This
is my blog. It’s sometimes about being
an artist. A lot of times it’s about
people that aggravate me. This one is about
the heart.
Here we go--->It instantly
turns you into an emotional catastrophe when you care. When you don’t care, you have total control. Nobody can get to you (it’s pretty awesome).
The only downfall is oddly, in time, you find yourself having a strange
hankering to play lacrosse.
The
cute ones get to ya. I hate that. It’s not fair. I am not self-absorbed and I am not full of
myself, BUT lately a lot of persons of
the male persuasion have been barking up this tree. My gay boyfriend Eddie says “throw one of
them a bone.” None of them are even in
the right galaxy. I don’t want to sound like a
jerk, but everyone is out of my league… except… hence, where the trouble lies… the fucking
good looking one. That makes me sound
superficial……… and I’m not. I’m talking
about the guy that makes you stop eating, hit the gym, shave your legs, do your
toenails and do your hair. Let me tell you something: I have
not had a boyfriend in ten years. So, if
I actually shave something or get my feet done, it’s fucking real. My writing is suddenly taking on an epic Maury Pauvich-like quality. I’m not meaning to be
dramatic <--- RIGHT THERE !!! I’m being dramatic !!! OH fuck.
This is not good. For several
years, I’ve been dressing and acting like a gym teacher. I don’t want to characterize, generalize or
sound like there is anything particularly wrong with saying gym teacher instead
of lesbian, but I do want to stress that morphing into a basketball coach is
just a defense mechanism I use to protect myself from getting hurt. I’m no genius, believe me, but I suspect if
someone makes you stop wanting to organize an indoor gymnasium kickball game, it is
serious business.
But
when you really like someone, they ruin your life. You begin to obsess about how you will get to
see them. You scheme. You ask your friends. You follow his stupid Instagram. If he doesn't like stuff on your Twitter, you’re crushed. That’s just weird and stupid. And, when you don’t see him it hurts. This is love my friends. It doesn’t strike often. The risk is you might have a fiery romance that
can potentially end abruptly, and then you are left crying on the kitchen floor. Funny, I’m already jumping to the breakup.
Another absurd symptom that you’ve fallen hard; oscillating between
bliss and plummeting into despair, and disaster-izing about a relationship that
doesn’t even exist. Holy smoking ovaries
Robin, I’m bat-shit!!!! The stupid thing is
I want this. Love swoops in. You can’t control it, you certainly can’t
change it. You can’t do anything about
it. You’re fucked.
What I find completely recalcitrant is the
other kind of swoop. Love is never portrayed accurately in tinsel town. At least not now. Why is the leading man ugly can I just put that out there? Has anyone seen Rock Hudson? That is a leading man. In modern movies, when the girl
character gets her heart broken, the ugly guy makes his move. I’m sorry but, first of all, gross. Second of all, this happens in Under The Tuscan Sun. This got under my skin so bad that in an
effort to assuage the ickiness that that particularly ridiculous Hollywood ending creates in my brain, I’ve
coined the phrase the “ugly guy swoop.” After
the handsome guy doesn’t work out, she’s given up and begun decorating her
Etruscan villa, the tall, goofy, big-nose, curly-haired doofus shows up and
gets her when she’s vulnerable. Um,
Diane Lane is gorgeous. She’d never fall for an ugly guy swoop, even
if he is a writer. It just wouldn’t
happen. Disbelief not suspended.
