Thursday, April 28, 2005


This is another one of those cathartic posts used to calm me down and lift me up: personal satisfaction guaranteed.


Why, goddamnit, must men play trippy mind games like a cruise director working to stay on the dole? Why can't they understand that while my views on relationships might be unorthodox, I react to rejection and scorn like any other person: that is to say, with toxic levels of emotion. I sometimes think my feelings are fitted with a self-destruct mechanism capable of exploding when provoked, leaving behind shards of anger, bitterness, and unease, maiming all who dare to approach the aftermath. I know I have a habit of over-analysing things, but I don't know how else to make sense of the world given the contradictory messages presented by my rational ("High standards, low expectations!") and irrational sides ("Vice versa!"), the latter benefiting from daily doses of flagellation.

M. Biologique called me from his bed to tell me he couldn't make it to our movie because his sprained ankle had gotten worse since he hurt it a few days ago. I understood and suggested I leave that night seeing how my mom wanted me home and he wasn't in working shape to go out anyway.

"Don't be stupid," he scoffed. "You're staying."

He promised to do something with me before I left and just as I was about to hang up, he slipped in a, "And Lily?"


"You're a very pretty girl."

"Why do you say that?" I said, blushing.

"I mean, not just on the outside, but on the inside. You're a very good person."

He said it with such sincerity tinged with a stunted style characteristic of shyness that I fell for it hook, line and sinker. It definitely made my day.

He called me later that evening to see how I was (of course, he must've been bored too). I told him to expect me at his door bright and early the following morning. I made good on my word and he greeted me with a more-than-friendly hug, but I had a lot of last-minute errands to do so I left him to finish whatever he had planned for the day before he also got ready to leave town. But by the time I made it to the coffeehouse to meet him, I felt our chemistry suddenly slipping away. He wore all my favourite items out of his closet: the skater shoes he brought out for the first time because I pointed out how much I loved them on Dave Chappelle; the T-shirt with the simulated aborigine icon and jeans! I've never seen him in denim, but here he was wearing a fine pair hanging off his fit frame. (I'd like to think he did it for me even though that's about as likely as gourmet chipmunk sold on supermarket shelves.)

"Look at you," I gushed. "Looking all cute with your cute shoes, cute shirt and cute pants."

He grinned as he hauled my luggage indoors.

Outside, on the terrace, he had his arm wrapped around me as I handed him my copy of the complete works of Karl Marx. He skimmed through the pages and I looked at him skeptically - he wasn't going to read it during the summer. But it was when we went inside and sat down at a table did he go out of his way to make me feel awful. I told him, honestly, I was going to miss seeing him. He said he had a lot of fun with me this past year, but:

"... I mean, don't think you're a big part of my life [that I'm going to miss you.] I just want to head home and, like, move on with my life. [...] Who knows if I'll even be returning to Canada."

I teased him. "Oh, admit it. You'll miss calling me for no reason and getting free drinks and movies out of the deal."

But he stood his ground. "Heh, yeah. But uh, no."

What was he talking about? He's getting his degree in Montreal. He's coming back to Canada. I'm going to see him when school starts in September! We had just been discussing whether he should stay where he was or move into a different apartment next semester - we were planning to live in the same borough!

"You make it seem so permanent!" I protested, trying to hide my surprise with laughter. "We're going to email each other." ... because that's what he's been doing along with his almost daily phone calls.

"I'll try to respond," he replied coolly, only half-joking.

He told me he hoped to see me with a "good boyfriend," but explained that he was kidding when I deflected this suggestion. I was amazed with the balls on this guy. He was totally shirking me. I've previously recounted how much of an asshole he can be when he's under stress, but the things he said sounded squeezed under duress. Weren't we friends, I asked myself? Every sentence onwards felt infinitely more severe and I sensed the sting long after the attack. His words burdened me during my entire 5 hour train ride to Toronto (although I temporarily escaped to watch Family Guy episodes on my portable DVD player). What really got me was his final farewell, which consisted of a super tight hug (more for my sake than his) and abrupt departure without bothering to look back even when Cuisiniere chatted him up for a brief second, facing opposite my direction. (Cuisiniere offered to stay with me in lieu of M. Biologique who left to "buy a duffel bag," which I don't doubt but was he in such a rush he couldn't provide an additional 10 minutes to send me off properly?) The guy pulled out every trick in the bag to insure that I wouldn't get "too attached" to him!

What I wanted to know was why he had to act like an ass knowing it would be the last time he was going to see me for a very long time?!

... or did I just answer my own question?

*Note: J.Lass warned that the more I strayed from reality, the more I'd feel degraded. And boy, was she right.


I changed my blog title because somehow "Lily's Blog" seems too obvious for its own good. M. Biologique is still desperate to find it. (He asked me what I called him: "Like ... Mr. Mambo or something?" "Yes. Mambochambo. Go google it.")

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