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Wednesday, Jun. 12, 2002 / 6:44 p.m. ~Let's Get Cynical, Cynical!~ Do you ever think to yourself, "Now this would be a perfect time for a home invasion."? No? Me neither. Well, I did, a little while ago, at home for lunch. I set my garbage outside my front door, went back in to buckle my Birks, and shut the door, unlocked, my front door unlocked, and that's rare, but I was only going to be a moment, and in that moment, yeah, that's exactly what I thought. "Now this would be a perfect time for a home invasion.", as if someone watched me, watches me daily, coming home at the same time, at lunch, what time I come, what time I go, and would wait just around the corner, push in the door, or push me in, the door behind me. Just a thought. A random thought. Then I pass the bug lying on its back in the outside hallway, and see its little legs moving, sort of walking, but not going anywhere, because that would require uprighting itself, and my guess is that bug was near death, poisoned, it just had that look. And I considered putting it out of its perceived misery, but was I anthropomorphizing? Either way, putting that bug out of its perceived misery would require me to murder it and I have trouble killing things larger than your average silverfish. I hate killing anything, and if I had to end the suffering of any creature, large, small, or otherwise, I don't know, I'm sorry, I don't think I could. (I'm having so much trouble matching my verb tenses today - and my tenses in general, as in present, past, pluperfect) This is an example of my cynical nature: Listerine now has a boyfriend. Oh yes. This explains her upbeat nature of the past few weeks. The spring in her step, the friendly "Good Morning!"s all the way around lately, and as she confessed, yesterday, to having her "John", "My John", well, she cooed and blushed and pulled at the hem on her dress, scrunched up her shoulders, giggled, tee heed even, her smile pulling her face all the way open, and today when she let us all hear "my John", or her "John", recite a poem called "Can't Wait" on her voice mail I could only wonder when it will end. She went on and on, so excited, giggling insanely, so happy, excruciatingly happy, and I could only think, How long will it last? How long before he realizes she's a freak? How long before he finds out he has prostate cancer and dies? How long before he meets someone else and cheats on her? How long before she realizes he's smothering her? Or what if the poems are being recited daily and she's frankly had enough? How long? I couldn't be happy for her, couldn't say, "Aw, I'm so happy for you!", um, because I'm not. I told her it was great, yeah, sure, isn't that nice?, and how fun for you, and things like that, but me? Happy for her? For Listerine? Cause of my misery? No. Now I'm the only gal here, at the office, the only gal in the steno pool, or actually in the rows of cubicles, in this department, verifications, profile updates, here at the Outsourcing Center, who is not being wooed by some man. And this is what I want. Not to be the only one, because they all think it's all I need, they want it for me more than I want it, but because I'm not sure I do want it, I've never been sure I wanted it. Don't get me wrong. Love is grand, being in love is grander, but it does not last, by its very nature. It changes, evolves, becomes a struggle of compromise. This I do not relish. And sex? Sure, it's been good in the past, it could be good again. But when I'm totally honest, and especially first thing in the morning, NO, I do NOT want a man in my life. People don't get this. Mark hears me wax on and on about Moby, Branford hears it too, and sure, that's a little fantasy I entertain from time to time. Mark has told me not to flatter myself where he is concerned, but I think he is still a bit smitten when it comes to me, just from reading what he writes about me in his diary, and judging from yesterday's rather unpleasant phone conversation, I'm left thinking he truly does want something from me. It's not enough to seize a moment, he is "creating those moments to be further seized", as I once wrote I wanted to do with James, to Jon. Wrote to Jon, re: James, that is. By the way, Jon says James felt he dropped the ball by not calling me right away, i.e. after I wrote him my phone number(s) via email. He felt it was too late to call me because he hadn't already. Hmmmmm�, I said. What a load of crap. I'd bet money the guy does not recognize me if he sees me again. I have my moments. Wherein I want love, I want a lover, a companion, but on the whole, a series of meaningless encounters, totally lacking in any intimacy or closeness, are not beneficial. This is the "big picture". I prefer to be alone. It seems a lie, you don't believe me. Do you think I've lived by myself for 11 years now because I'm lonely? How many days a month do I want a man? Let's see, I may be ovulating for close to one full day each month? That's it. A period of hours. The rest of the time I want to fulfill myself, find ways to be creative or entertained, to write, to read, to fill my senses and feed my soul. I enjoy going to movies alone, I go to festivals alone, I go everywhere alone, and it is seldom I crave a change. I even go dancing alone if I want. That way I don't worry I'm keeping someone on the dance floor too long, or making someone dance who can't, or who doesn't want to. It's not a ruse, it's no front. People are not my species, not my choice. They come, they go, they cause more grief and make more demands than my cats. Right now I really just want to back off, and I'll question how long this thing with Listerine and "her John" (no, not like a hooker's john, get your mind out of that gutter, the dude's name is John) will last, because either I secretly (?) hope it won't, or as part of my cynical nature, I know it won't. I'm listening to Gipsy Kings, their first album. 2:24 p.m., cubicle time. It's fine. Very fine. The movie last night was great, the sound loud enough, the screen large enough if sitting close, and we did, sit close. I brought too much food, lots of fruit that wasn't touched, but we ate smoked salmon and French bread, grapes, mozzarella wrapped 'round capicola, sushi, white cheddar popcorn, mango, and drank Samuel Adams beers. Fine. Just fine. It's great to sit in the Park and watch a movie, especially old Alfred Hitchcock, well, all Alfred Hitchcock movies are old, but "Strangers On a Train" is especially old. And good. Of course he says the premise is flimsy. Whatever. Cost of the War in Iraq
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