Los Angeles was both a sore disappointment and everything I wanted. I guess that's how it's going to be when I move back, too. So great, so much of what I strive for and crave, and so, so, so lame. I think it's going to make sense though. To move back, I mean.
Anyway, there's been a recent rash of "I still love you" confessionals in my life recently, which I both cherish and freak out about simultaneously. I love that they finally get it. But I hate that I'm not in a place to act on any of it. Everything is so distanced, written on parchment. I don't WANT to act on it. Some of it makes perfect sense, and I could have predicted it... and those ones, they're just food for my hungry ego. The Unpredictables, they snuck up on me when I was sleeping, seriously throwing me off balance. The Unpredictables are especially so because only recently have I become comfortable with the friendships these men have offered up. The progression went something like this for both:
Me: I love you!
Him: No, not right now.
Me: Waaaaaaah!! Cry! Sob! Fight!
Him: No, no, no!
Me: Fine, peace out.
Him: If you have to.
(time passes... months... years, even)
Me: Okay, I loved you, but I got over it.
Him: I'm so glad we can be friends!
Me: Wow, actually, me too!
Him: I'm still in love with you.
Me: WHAT THE FUCK?
It's beautiful and fucked up and clean and muddy and pearly and so fucking representative of how I am as a person right now. It feels just... perfect. I love it because I feel happy about who I am and happy that I can see these people as who they are and not just as the Injurers... and I'm even happier that I can maintain my emotional distance and keep a bright outlook.
