Tuesday, September 2, 2008
The other night in DC my faux-uncle and I were talking about relationships and the following conversation transpired:
ME: Do you ever date anybody you don't actually like?
MICHAEL: No, why would I do that at my age? (Ed. Note: He's only 29, BTW)
ME: I don't know. It seems easier in some ways.
MICHAEL: Why would you even do that at your age?
ME: Well, sometimes I like making out with people but I don't end up liking them that much.
MICHAEL: I'm sure you could find someone you like making out with and you like as a person.
ME: Mmm... I don't know... I haven't in awhile. Besides, if you only date people you don't really like, then when it ends you don't give a shit.
MICHAEL: What are you, an old, sad, abused housewife?
Mmm... maybe. I don't know. I think I'm slowly becoming one of those people who cares more about writing and school and getting drunk than developing romantic relationships. In short, I kind of feel like I'm becoming a stereotypical "guy." At the same time, I hate everything about casual sex/dating: the awkwardness, the wondering, the confusion. I wish I would just stumble upon someone whom I immediately mutually adored and it was like we'd been dating for years. I want hot sex AND intimacy, but I don't want to do any of the work to get there. I'm lazy. I kind of envision Paris as this cosmopolitan wine soaked place with lots of bridges and bicycles teeming with hot wild haired chainsmoking poets. But, um, that's how I envisioned New York, and I was sort of right, which was the problem, because if I've learned one thing it is this: DO NOT DATE POETS.
I leave you with wise words from Josh:
ME: This is the year you get a boyfriend. I can feel it.
JOSH: Well it's either "This is the year I get a boyfriend" or "This is the year I develop a Vicodin problem," so let's hope for the former.