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and a god descended
The old illicit type tracked me down today, or maybe I tracked him down, but I think it was the other way around.
He found me on IM. I found myself treading that fine line, the one between boring and being bored, the one that says, please, don't talk to me, but also, I don't have it in me to hate you, to snub you, that would take too much effort.
Turns out he's no longer married. Or maybe he is, but he sold the house. Or maybe he's lying. I can't get it up to care, and I care only for curiousity's sake, even when he says things like, "I can't find a smart girl. I'm looking for someone like you, but with a steady job."
And it makes me squirm, remembering. That this was someone I wrote prosepoems for.
But the problem is that I can't ignore him, because that's effort and that's childish and that's snubbery, and that's more attention than he deserves.
Or maybe I broke up the marriage. Maybe I did. They think I did. I think I did. I guess that's what counts.
So he found me today, and I was boring, and he was bored, and I sighed and spoke in lowercase and waited for him to go away.
He likes to talk about going to raves and parties, travelling, adventuring. I'm not impressed.
I don't think I ever was.
There's just too much out there that's good, too much I left behind (cf. Swarthmore, still, and still on my mind, damn you G., still musing and thinking, talking to you) that was like me, that made me a better person.
And this one, makes me a worse person. Makes me tolerable only when I'm bored and boring. Even 3000 miles away.
He's not even worth this much of my time.
No Jo today. Even on days when I don't see her, it's something just to know that she's there. So G. and I, we'll talk pigeons, and over here, soon, the sun'll come up.
Writing!
He found me on IM. I found myself treading that fine line, the one between boring and being bored, the one that says, please, don't talk to me, but also, I don't have it in me to hate you, to snub you, that would take too much effort.
Turns out he's no longer married. Or maybe he is, but he sold the house. Or maybe he's lying. I can't get it up to care, and I care only for curiousity's sake, even when he says things like, "I can't find a smart girl. I'm looking for someone like you, but with a steady job."
And it makes me squirm, remembering. That this was someone I wrote prosepoems for.
But the problem is that I can't ignore him, because that's effort and that's childish and that's snubbery, and that's more attention than he deserves.
Or maybe I broke up the marriage. Maybe I did. They think I did. I think I did. I guess that's what counts.
So he found me today, and I was boring, and he was bored, and I sighed and spoke in lowercase and waited for him to go away.
He likes to talk about going to raves and parties, travelling, adventuring. I'm not impressed.
I don't think I ever was.
There's just too much out there that's good, too much I left behind (cf. Swarthmore, still, and still on my mind, damn you G., still musing and thinking, talking to you) that was like me, that made me a better person.
And this one, makes me a worse person. Makes me tolerable only when I'm bored and boring. Even 3000 miles away.
He's not even worth this much of my time.
No Jo today. Even on days when I don't see her, it's something just to know that she's there. So G. and I, we'll talk pigeons, and over here, soon, the sun'll come up.
Writing!