July 10, 2000

I have a very bad relationship with writing. Any therapist worth their couch would advise me to cut all ties with it, I’m sure. I’m always trying to prove how good I am, always trying to win approval, but when I do, I don’t believe it. I don’t accept it. I freak out, and I go away. And, of course, writing never calls, never writes, and never, ever, sends flowers.

My very bad relationship with writing is akin to that of one with a very, very attractive man. Stereotypically, physically attractive. He must be a model attractive. I see this very, very attractive man, and think I have no chance. Know I have no chance. But, because I have nothing to lose, I go up to him, after having many glasses of wine, and tell him that he is very attractive. Adorable, even. And then I walk away, because, well, what more is there to say?

The very attractive man becomes interested in me. In me. Good god. What am I supposed to do now? This is insane. This is a joke. I don’t know how to deal with a very attractive man. But, well...he is very attractive. So I will hang out with him. I will let him be nice to me for a while, I will see where this goes, all the while knowing I am not nearly attractive enough to be with this very attractive man.

Of course, this man is much more than just attractive. He is witty and smart and funny and he understands me completely. It is obvious to everyone that he and I are meant to be together. Obvious to everyone, that is, except me. He is near-perfect, and when I let us click, we click like nobody’s business. But then I walk by a mirror, and I see the hideous visage that sadly belongs to me. And I start to feel ugly. Insecure. Unworthy of this really great guy. This great guy who says he loves me. But I don’t trust it. Don’t trust him. And so I leave. Just leave. Don’t tell him why, don’t give any explanation. I get caller ID and screen my calls. I delete his emails without reading them. I tell myself that it is better this way. That it would never have lasted. That I just wasn’t good enough for him. I just wasn’t pretty enough.

I go on with my so-called life, and I miss him. There is a void. I think about him often, and even pick up the phone a few times, but I never dial. And then, I dial, but I hang up when he answers. And then, after a week, a month, a year, I dial, I stay on the line, and I start the whole damn thing all over again.

So goes my relationship with writing. I just second guess myself. Think I suck. Think I’m making a fool out of myself by daring to pretend for just the slightest, smallest second that I don’t suck. While knowing full well that I don’t really suck. But still, as long as there’s someone better than me out there (and, good god, are there people better than me out there), I will regularly question my right to do this. This writing thing. This writing thang, even. Yes, yes. This writing thang.

Blah, blah, blah. Am I back? I hope so. I think so. I can’t make any promises. I hate seeing that “Yogurt for breakfast” thing on this damn site as much as you do. It is so old. So dated. And it wasn’t even that funny. You’d think I’d at least leave on a goddamned high note, wouldn’t you? At least detail all the excitement that is going on with Elijah (oh yeah, by the way, there is excitement going on with Elijah. Excitement, of course, being a relative term), or the continued undefined weirdness with Fish, the ex, or the randy sexual encounter I may or may not have had with an unnamed source last weekend. All these things would have been better than fuckin’ “yogurt for breakfast.” But, y’know, there’re bound to be a few pig’s ears floating around in a barrel full of silk purses.

p.s. Please don’t think about what they’re floating in.

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