|
next part-- this one is more about Greg... it will, of course, even out
|
Blog For Free!
Archives
Home
2004 June
2004 May
2004 April
2004 March
tBlog
My Profile
Send tMail
My tFriends
My Images
Sponsored
Blog
|
| next part-- this one is more about Greg... it will, of course, even out |
| 06.02.04 (4:51 am) [edit] |
“Talking with Tatiana was the best thing that ever happened to me,” Greg wrote months after their conversation on the park bench. “She gave me the confidence I needed to talk to other girls, and to eventually to be with them. Now I think I’ve got it down. I know how to do it.”
His confidence, those days, endured frequent and fleeting stays on both extremes. When he wrote that diary entry, that confidence must have been spiraling out of control. No boy can purport to know how to [i]be [/i]with all girls. It’s an intangible, inexpressible, and practically impossible feat. Or is it?
In the same diary entry he wrote: “A girl, any girl, wants a boy that can listen well enough to know her. Well, she doesn’t want him to completely know her; she just wants him to listen and try to figure her out. For instance, if she likes to laugh, she wants him to know to be funny for her; if she likes to be romanced, she wants him to know to romance her; and if she likes to talk or be protected, she wants him to want to listen or protect her. Oh, and if she likes to have sex, she wants him to be coordinated, somewhat flexible, and last for more than a few minutes. It’s that simple really. I think.”
Is he right? Is it that simple?
In the thirty months and seventeen days between their picnic table conversation and that first shared bottle of wine (we’ll get to the latter soon), he set about ‘figuring out’ girls in the same way he figured out so many of his favorite philosophical proofs. He listened. He learned. And he became the boy that he imagined each of his girls needed. “It’s coercion. I’m coercing them to fall in love with me,” he wrote.
And (he would like us to think that) his system worked. During those in-between years, nine pretty girls fell hopelessly (or hopefully) in love with him. They imagined that he was the boy they had always imagined, and that their feelings for him, the ones that seemed so real and touchable, would last forever.
And despite his attempts to philosophically distance himself from his own feelings, he felt the same intense love that they did. Yet it didn’t seem to matter. Those relationships never lasted long.
“What is it about me?” he often wondered. “All I want is love. Perfect love.”
|
|
|
| |
|
|
