The Other Woman
The whole thing started out innocently enough as these things usually do; we talked about drugs, some energetic stuff and a couple of his comments helped me through a rough patch I was going through. Unfortunately, that only caused me to think he was pretty rad. At the time, I had no idea that this forty-something oddity--who must clearly possess some kind of dynamic to attract me to him other than his appearance (ICK!)--already had a significant other who lives with him and is apparently very paranoid that he's cheating on her. (I assume this is a regular topic of dinner conversations between the two of them.)
So now, In addition to writing way too much poetry and making much-longer-than-necessary entries in my journal, I feel chained to my computer, chronically checking my Facebook and Gmail accounts for replies or short comments. Hours go by, I can't focus on anything else (except drugs... Odd parallel there that infatuation has similar effects on the brain that cocaine has, but then, I love cocaine.) I keep finding cool chemicals I want to ask him about. He talks like Sean and acts like he truly believes himself to be a shaman. It's laughable, for sure, but the parts that are funny are unidentifiable: Am I amused by this because I am projecting my expectations of Sean onto a stranger? Or is it because, though acutely aware that I'm being manipulated, I continue to walk in a drug induced haze in that direction? Meh. I guess it doesn't really matter, it's still bloody hilarious.
I want to trip on datura. This guy that I am now playing the other woman to (who will remain nameless due to his work) tells me it's amazing. In a retarded way I just want him to be there with me when eat the seeds, and pretty much be my benevolent sitter. Lame, right? I feel like that innocent little girl in a lacy white dress, clutching a teddy bear and just direly wanting to feel safe and loved, and in that, I want to trip? Am I the only one that feels like I might be bashing whatever is left of my innocence over the head with a ten pound bag of chemicals? Maybe Music Maker Man is "editing" me. (Editing meaning, manipulating me to see things the way he wants me to see them. Helping me to point out my insecurities to insinuate a need for protection is the most common version of editing men do and it's likely he's doing it to me now.) OR -- and I'll wager this is the more likely of the two cases -- I'm a train wreck of mental illnesses creating problems for myself to analyze to bride the time it takes him to respond to my emails which is in and of itself creating a drastic downward spiral of insecurity, instability, and is clearly a waste of time. Prognosis: If I stop dwelling on the whole process and actually find something productive to do, it will stop.