I flirt. People misconstrue. I make eye contact. People misconstrue. I even check people out sometimes, and I have only been dressed down for it once. By a guy. I’m a straight guy, and honestly, I wasn’t staring. Or I wasn’t trying to stare. He just thought I was odd, I guess, and his narcissistic soul thought I found his animal magnetism too attractive. I was in college, undergrad, studying communications and proxemics, and it was kind of hilarious after the confrontation, we actually became “friends.” Or at least exchanged a cheery hello when we saw one another.
But even now, years later, I absent-mindedly look at people without saying anything, and the guys give a smile like we’re old friends, some even wave, with an expression that asks “Haven’t we met before?” I don’t know you from Adam’s housecat. But I smile and wave back. Thinking, “who the fuck are you?” And I see the soccer moms smile as if they know I’ve admired their earrings or …something. What’s in my look, and what are they thinking? If I looked at anything, it was the way you let that hot, single curl of hair drape carelessly from your forehead or your neckline. You brushed it aside to draw my attention, as if it were annoying you by being out of place. But no, I’m not thinking anything, just taking schematics and performing vector analysis. It’s all very practical and scientific. I want to know you’re out of my way and not going to hit me or my car or my shopping cart. I don’t know what color your dress is, much less how it’s cut, though I might have noticed very quickly if it’s obvious, how well you fill it in, unless you’re hanging out from somewhere, which makes me look away faster. Yikes.
I’m married. Don’t misconstrue. Make no mistake. I love her more than any other, but I love everyone, if I don’t hate you. And it doesn’t matter to me what you look like. I think you’re beautiful, unless I find out your soul is ugly, and then fuck you. I have road rage, but I love you while driving, until you do something stupid or selfish or get in my way, and then, fuck you, turn in your license at the nearest branch and get the fuck out of my fucking way, by which I mean if I weren’t a nicer warlock I’d make you disappear off the fucking road in a blaze of hellfire, burning rubber and gasoline. I just want the cars to spontaneously part before me, a la that scene in Bruce Almighty.
And if I do love you and tell you I love you, believe it. It’ll be true forever. It’s not a line, I mean it. And no, I don’t want anything from you. I will only hate you even though I love you if you do one of a few things: 1) try to call me. Fuck off, I don’t want to talk, even when I’m feeling an up-swing of mood. come over or leave a message, inviting me to come over, and I’ll let you know if I want to. 2) ask me to find something either you or I lost somewhere. I can’t. or 3), try to talk to me about anything, especially money. Fuck off, I don’t have any money and I’m not interested in looking for a job. If you want to offer me a high paying job with benefits, then by all means, what have you got, and where do you and I both sign and date the forms? Because fuck not getting it in writing, any more, ever. And then after I hate you, I will forgive you and love you again, unless you continue to harass me on the phone or continue to try to push my buttons about money. Those buttons are all on “instant blind rage” setting, so please… just… don’t.
Right now, I hate you all equally, and I mean everybody, but I might check my email later and be more “(love is) patient and kind” and shit. Or maybe I’ll get some rest and be able to deal with you and your issues. I can’t even deal with mine right now, so I’m so very sorry. I’ll catch you later, if you catch me in the mood to catch you. Until I catch you later, adios.