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Talking to Myself

It occurs to me, that for all people love to tell me how much they adore my writing, very few people say the words publicly. In a medium like this, there’s plenty of scope for personal comments on a particular entry (especially if you know or suspect it’s about yourself) but… even my real-life friends don’t really comment, here.

It’s okay. I’m not talking about the majority of them anyway… most of my friends, they give me as much as I give them, and I couldn’t in good conscience ask them to obsess over my life the way I do. I mean, this is the whole proof of why I’m a good writer: like the song says, I could write it better than you ever felt it. But reading the story and being amused or interested is not the same as having enough emotional investment to comment on it–it didn’t happen to them, it happened to me, and only I *should* care enough to write about it.

This always happens to me, eventually. I talk and talk in an empty room, and wonder why it’s only my own voice I hear, echoing back at me. This is largely the reason for my recent spurt of doing things: karaoke, ballroom dancing, song parodies, trying to get into a brick university, trying to set up a YouTube channel with mates… I know I have to do these things in front of people, for them to comment; and this blog is more or less a dirty secret, I certainly don’t post it on my Facebook Wall or anything, I don’t *try* to get everyone to look at it.

I can’t escape the fact that some things, I have been trying to get people to look at, though. In some areas of my life, I’m giving a good impression of being downright extroverted–and still, no one’s paying attention.

What if I did *this* more openly, and no one noticed it, either? Then what would I have to offer the world?

Nothing. Out of all the things I think I can maybe do, this is the one I’m best at. If people don’t care about my writing….? I got nothin’.

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Am I An Idiot?

Once, a guy told me (about 2 months after we’d started an intimate relationship–and by intimate, I mean we were banging fairly regularly) that he’d actually sort of just wanted to become friends, at first. As in, the night he took me home, he was willing enough to do the dirty, but actually, what he’d really been hoping for was emotional intimacy, of a more platonic sort.

It took me another 3 months to work out that what he meant was, he wanted to just be friends, like… then.

Without any exaggeration, I imagine that if I sit here and actually tally them up, I can think of 30 or more instances in which I *hugely* misread the situation (but 90% of people I personally know, likely wouldn’t have). These errors in judgment arise mostly where boys are concerned, unsurprisingly… nothing clouds your powers of reason like wishful thinking, at least in my experience. The more I want someone, the more difficult it is for me to imagine that they don’t want me, too; or (more likely) they just don’t want me as much/for as long as I want them.

Of course, as smokescreens go, nothing obscures your view quite like a giant erection, either. I’m maybe not *entirely* to blame, for all of these mistakes. It is a *little* difficult to comprehend the phrase, “I just want to be frie…” when you can still take your shirt off and obliterate their train of thought mid-sentence.

But. But but but. When someone wants you in a way that’s so unlike the way you want them–one of you wants mostly sex, or one of you wants mostly conversation, or one of you wants mostly companionship, etc etc, and the other one wants something else–can it ever really work out? I’d suspect the answer is probably no.

And yet, I keep asking the question, in a variety of ways, with a variety of men, as if, someday, I’m going to be able to be perfectly happy in my romantic relationships… even though I *know* that, in life, we ALL want very different (and often contradictory) things from each other… which leads me back to my original question.

Am I an idiot?

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