Monday, March 14, 2005

The Study of Civility and its Role in Human Relations

That's the title for my COMS paper. I'm examining this topic from anthropological, political, psychological, and philosophical angles. This theme applies within the context of my life too (since I make no secret of my obsession with communication). I've just been barraged with negativity these past few days (mostly from myself), so I decided to gather my thoughts and lay low a bit, absorbing a book, eating nachos and consuming calorie-laden cookies.

Saturday evening with M. Biologique didn't go quite as planned. He was irritated and I didn't want to deal with his shit. I was acting obnoxious and he was too stressed to give a damn. And each of us wanted affection at times when the other just wanted to be left alone. In a nutshell: we simply weren't on the same wavelength. It got better as the night progressed soon after I took a nap in his bed. He crawled in with me an hour later while taking a breather from JuanaMachine's down the hall. But by then, I was irreparably bummed so I made his bed, got dressed and left.

I spoke to Sexy Spinter last night and had a revelation. I think I deliberately put myself in situations where implosion is imminent. Where the participants all end up losers, lying face down in a poppy field with lacerations (the bad kind) across their tender backs. I say I hate formalities and "games." That's a lie because I know I test men. I test them to see how much of me they are willing to put up with before deciding to bolt. I somehow morph into this caricature of myself: an arrogant baffoon, at once sarcastic and cynical, irrational and childish. And here's the funny part: There is no way to placate me anyway. If my requests are calmly granted, my immediate reaction is "Damn, boy has no backbone!" If my demands are forcibly denied, I get offended by their lack of tact and decorum. There is no pleasing me. In both situations, I am left wondering why "it" didn't work out. In both situations, I rationalize that I was right to assume they weren't good enough for me (indeed, I should be commended). They must just be angry because I prematurely revealed their deadly character flaws, I convince myself. Of course, I start wallowing in a pool of self-pity in a predictable fashion, eating designer ice cream, feeling used and abused, led on, yet smugly self-congratulatory. It's a feeling characterized by an instant rush of false maturation and superiority which soon dissipates to form a hardened shell, cocooning me inside a world of "high standards" and "low expectations." It's a masturbatory fantasy fit for fondling.

So eureka! I've discovered my weakness. Now what?


Oh look. M. Biologique is calling. Back for more, perhaps? I don't think he can handle a higher dosage of Lilrosis: too much and we're back to square one. (I suppose I'm synonymous with convenience. Twice he called to check up on me. Almost makes me want to drop the misandrist act. Almost. Where does he find the energy to put up with me? "At least I make you laugh," he said in a fleeting flash of frailty, voice stripped of any artifice. I was taken aback. I put aside my wisecracking charade and for a rare moment, answered in earnest. "It's true, you do," I said. "You really do." And like that, the joking continued.)

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