rabbit blog


Tuesday, December 07, 2004


LET THEM EAT BORINGCAKES

Subject: My lame ass problems

Dear Former Filler Honky,

I'm a 34 yr. old male, in Washington, DC. I have a friend (36 yr. old female) from San Francisco who is coming into town in the next couple of weeks.

The history of our friendship is textbook .com-boom stuff: Met online over five years ago, maintained correspondence via email and phone time (more about this in a second), finally met in person during Spring of 2003, and now she's coming to visit.

Now, our conversations couldn't really be classified as being overtly romantic, we're both a couple of dorks, but, over time, there's been an increased intimacy. We've talked about the usual growing old together, having kids, moving across the continent, blahblahblah boringcakes. This is all mutual: she was the one that brought up the notion of kids, mentions that I've become the standard of what she wants in a partner, all this stuff (granted, in that far-off way that long distance intimate conversations can go, but, you know, still) that catches me off guard when they are said. And, I'm sure I've surprised her many a time with some of the things I've said over the years.

I just want to make this clear: no one has been leading the other person on; we haven't been exclusionary by any means of the imagination; no commitment has been made by either party.

The thing is this (finally), whenever one of us comes over to visit (which is only twice now) it seems that she'll start a relationship with someone that'll last for a brief period before and after the visit. Last time, she started one about two months before I came over, it lasted about as long after. I didn't think anything of it, ultimately I just want her happiness.

This time, though, she started seeing someone two and a half weeks before the visit. Now, this could be "the real thing" for her, it's not over yet, but the signs aren't pointing to it. The way she describes this guy is much the same way she described her last steady relationship, which is how she has described most of her past relationships with guys who weren't actively screwing her over. "Nice, I'm not sure, fun while it lasts," basically describes it.

All this wouldn't be anything to get worked up about, if it weren't for the previous year's worth of conversations, and for the fact that the timing is sketchy. To me, it seems like she's picking up a security blanket before we see each other. Rather circumstantial evidence to back it up, but this is what my gut is telling me.

And I guess I don't know what I want, either. A huge part of me would like to see if we could make an LDR work, by keeping things similar. We'd both open to seeing whoever, but we would have each other. I know what the odds of survival are in the long term, but I'd be willing to give it a shot.

whatevuh whatevuh, I'm still planning on having fun,

TBO,

Wishing Washily



Dear WW,

I am moved, almost to tears, by the passion of your words. The way you describe your love for each other so vividly sends shivers down my spine. It's such a colorful, provocative story, from the sexy way you two "maintained correspondence" to the delicious moment that you noticed "increases in intimacy." Oh, and those head-swimming nights you both spent, having discussions of "the usual growing old together, having kids, moving across the continent, blahblahblah boringcakes" - Ungh! The raw intensity of it all, the shivery head-spinning insanity of it all!

And then, when you wrote that "A huge part of me would like to see if we could make an LDR work, by keeping things similar"? You're comin' in hot, Striker! You'd better cool your jets or your going to fly off into the stratosphere! I mean, do you really think you're ready to wait and see and stay "open to seeing whoever"? Are you sure it's really time to "keep things similar"? Most would say that's crazy talk, at this point.

But maybe you've been swept into the white-hot world of your lover girl, who's obviously dragged under by the fearsome tide of one stormy affair or another every few months, thanks to the powerful forces moving through her heart and her soul. "Nice, I'm not sure, fun while it lasts," she breathes, her eyes fixed on some melancholy middle-distance, her heaving bossoms, uh, heaving. Who could resist the pull of her passion? Who wouldn't want to be the man who makes her sigh and whisper, "Nice, I'm not sure." as she turns her pretty face, flushed from the cold, to the twinkling heavens?

Listen up, you grain-fed honky dickweeds - not just you, WW, but every fucking honky out there needs to hear this. We're not alive for very long. Have you noticed this, dickcheeses? We do not have all the fucking time in the world to draw up cost-benefit analyses on potential long-term pairings. If you're not swept the fuck away by your lady, move the fuck on. If you're not gritting your teeth and biting the palm of your hand like goddamn Squiggy every time she walks by, get over it. If you're not having the best sex of your life - and this is when you do that, dummies, in your mid-fucking-thirties, this is your big fucking shot at great sex, or at least this is where it starts - if you're not blown away, freaking out, breaking out, thrilled, shivery, talking a lot, sending stupid fucking emails to each other, rolling around, sighing, bragging, buying dumb little gifts - then how do you think you'll feel in a few years when you're fucking old and creaky and you have three little doo-doo factories in residence? You fucking dumbass honky-ass losers.

This is how you find the man/woman of your dreams, stupids: You refuse to waste time on the man/woman of your loneliness-fueled spreadsheets. And if you can't get worked up over anyone... well, Jesus, what is wrong with you? Can you get worked up over anything at all? Here in LA, lots of people wax romantic about movies, but when it comes to their real lives, they're fucking numb and alienated and don't see the raw thrill, the breathtaking drama of every little minute. Blahblahblah boringcakes, motherfuckers! The girl who made you your coffee this morning has beautiful green eyes, and she paints weird portraits of her customers and keeps chocolate and rope stashed in her nightstand and she reads books about gardening and she knows what she wants. You could spend the next two months in bed, honkwinders, getting tied up and eating chocolate and watching old movies in the middle of the night. You could be swooning and sighing and feeling like the world is opening up like a flower. So why are you watching "Survivor" with that guy who bores the shit out of you, and pisses you off, and doesn't give a flying fuck about how you feel, ever, and mostly just wants you to get to the point and stop crying? Why are you heating up canned soup and wondering about the long-term viability of negotiating a reasonably satisfying coexistence with someone 3,000 miles away?

You stupid bitches. You're wasting your fucking time. Whenever someone really digs you, you go numb. Whenever you really like someone, you decide to just ignore the fact that they don't like you nearly as much. Or maybe you married someone, and now you give that person your worst possible self day after day, and then wonder why they look so crumpled and lame to you now. Go ahead, put it off, get back to work. Love is only the greatest fucking thing in the entire universe, but hey, you've got a presentation to finish, and besides, you can't really change anything, and only flakes and dreamers care about this shit.

Life is short, dippies. Today is the day to make your move. Buy some flowers, and a lottery ticket, and start to believe in the possibility that your life could be big and bright and pretty. As Frances McDormand says in "Almost Famous," "Be bold, and mighty forces will come to your aid." Magic, honkies! Believe in magic for once in your narrow little lives. Give up on the mundane for a minute, and open up your hearts, and listen to all the dead people in your office and on the street outside, screaming the same thing: "Live, motherfuckers! Stop planning and fucking LIVE."

Rabbit

9:30 AM

Wednesday, December 01, 2004


SOMEWHERE A CLOCK IS TICKING

New Bjork, new Pinback, new Interpol, plus I just discovered Snow Patrol. Is there anything better than strong coffee and a brand new Pinback CD? Is there anything better than driving in your car with Bjork blasting? Simple pleasures, honkies. Warm cafés with wireless connections. Almond croissants. College basketball. Fleece scarves. Filthy liberal commie babies.

The only thing that's missing is someone with a problem. I know you're out there, honkwinders. Tell me about your problems, real or imaginary. I'm too content to drum up any vitriole of my own today.

11:46 AM



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staff writer at salon.com, co-creator of filler, author of the memoir disaster preparedness due from riverhead press in fall 2010


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