Ah, so it is possible to love someone in all the wrong ways. I lie when I say it is unconditional. Every time I go to see my mentor every 4 or 6 months and relay my progress, I expect recognition, I expect the deeply personal conversations, I expect the hug. I get back home euphoric and aroused and I learn how to love the world again. This is borderline sadism. I know that my relations with him will never go beyond work-related chit-chat and vague sex jokes. I am Jane's pulsating libido. Here's the clincher: All those conversations that went like a Charlie Kaufman screenplay and the eloquent yet humored letters were carefully fabricated weeks in advance. If there was a montage of my life's vices, I'd roughly estimate that 80% of it involved him in some manner.
Albeit, Freud would probably attribute this to paternal neglect, I convince myself that this is merely a rebound from those Capgras delusions I've had as a child. Whatever helps with the guilt and paranoia. (I swear, every time I lose interest in a sexual prospect, it's his way of getting revenge)
Time and proximity will take its toll and, like many other sentimental memories, he'll be replaced by the intricacies of cellular metabolism.
(0245 hrs next day): You're fucking evil. Wait a tick, this is me. I'm fucking evil. Cool.
No comments:
Post a Comment