanis Morrissette was singing about in “Thank You.”

At the same time, I don’t want to abandon or degrade my feminine side just because I realize how sick it is to seek out my masculine side in others. And I also don’t want to tether back and forth between the two. I don’t want balance; I want synergy, and symbiosis. Does anyone have any advice on how to do this?

Love,
Scott (the blonde one)