Turns out I miss being wanted. No, that wasn't the big secret of my moody weekend, if anyone caught that post, just something that turned up during it.
It's not like I ever had to fend the ladies off or anything. Pretty sure the number of women who've ever wanted me is around 2, and one was the briefest of infatuations. But the other one was enough for me for a good long while... right up until the point when she stopped. I'd thought I was making progress in putting it all behind me, but turns out I miss it more than I thought.
I think it came out of a recent dream in which I was being accused of making a move on a girl far too young for me. Upon awakening, it struck me that as much as part of me wonders "Could I date a 19-year-old, or would that be too skeezy?" there's a whole other part which mourns how rhetorical the question is.
Perhaps I've been using my writing as a placeholder. Respect for my writing in place of love or desire. And now we're doing our first play from another writer, and the only script I've finished in the last year or so has met with unenthusiastic reviews...I don't know. I suspect I'm seeing connections that don't really exist: allowing an unexplained sadness to push me into self-pity to rationalize what I'm feeling. But it's passing. I already feel less bleak, and am remembering that theatrical brilliance must be earned through hard work and many revisions. Tonight I shall catch up with Veronica Mars and the Gilmores, and soon I should be able to approximate cheerful again. Hopefully this will mean a less-brooding update in the next few days. Cheers 'til then.
"Not one of those cheerleaders would want to date me after seeing tonight's show."
-Matt Albie
It's not like I ever had to fend the ladies off or anything. Pretty sure the number of women who've ever wanted me is around 2, and one was the briefest of infatuations. But the other one was enough for me for a good long while... right up until the point when she stopped. I'd thought I was making progress in putting it all behind me, but turns out I miss it more than I thought.
I think it came out of a recent dream in which I was being accused of making a move on a girl far too young for me. Upon awakening, it struck me that as much as part of me wonders "Could I date a 19-year-old, or would that be too skeezy?" there's a whole other part which mourns how rhetorical the question is.
Perhaps I've been using my writing as a placeholder. Respect for my writing in place of love or desire. And now we're doing our first play from another writer, and the only script I've finished in the last year or so has met with unenthusiastic reviews...I don't know. I suspect I'm seeing connections that don't really exist: allowing an unexplained sadness to push me into self-pity to rationalize what I'm feeling. But it's passing. I already feel less bleak, and am remembering that theatrical brilliance must be earned through hard work and many revisions. Tonight I shall catch up with Veronica Mars and the Gilmores, and soon I should be able to approximate cheerful again. Hopefully this will mean a less-brooding update in the next few days. Cheers 'til then.
"Not one of those cheerleaders would want to date me after seeing tonight's show."
-Matt Albie
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I don't know why my phone was on silent mode either. Possibly because I'm stoopid.
They were going to head home on Wednesday, but FP didn't have to work until later on Thursday and laziness won out in the end.
But tonight will include both food and bowling fun!