Friday, February 17, 2012
I have this thing where when I become obsessed with someone I just want their opinion on everything. Even stuff I know they have no interest in. Maybe especially that stuff. I suppose it’s true that obsession is inherently entirely about you and not the object of your affection and so it’s unsurprising that be it my new acquaintance’s favourite topic or an idea they’ve never heard of, I’m going to go ahead and ask about it anyway (or want to). I hold back though, stop myself from texting at 3 in the morning to ask if they have ever seen or liked the movie I just watched. I don’t ask them the next time I see them- faux casual- about that author I think is just so-so but they might find intriguing. I fail to start that conversation about the controversial law the government is thinking of passing when we’re just chatting to pass the time. The reason I don’t do any of these things is, of course, because I’m desperate to. What this person thinks about these concepts, and somehow me by extension, is the only thing that matters to me at that exact moment. So I hide the fuck away. I write long letters to them in my head and then nag myself to forget. When I see them, I let the occasional, casual “so what do you make of...” slip out but mostly it’s as though talking to them bores me. I make jokes at their expense, smile awkwardly but politely at small talk and leave early, seemingly sorry to have stayed so long. People ask me why I don’t seem to like that person, or I’m mildly rude, and I say I think they’re great but am careful to be slightly unconvincing, perpetuate the idea that I’m not much interested in their company. And then I go home, hate myself some more, and start a new letter.