Give me an ice pick lobotomy. Get it over with.

I am terrible with infatuation. It’s the kind of thing where, once it gets into my bloodstream, my driver’s license should probably be revoked. I realize that it’s normal for people to “get the hots” – or whatever euphemism you like best – for other people. However, I don’t see any of my other friends getting bug-eyed and manic every time someone whose appearance they find to be exceptionally alluring walks into the room. Furthermore, I’ve never heard of any of my friends, with their pupils dilating at unequal sizes, damage private property under the misconception that such an act is commonly accepted as an equivalent to giving someone a bouquet of flowers.

That’s what it’s like for me. Interacting with someone I’m really into is more or less hopeless, because when I see them, it’s like my brain is a bathtub and a toaster has been dropped in it. Everything’s on the fritz, all systems are down. Lots of laughter. Laughter at inappropriate times. Laughter that won’t stop. And other stupid stuff like, if I were to learn that the Exceptionally Gorgeous Individual liked jigsaw puzzles, I might stuff both my mouth and fists with puzzle pieces and make laps around their front yard, or apartment building for that matter, spitting and violently sprinkling them (…if sprinkling is an act one can accomplish in a violent fashion…) all willy nilly, twitching, electric, uncontrolled, repeatedly screaming, “I FIXED IT! I FIXED IT!” Lord knows why those words in particular. I have no clue, despite the fact that they’d be coming out of my mouth.

Just ask my Satanist High School Boyfriend: if I don’t find myself all flustered and surprised that breakable things like microwave plates indeed break when I toss them onto the ground, then I’m probably just not that into you.

Because everyone knows that all the most romantic conversations must begin with, “Hi. I’m covered in algae. I was going to play an accordion under your window, but, puzzle pieces. Some of which I put in my mouth to impress you. And I may have smashed my face against your driveway a few times, not to impress you, but because I can’t control my feelings. Would you like a tooth as a token of my heart palpitations? BTW, you’re so dangerously gorgeous, your face should be illegal. Just sayin.” The phrases barely strung together, of course, through the aforementioned fits of uncontrollable giggling.

My landlord has graciously pointed out to me that if these Exceptionally Gorgeous Individuals really do like me, they’ll be able to handle my weirdness (or something). However, as disappointing as it is when some of them don’t, I really don’t need them to like me. I’m not looking for petty-misdemeanor courtships and padded-room romances – I am a nun, ya know. Even if I weren’t a nun, the fact would still remain that when I’m under this influence, coherent thoughts regarding such things are not impossible to formulate. Oh, no. With unbearable urgency, all I would want is enough exposure to their mind-numbing beauty to distill it into a serum and inject with a syringe, after which I would sit on the edge of the bathtub that is my fried, smoking mind, with the ordinarily-screaming woman in my head (who, in this scenario, is pacified with…well…a pacifier stolen from the resident toddler) and eat cupcakes made out of my uterus. Because, Gentle Reader, ripping out my uterus, sacrificing it to the first deities readily accessible in my orbit of consciousness, and making cupcakes out of said sacrificed uterus, is exactly the kind of thing I do when under the influence of infatuation.

Bonus points to you if any of that made sense.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have furball collages to compile and restraining orders to inspire.

On a housekeeping note: that b.s.’d church history paper I promised is on its way. It’s just taking a while because it’s being approached with as much foot dragging and superfluous whining as my real church history paper (which I have no intention of b.s.ing). All the more authentic, then, oui?

No comments:

Post a Comment