I am routinely magnetized to weird men. This didn't used to be the case, when I was in college, though I had a propensity toward assholes. This last couple years I've been attracted-- no, not just attracted, MAGNETIZED to people with irreversible, unfortunate, harrowing, flattening, obfuscating, heartwrenchingly maniacal ways of BEING. Not habits, or tendencies, just the simple way that they exist is as hard to swallow as I have illustrated here. I see it, within moments of meeting these men. I see it, acknowledge it, label it, and then sit up at their mess hall table with no bib on, no utensils, a grumblingly hungry stomach and INDIGESTION. There have been three very obvious ones:
Doorknob (remember, he freaked out after plutonic partnered bed sleeping)
The Biter (Portland, Oregon... bit my shoulder, wanted me to move in)
and then the most recent addition... who has proven to me time and time again that he wants to be cold, heartless, a literary genius with no life experience with which to write, a bridge over an empty ocean, the connector between himself and nothing.
Each had a different ailment, for sure, but I was no more or less bound to any. I crave the weirdness, I desire the cloudy nature of our communication, I thrive on the confusion. I peel back little layers inside of myself without really telling them I'm doing it, and they sense it anyway, and get out their peelers, too. With each I've had a different ending, but with all, I want the end to be de-finalized. I want to be involved with people I do not understand. It makes me feel normal and unstable.
