From: pmarlowe@noncomf.tdkcs.waterloo.on.ca (philip marlowe)
Newsgroups: alt.angst
Subject: Oh, fuck it.
Date: Sun, 03 Jan 93 02:52:41 EST
Distribution: world
Organization: darkpark


 Didn't at all want to post here, blah, blah, blah. Didn't want to whine 
over problems that I'm not really sure ARE problems, didn't want to air 
my dirty laundry, blah, blah, blah. Fuck.

 Met a girl just over one year ago exactly (New Year's 91/92); a friend's 
girlfriend. Hit it off, stayed sexually charged but platonic friends from 
then until now...damn straight I was attracted to her, but hell. I'm an 
emotional realist, will NEVER allow myself to pine over the Unattainable. 
We got together periodically, I enjoyed every moment of it. End of story? 
Wrong.
 She came over to the apartment I share with friends for a 
mini-sortof-kindof party the day before I was to return home for 
Christmas. We've always been physical, and I was pissed, so wasn't at all 
surprised when she draped herself over me as everyone watched a video 
movie near the evening's end. Gradually, though, playfullness turned to 
touchy-feely turned to some pretty heavy shit, not at all harmed by my 
inhibition reduction. Everyone went to bed except the two of us.

 A bit of backstory: Her old boyfriend is a friend of mine and one of my 
roomates. He's leaving for Seattle for four months in the next week or 
so. Both of them come from a small (small, small) town that's about an 
hour-and-a-half's drive from where I go to school. Being the 
gossip-monger I am, I listed with interest to my friend's stories of 
their dissolving relationship.

 Back to the present. We didn't have sex, but only because (a) the third 
party was just down the hall, and the girl claims to be noisy, and (b) 
neither of us were protected anyway (free love, huh?). Physical 
almost-sex continued, and bodily fluids and sentiments were exchanged, 
and I found out thatmy own perceptions of her ("man, it'd be nice, but 
I'm not going to smash my head against a wall") summed up hers too. All
of the past aspects of our friendship changed to me in a new, obvious 
light which I must have been dunderheaded beyond belief not to see 
before. Life was good, and all of the birds were chirping. 

 Awww, pity poor Marlowe, huh? What a terrible life. 
 Not an unjustified reaction, but here's where the complications set in.

 I went home for Christmas for a week, and MOPED. Not a happy holiday. 
Why? You know I'm going to tell you. I'm a poor fucking student without a 
car. Ditto for her. Train service to the small town in which she lives is 
roundabout and pretty much non-existant. I could call her (and I did), 
but the roomate/ex-boyfriend did this previously, and built up a phone 
bill of unimaginable size. Besides, that's a poor substitute for the real 
thing, especially considering the fact that whatever the hell it is that 
we have is NOT YET ESTABLISHED. 
 Remember (if you're actually reading this) that I'm an emotional 
realist? Stressful as all hell, because I'm trying to grapple with and
understand half-born proto-feelings that can find only imperfect, 
infrequent expression. Feel like I'm...shit, I don't know WHAT it feels 
like, but it feels bad. Apparently, the female half of the equation is 
similar; our conversations are enjoyable, too damn long ($$$), but 
seething with that kind of undercurrent.

 Incidentally, ex-boyfriend/now mutual friend is back in his home town 
until he leaves; he knows what's happening on a skeletal level, but both 
the girl and myself consider it imprudent and needlessly mean to 
flaunt...this...before him. That's why the complex pain-in-the-ass plan 
we have for getting together again has to wait for his departure.

 And that's the bottom line. We CAN and WILL get together, but that isn't 
enough. Maybe the ulcer that's spearheading the emotional assault I'm 
experiencing (aww, poor baby) will leave me alone once some sort of 
stability is achieved after a reunion weekend. I certainly hope so. In 
any event, no matter how frequently we do commute, it won't be as simple 
as crossing the street. There's probably some solution, but I'm damned if 
I know what it is.

 Jesus, that was long. Longer than I wanted it to be. As I said before, 
my "problem" probably don't seem like one to the teeming, lonely millions 
who may read this, but that doesn't make it less of one for me. Do I want 
advice? Aid? Someone to pat me on the back, making "there, there" noises 
to make me feel all better? Who the fuck knows. Maybe I'm just jerking
off by posting this diatribe here, but what the hell...pent up angst, 
like lust, has to be dischared.
 Even if one has to masturbate to do it.

marlowe

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