Wednesday, November 21, 2012

A window into my psyche

Tonight, I abandoned all pretexts of not drinking alcohol during the week - otherwise an effort against calorie consumption, not out of concern of alcohol abuse - and I went to my neighborhood wine bar. It is a short walk.

Between then and now - as I write this - very little genuinely remarkable occurred. But for two things:

1) Before deciding to generate this post, I observed that my last was in August - and that it proclaimed that I may have met someone. How silly of me. I did not. Such is my story, I suppose.

2) On the long walk to my apartment down a winding corridor in my building, I heard - much before I actually arrived at it - a woman (a girl? I still call them that, because "woman" seems so mature, so old, so plain and librarian-shoed) arguing vehemently with (presumably) her boyfriend.

The reason for my post. Insight.

I liked her voice. I was dismayed at her protests. The closer I got to her apartment - I've never met her, mind you - the more enthralled I was. Once I'd passed it, and was sufficiently out of her door's peephole's field of view, I leaned against the wall and just listened.

She was angry, and disappointed. I gleaned that from her tone, and from the occasional word I could make out. Whoever the recipient of her anger was, he had clearly not met expectations. Though - to be honest - I couldn't make out her actual argument. I don't know the impetus, the subject.

I listened for only a pause. Then I left - home perhaps six doors down.

But while I listened - I was so close to being that Alpha. That White Knight. I imagined in my head, in a flash of craziness, that I would knock on her door, interrupt her argument - ("I've gotta go. Someone's at my door. Goodbye.") and say something like, "I'm sorry. I don't mean to interrupt. But whatever he did, I'll never do. Maybe...)

And that's where it ended, the lunacy. Maybe what, fuckhead? Maybe you can have coffee with me?  HOLY SHIT this is creeper behavior. HOME.

And here I write.

Yet as the subject indicates - once I've had time to take my nighttime medicines and change into my pajamas (cookie pants!) - I have had sufficient time to reflect, however momentary. My action and my insta-fantasy is a window into my psyche.

I want to save, and by doing so be saved.

Unhealthy. Alone.

C'est la vie*.

*Aside from obviously knowing what this means, I'm also trying to teach myself French as a fifth language. Nous allons voir comment il progresse.

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