So James has some beautiful friends, or else his friends have some beautiful friends.
Rejection is a strange beast and one, I admit, I'm not used to dealing with. I shrug it off and act nonchalant about it. For the most part I really am. Except for those masochistic voyaristic tendencies. Truth is, if they hadn't left the porch, I would have just kept watching. There are a number of reasons for it to have such a draw. One is a pretty a+b=c sort of thing. If people you think are attractive are engaging in sexual activity then that's sexy. But of course it's not just that, because I wouldn't have gotten bored with that pretty fast. Like a movie on TV that I'll enjoy watching for five minutes before I go channel surfing, flipping back every now and then just to keep up with where the story's going. So what's the rest of it? Louis once said that the way to "punish" a masochist is to ignore them. "They hate to be ignored," he said "It drives them crazy." So far, I've yet to encounter anything to refute that statement. Of course, the problem with being a masochist is that tendency to seek out the things that hurt the most. Like the self inflicted, psychological, mind fucks (is that redundant?). So where does that leave you? Watching. And with every twist and turn and gasp for air you feel the churning of emotions. There's the arousal of watching, and the pain of rejection, and the joy in the pain. And with all that bubbliing up inside you it's hard to tell what you're really there for. It's like that strong tingling buzz that you aren't quite sure is a good feeling, but leaves you knowing for damn sure that you're pretty well rooted to the floor. Sitting there, cigarette in hand, you find youself damn glad this is a party and that there's a hot chick making jokes behind you and that there are plenty of people to give the mandatory charge of "Get a room." How easy would it have been to get lost in the moment. Sitting and stewing in jealousy and desire until finally you're a step away from drowning so you start downing drinks and bitching to people who don't know you and don't care.
And perhaps in my efforts to sound poetical I've managed only to come off as overdramatic. Because it wasn't that intense, though with out question the potential was there. More than anything, though, is the cavalier observer. There almost always seems to be a part of me that's one step back from my emotions. The part of me that thinks and takes notes "Ahh, so this is jealousy. Ahh, and this is how we react to jealousy. Interesting." And this part of me also wants to watch, to ask, to pester and to know, but for different reasons. "Not me. So her. Why? What's the difference. No - what's the difference that matters?" And it should be noted that I don't mean this in the catty "what does she have that I don't" sort of vein, but more of a genuine curiosity.
Hmm . . . I originally intended this as a bit more of an angsty, emotion driven sort of post. It's turning a lot more self analytical, introspective and intellectual than I intended. I sort of had an ending planned (almost all my posts get drafted in my head long before they hit the keyboard). A nice "Woe is me and my inability to achieve a pseudo-one night stand with a guy I find attractive - especially when other girls can." But, while I'm certainly feeling just as rejected, it just doesn't seem to fit somehow.
Ille mi par esse deo videtur,
ille, si fas est, superare divos,
qui sedens adversus identidem te
spectat et audit
dulce ridentem, misero quod omnis
eripit sensus mihi, nam simul te,
Lesbia, aspexi, nihil est super mi
vocis in ore,
lingua sed torpet, tenuis sub artus
flamma demanat, sonitu suopte
tintinant aures, gemina teguntur
lumina nocte.
Otium, Catulle, tibi molestum est.
Otio exultas nimiumque gestis.
Otium et reges prius et beatas
perdidit urbes.
Translated into Latin by Catullus (Carmina #51, ca. 50 BC)
And perhaps in my efforts to sound poetical I've managed only to come off as overdramatic. Because it wasn't that intense, though with out question the potential was there. More than anything, though, is the cavalier observer. There almost always seems to be a part of me that's one step back from my emotions. The part of me that thinks and takes notes "Ahh, so this is jealousy. Ahh, and this is how we react to jealousy. Interesting." And this part of me also wants to watch, to ask, to pester and to know, but for different reasons. "Not me. So her. Why? What's the difference. No - what's the difference that matters?" And it should be noted that I don't mean this in the catty "what does she have that I don't" sort of vein, but more of a genuine curiosity.
Hmm . . . I originally intended this as a bit more of an angsty, emotion driven sort of post. It's turning a lot more self analytical, introspective and intellectual than I intended. I sort of had an ending planned (almost all my posts get drafted in my head long before they hit the keyboard). A nice "Woe is me and my inability to achieve a pseudo-one night stand with a guy I find attractive - especially when other girls can." But, while I'm certainly feeling just as rejected, it just doesn't seem to fit somehow.
Ille mi par esse deo videtur,
ille, si fas est, superare divos,
qui sedens adversus identidem te
spectat et audit
dulce ridentem, misero quod omnis
eripit sensus mihi, nam simul te,
Lesbia, aspexi, nihil est super mi
vocis in ore,
lingua sed torpet, tenuis sub artus
flamma demanat, sonitu suopte
tintinant aures, gemina teguntur
lumina nocte.
Otium, Catulle, tibi molestum est.
Otio exultas nimiumque gestis.
Otium et reges prius et beatas
perdidit urbes.
Translated into Latin by Catullus (Carmina #51, ca. 50 BC)