Tuesday, May 10, 2005

Broken Record

I was battling a short-lived fever yesterday which manifested into some sort of monstrous throat malady, a malignant cancer of pain bulging from the side of my neck (sans fatality). It hurts to breathe, it hurts to swallow; hell, it hurts to relax when drool unmercifully accumulates in my mouth, refusing to go down the drainage pipe like it knows it's headed for a knee-capping or something.


Spanish class went well ... until I discovered the entire course is an oral one: the teacher expects us to speak half-fluent espagnol in a month's time! That's insane! Where am I supposed to find folks willing to converse with me? How is this accomplishable? It isn't, that's what! And the only good friend who knows the language (from living in Brazil and Spain) is NorIda and she's currently enjoying el sol in Costa Rica!

Professor D. agreed to let me go early to give my throbbing cranium some much-needed relief. As I was packing to leave, I received a phone call from -- who else? -- M. Biologique. I spent the rest of the evening hanging out with him. And when we said our goodbyes this time, it was less hurtful, more sincere. But I couldn't meet his gaze as he held me against him by the metro gates. Everything I said sounded scripted and out of place:

"Nice knowing you."

"See you when I see you."

"Have fun this summer."

It was like a screenplay that was wrapped-up by a vagabond fresh out of film school, complete with biblical symbolism and idiocyncratic characters. It would be a lie to say I didn't feel like shit yesterday, going up and down the green line with brownie caked on my chin for most of that time. And it would be a lie to say Readerdroid was wrong when she said the reason M. Biologique can bring me to the "highest of highs" and the "lowest of lows" is because I let him. But when I entered his apartment with a mind utterly destroyed by exhaustion and sickness, it was he -- my panacea, my Pandora's box -- who plugged the complaining, who boiled me tea, who gave me food, who knew what I needed before I could insinuate that fact, and lifted me from the doldrums of hyperactivity and nausea.

That usually cheap miser even used his last twenty dollars to buy us our regular Ben & Jerry's concoction which was followed by an usual game of "silent, alternating, surrealist doodling on the business section of The Gazette". (The ice cream was Chunky Monkey crossed with raspberry and mango sorbet. Hope that dampened any dangerously curious voyeuristic impulses.)

Perhaps that is the dynamic of our relationship. Perhaps being different isn't my main motivation (who isn't nowadays?). Perhaps my independent spirit can thrive only under a lesser, co-dependent existence where the need to be needed outweighs the need to need.

Perhaps. (But I'm in the midst of detoxing: shant hold what I say against me.)


Watched Bertolucci's The Dreamers in film class today where I subsequently pretended Cuisiniere wasn't there, watching me two rows back, as the lights came back on again. I told him I would act like this, didn't I? I said, "It's better not to have sex with me because I will ignore you afterwards." I couldn't have been clearer. Maybe it's not fair to make a man think when he's about to come, but who said life was fair?

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