Monday, June 20, 2005


I bought a bossa nova album by ... this woman ... I can't ... recall right now. And a new book: Six Questions of Socrates by Christopher Phillips. Inscribed within, he wrote: "For Cecilia, luz de mi vida" which got me thinking when I polished off Cannabis: A History (I had devoured three books over the weekend): If being "bright" means losing "at least 95 percent of [romantic] candidates" ( then where does that leave me? Selling sunflower seeds out of a greasy sack over on Interstate Zappa-knick-knack?

This doesn't seem very fair considering I'm not even looking for those with marriage on their minds (who often come in -- or end up as -- one of two dismal flavours: bland and blander). Readerdroid's bedding a not-hot, ex-coworker right now. (Sometimes I wonder if I created a monster.) He's much older and a FOB and whom she will discard after she's done experimenting. (My karmic thermostat's turned up high to compensate.) But I can't help feeling inadequate in comparison, being used goods and all. My sexual misadventures with those misfits could hardly be classified as "flings": my carnal impulses were stuck in the OFF position with both of them. I'm delusional if I think I can carry on this Average Jane charade. Men no longer turn me on (unless they're of the exceptionally irresistable variety -- that is to say, unmonitorable and uncontrived). Readerdroid accused me of replacing phallus with Phelps. I reacted agreably: I wasn't ashamed to admit I was being readily satiated by something consistently reliable. My dad now knows I've been sexually active after moving to Montreal. Too bad I couldn't further disappoint him: I'm not exactly "active" in the literal sense of the word. He told me my friends and I are "too liberal" and asked me why we couldn't find ourselves one person to spend the rest of our lives with (like he did). I responded with a prototypical canned laugh: it's harder to admit defeat at the hands of your own lie.

Last week's film studies weirdo called me four times yesterday and wanted to know if we could get together to "study." Our second conversation began with him saying:

"Hi, it's me again. Just wanted to make sure you remembered to store my number."

Okay, you can probably guess what transpired after that. I can think of no other way to convey the insistence in this man's voice; I don't think I've ever had to muffle my increasing irritation at a bookstore.

"Yes. I have your number," I reassured him without bothering to veil my resentment. "And the one you left from before. And the one before that."

"So which one do you have right now?"

Icepick up my tuchus, leave me the hell alone!


I asked Lisroom what I should say if I should encounter another batch of unsightly toads keen on poaching me at my most vulnerable: shoeless and reading. She gave me a list of possible answers, but each one could be circumvented if the man was shameless enough. The begging is so sad, it hurts. What am I supposed to say when they plain don't get it?:

That, No, we can't be friends. We'll never be friends. I don't ever want to get to know you. Your face reminds me of aborted fetuses ...?

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