I spent the last two evenings being a listening ear to the Other Alcoholic, the one from my hometown, because he lost a family member a couple days ago, and I feel bad for him. In between drinking and crying he keeps pressuring me to move in with him and says he loves me even though I never say it back and keeps repeating the story about the night we met over and over and insists I go to the funeral with him because his grandma and everyone he knows always asks about me. It's sad. I don't think I can handle a third phone call.
The non-grieving Alcoholic texted "good morning" and I'd rather endure a lifetime without sex than respond.
I've been thinking about how differently everyone has responded to stress this year. Some escaped into relationships and some escaped out of them, some drank from the start, some lashed out at friends or argued a lot, and some went into denial. I started out like a warrior, till I slipped and fell on a dick, and now I'm disappointed and burning with internal rage. But rage is the energy-giving fuel of a stubborn woman. I drink the fire they try to burn me with, and laugh.
The grieving alcoholic described me as 'an Amazon' which was funny. He said I'm "exotic" and "so sooo beautiful" and "a genius" and said he looks up to me and that I'm a challenge and the best woman he's ever found. Men say a lot of things. It's weird when people call me exotic. It's a compliment I guess but makes me feel like I'm just a novelty. He said I reminded him of Lydia Deets in Beetlejuice or Wednesday Addams. And it reminded me that men are boring, shallow creatures who watch too many movies.
If anyone ever tells me I'm like the ancient High Priestess Queen Puabi of Ur, that one's a keeper. I don't want to be compared with fictional mainstream movie characters, even if they're cool. If someone is truly compatible with me, they'd at least reference some obscure art film character or book character or historical figure, and wouldn't be sloppy drunk when they say it. Instead of calling me a sexy witch, they'd call me a Priestess or better yet Goddess. And if they were drinking, they'd be drinking something clever, like mezcal from agave they harvested from my great grandfather's village, or a rare absinthe poured slowly over a sugar cube into a vintage amber colored glass. They'd be burning frankincense and candles and playing a record I hadn't heard, on a phonograph. Then we'd have intelligent conversation on his velvet couch before making out. He'd want sex, but if I didn't, he'd be extremely respectful about it, and would happily cuddle and talk instead. WHERE CAN I FIND THIS?
9:51 a.m. - 2020-10-27