I am a writer, a writer of fiction…
It’s been a "repeat-one" kind of week on my playlist. Current obsession: "The Engine Driver" by The Decemberists.
Today has been complicated and it’s only 3pm. I hate to think what the rest of my day holds in store. I received a phonecall at work from Headmaster Ross of The Meadows School, where I attended highschool. The topic? Had I had inappropriate relations with one Kevin McHugh, a teacher of mine while I was there. I see no reason to discuss the validity of these claims–if you know me, it’s pretty obvious–however that was enough to really stress me out. I remember leaving highschool to get away with childish rumors among other things. I also get to work a split shift because everyone is quitting. We’ve lost 2 closers in the last week, and another has put in his two weeks notice. Our manager is out sick, and one of our cashiers had a final today, so that means our work pool was 5 people for the entire day. It makes me feel bad enough for my entirely overworked managers that I almost want to stay just for their benefit.
Billy and his unfortunate example usage when discussing those things that make me the most neurotic is really making things in my life more..interesting. Then again, I do that enough on my own by not checking the "sender" field on received text messages. Patrick will never allow me to live this down, I think.
It seems so complicated from this perspective, with threads of meaning tangled and stretched out across miles and cities. The closer I get, the more sense the meaning makes, the less it looks knotted and the more it looks woven. Strangely enough, I know the problem isn’t the distance as much as my perspective, and that at some point I’ll have to change it.
It’s funny the sort of things I can work myself up about. I don’t really ever worry that boys will become interested in someone else and no longer want to date me. I’m not offended at the concept of my significant other being attracted to someone else. I know very well that if they desire to be with someone else, there’s nothing I can do to stop them. I know that if they’re worth being with, I’d want their happiness more than the relationship for its own sake anyway. The odd thing is, the more convinced I am that someone is attracted to me the more I fear misrepresenting myself. Trying to explain who I am (as if there’s any linear sense of being at all) becomes this farce of my impotent anger at the inadequacy of any symbolism I might attempt and the crises of representation and interpretation. I don’t need to be guaranteed that no one else will have a chance as a partner for the one I’m pursuing, only a fair chance of my own. If they can get a decent approximation of who I am and the meaning of my various neuroses and still prefer to be interested in someone else, that is by all means alright.
For someone who doesn’t believe in fate, I say this an awful lot: if it is meant to be, it will be.
For the record, even if my first interpretation was that you were an idiot, your first interpretation of my attraction to you was that I must have been crazy.