Monday, January 31, 2005

Prove It

JuanaMachine leant me Gus Van Sant's Elephant. He and I are becoming fast friends (to the chagrin of M. Biologique). The French really like their bootlegged movies (and their deluxe, five-flavoured, windmill-inspired super joints shaped like some shitty ass, papier-mached, medieval era mace).


I waved goodbye to the Boy as he got up to buy another falafel, stranding him in line so he couldn't leave me at the altar (figuratively speaking) if he abruptly decided to dash to class. (He had spontaneously asked me out for sushi initially. Long story). This, after he got me to reveal my single living status ("Yes, I lack the inconvenience of a roomie," was, I believe, how I put it). My occasional curt behaviour is driving him mixed-signals mad, but I can't honestly see myself with this flirt anyway.

He's too cool for school and too shady for this lady. (I assume. He won't tell me what he does for a living so I asked if he belonged to the KGB.)


Spent the evening with M. Biologique (listening to - ugh! - friggin' Sublime) and his Parisien cohorts (JuanaMachine and EcoBois). I'm sick of his passive-aggressive treatment of me. One minute he's asking me how I could resist a face like his, the next minute he's trying to convince me I should hook-up with JuanaMachine, his good friend and neighbour. The siblingship is in shambles; it hasn't been working out as expected. (Didn't see that coming.) He's hot, he's cold. He wants me to come over, he doesn't want me to stay late. He let me stay the night, he begged his girlfriend to forgive him. He touches me affectionately, he sits an arm length away. I can't do this anymore. If he thinks he's my "brother," then that's what he's going to be. And I'm going to continue cracking sarcastic quips at his expense because how else can I feel like he is being punished for something he doesn't know he's doing?

"Our friendship isn't straightforward."

He doesn't understand what I mean and wants me to produce an example. I come up short, too coy to be frank, too frank to continue.

"You're someone who wants to know where you stand," he answers for me.

"No." I cut him off. "Not where I stand, but whether I am correct to assume that we're on the same [page.]"

Our relationship can't be defined, it is too full of ambiguities and unsaid perversions. But I refuse to corrupt it any further by holding on to the last remnants of romantic illusions.

I am shifting my focus elsewhere. Albeit, it's nowhere in particular, but it's somewhere, anywhere because this is a nightmare.

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