Where does love fit into the orgasmatron paradigm? In the world of orgasmatrons, good tension-release enables us to re-engage the challenges of the world with fresh energy and enthusiasm whereas bad tension-release simply means we're absent without leave (AWOL). But where is love?
I was so pleased with my analysis and vindication of the orgasmatron world--it only stung a little that no one agrees with me. But then, by mistake, I heard "Crying," where Roy Orbison sings with k.d. lang.
And now I'm AWOL. Even the lonely, pathetic fantasy world of unrequited love is more beguiling and magical than the solitary charms of Orgasmatron.
How could words as plain as this undo me?
I thought I was over you
But it's true, so true
I love you even more than I did before
But darling, what can I do
For you don't love me and I'll always be
Crying over you
Does it help to arm myself with reason? Let's make a list:
1. Sports are icky and he's an athlete; ergo, he's icky.
2. He's too good looking so I can never relax.
3. Everyone says he looks gay--he's run the gamut from "clean-cut" to "metrosexual" to "nice and gay" all the way to "latent."
4. He's too young.
5. He's too conventional.
6. He's too anxious.
7. He only dates Russian supermodels.
8. His hands are always cold.
9. He cares what everybody thinks.
10.He knew I loved him and he sent me love poetry he wrote about other women. Correction: he texted me.
12.He reminded me of a clown whenever he wore his brown Converse cause they made his feet look like giant bowling pins.
13.He has no scent whatsoever, which makes me feel like a frustrated animal.
14.He drives a gay car, a tiny, teal convertible that's way too small for him and he always has to have the same parking space, otherwise he whines. Hmmm, that still cracks me up, but it does show how weird and rigid he can be.
15.He likes the Beach Boys. He has all their music on a playlist on his iPod called something embarrassing like "Summer Tunes." (But he also likes Joni Mitchell and Dylan, Madonna and Bowie, the Beatles and U2, Dionne Warwick, and a song by Elvis Presley called "Wooden Heart" that makes me want to cry every time I think of it, even though The King was unable to pronounce the German language to save his life, so whenever I think of it I also picture my Teutonic ancestors rolling over in their graves. Regardless, Beach Boys still suck.)
16.He can be so immature, like when he has a crush on someone else.
17.I can't mention him to my friends without incurring the silent treatment, because they're so fearful of triggering a full-on psychotic break. (It can't be because they're bored, can it?)
18.We both seem laid back to outsiders, but scratch the surface and we're both a bundle of raw nerves. We have to take turns being nuts.
19.His friends are puerile and boring. ("Did you really just use the word puerile?")
20.And he doesn't love me and he never will.
I'm so AWOL. This love is like OCD; it's good stimming gone bad.
The best thing I can do for this is immerse myself in chores like cleaning and cooking and making appointments for plumbers and electricians and doctors, and bundling a vast array of toxic waste containers for municipal pick up.
I'll wear procrastination inside-out. I will avoid my broken heart by perseverating on domestic tasks and stimming up some sugar cookies and lasagna and pot roast and mushroom soup at the stove, and then maybe, just maybe, I'll allow myself a single Reese's Peanut Butter Cup.
They're his favorite.