Skip to main content

Things get better.

Or so they tell me.

As I've written twice already how rough April is/how deeply I loathe it. Among the several or so reasons, one certainly centers on loneliness and longing. Boys, and their (apparent) disinterest/indifference. I've harbored a long-standing bitterness about this, too; resenting couples and their happiness especially as they frolic in the re-awakened flowers and warmth and hormones of Spring.

It's been very frustrating.

I hate feeling lonely almost as much as I hate sounding pathetic. In April, though, the latter's all but entirely overwhelmed by the former, and longing feeds bitterness, and resentment breeds surliness.

Right now, I'm not particularly chasing anyone. Well, that's not entirely true. Among the guys I wish would notice me is one I've wanted ardently for a very long time.

At this point, it's not some desperate, crazed yearning, but a friendship I very much wish were "more". It's turned figurative--how it represents my hesitance and bad luck with guys hurts more, probably, than his lack of reciprocating gesture.

Don't get me wrong. I want him, bad. It's also a bit more complicated than "just some hot guy who's nice to me". See, besides wanting to tackle him with bestial fury and ravage every adorably stimulating & fuckable inch of him with hard hot passion, I also respect him as a person and peer. I think he's brilliant, funny, delightful, gifted, and as crazy, it seems, about music and movies and literature and writing as I am, perhaps more in some areas.

So the fantasy is complicated by presumed compatibility; I assume we could offer eachother so much more than how, wild sex. I imagine such wonderful things, if only things went how I wanted them to. Don't get me wrong; I imagine wonderful things could happen any way things went. I just really really like the things I imagine we (I) could have if things were different.

It's gonna sound so emo--so it must still be April!--but I haven't felt this way about a guy in...I don't how long, if ever. Part of what frustrates me, then, is realization that apparently Romanticism is dead. (Or I'm just not ballsy enough to "follow my heart".) That just because it feels so perfect, and you want it so badly, and you'd do most anything for it just to happen, doesn't mean he's going to notice you or return those feelings.

It also sucks because, for reasons variously foolhardily spurious or actually compelling, I'm not convinced he isn't entirely indifferent or, at the least, unaware. Maybe that's why still haven't gotten coffee despite various enthusiastic agreements to--that he is aware and doesn't want to encourage it. Or maybe I'm just going cynical. Sigh.

The good news is I'm feeling better than I was before; I was feeling hopeless and frustrated, but now it's lessened. Thankfully.

So with that, I'll stop stewing on it for today. It's not worth worrying. It's not like it'd accomplish anything anyway to worry. It's time I start turning things like this over; they very much fall under "...the serenity to accept the things I cannot change...". So it's about time I turn to "...the courage to change the things I can..." and spare myself some grief.

For all I know thing's might actually work out if I stop trying to cling to & control them. Stranger things have been known to happen.


Other things that might interest you...

This moment: A tattoo.

So I read Mrs. Dalloway in high school, and it was perhaps the most beautiful thing I'd ever read. One passage in particular, very early in the book, hit me hard with my first experience of the sublime, and stayed with me—and led at last to my first tattoo.
In people’s eyes, in the swing, tramp, and trudge; in the bellow and the uproar; the carriages, motor cars, omnibuses, vans, sandwich men shuffling and swinging; brass bands; barrel organs; in the triumph and the jingle and the strange high singing of some aeroplane overhead was what she loved; life; London; this moment of June.  (Emphasis added; full paragraph included below. From the full text of the novel as made available by the University of Adelaide.)

The paragraph this is from, the 4th paragraph of the novel, is the 1st passage with the stream of consciousness the book is famous for; although self-limited here, the flow is no less gorgeous. In the passage, Clarissa is walking on a street to get those famous flowers herse…

Losing Doolittle.

I recently got to spend a few days at the lake house my family used to visit through most of my childhood; we no longer own it, and it turns out I missed it more deeply than I realized.

Anthony and I both got the week before NYC Pride off this year, so I contrived to get us a little time there. The cousins who own Greenshore gave Anthony and me permission to relax there for several days rather than just the 1 or 2 I had expected. Good god, I'm grateful for that.

I missed this place. Standing on the balcony, the porch, or the dock and looking out over the lake, I was reminded of the beauty and tranquility this lake represents for me. The meaning and memories, too.

This was always a place of solace and stability for me. We moved around a lot when I was a kid, but we always came back to this place. It had been in our family for generations before I was even born—if we'd been able to keep it, it would have been a solid 4 generations including mine. This was where I figured out I w…

Sarracenia 'Palmerpink.'

So I posted the other day about my rekindled carnivorous plant obsession—I mean, hobby. I mentioned, in passing, that I had "discovered" a possible cultivar, so here's the lowdown on what that means and what I meant.

The term "cultivar" is short for "cultivated variety," and signifies that a particular plant is so desirable and interesting that people want exact copies of it rather than simply seed from it. Some famous American pitcher plant (Sarracenia) cultivars include the legendary Adrian Slack, the massive Leah Wilkerson, and the classic Judith Hindle.

Part of how these come about is that, unlike horses x donkeys = mules and certain other hybrids, Sarracenia hybrids aren't sterile and can be crossed and recrossed without limit. Further, random chance can create crazy combinations of genes such that even hybrids between the same species—heck, even the same parents—can demonstrate quite the variety. More on that elsewhere.

Depending on how easy…