I signed the lease for my apt last night. I should be moving in the next week or so. And even though I have a bed (!), there's a list of things I kind of need: a shower curtain, a garbage can. I've been spending free time (read: lunch) on design blogs, and while I may need a shower curtain and a garbage can, I keep putting these on my list of "Things to Buy ASAP for Apt." It's a mental list.
I’ve never understood how to not love someone anymore. There are movies and novels and songs about learning to let go of one love and accept a new one. They are some of my favorite movies and novels and songs—and maybe they are the reason I don’t understand love. Granted, this is just another theory I’ve been handed from movies and novels and songs (most noticeably, (500) Days of Summer and High Fidelity). But right now (cue self-pity moment), it seems as though the only way I’ll ever be able to experience love, or even Love, is via my need for movies and novels and songs. Even poetry, which I approach with a much more critically discerning eye, feeds that need I have to connect with this—what is this? An emotion? A defining moment? A chance to live a different life? What is love? How do you define it, how do you get it? I feel like I’ve spent my life studying this idea, but without any practical application.
This meditation comes on the heels of my Michael discovery (see this rambling post), finding out a close friend is engaged (via Facebook, which is an another post), and then finding out, less than two months after I heard him talk about being single and disappointed with himself and me being that encouraging pep talk (yes I got the verb right), that Michael is now engaged. Also via Facebook (I really should write that post). All this begs the question: What the hell?
Tonight, however, is my trump card. I gave myself the day to indulge in (500) Days of Summer, which was brilliant and gave me a new appreciation for both The Smiths and Joseph Gordon-Leavitt, who was just plain perfect (every man should dress like he does in this movie). I resigned myself to the feelings and arguments I initiated this post with. I curled up on my couch, watched a few episodes of Freaks and Geeks, courtesy of Netflix, and then decided it was time for bed. I was going to sing myself to sleep with sad stories of my forever-single existence, accompanied by the recitation of men I have liked or loved or just plain wanted watch from a distance.
I checked my phone. Which was a mistake. I checked my phone, and Michael had texted me. Twice. Every time we meet up, he brings up writing (or in this text, “writting”) a novel or screen play together. No amount of telling him that I write poetry stops this. And tonight he texted me about it again.
He’s engaged. He’s never been interested in me. I’m sounding like a stalker. I know all this. So why can’t I convince my pulse not to accelerate when I see his name? When will it be my turn to move on? (And does anyone know a cute guy in Chicago to facilitate all this?)