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2/03/03 I've been doing this tour of male friends/ex-boyfriends over the past few weeks, not in any sort of self-involved High Fidelity review of relationships past sort of way, but more because I am on a non-dating trip right now, and it's the only way I can get male companionship. Because I like men. I miss them when they're not around. I think there's a tomboy side of me that needs to be induldged. I was a little sister, you know, running around in the dirt with all the older boys on the block. Ponytails, skinned knees, stickball. Anyway, so last night was one of the ex-boyfriend (ex-dates, actually) nights, and we drank till 1 AM at the Southside (red wine for me, whiskey and cokes for him). Somewhere in there he turned to me and said, "Do you realize you've been telling me what's wrong with me for the last ten minutes?" And I thought about the conversation, that it had been pleasant, really good in fact, and that somehow we had segued into my analysis of him. He was completely right. I'm an asshole. I mean, I always say I'm an asshole, but this time I really mean it. I can't help but be critical. It's how I was raised, for starters. And I think the thing is (And I guess I should have said this at the time but I didn't really get it till just now, till I was writing this, which is why I do this in case you were wondering.) that if I can't pick you apart, and put you back together in my head, I probably won't be interested in you. If you were already perfect, how could I love you? I am the sum of my flaws, and so are you. It's probably not the right way to think, or, I guess, to be. To always be making people into characters in stories in my head like that. To always be driving men away with my critical analysis of their communication abilities or relationship skills or resumes. (This last one, I am really just trying to help, I swear. I write a mean resume.) To always be talking and thinking when I should just be listening and enjoying. What I really wanted to say last night was: I do stop doing that eventually, you know. Because I do. But I didn't. And then he walked me home because I live in a motherfucking war zone (although they reportedly have caught the armed robbers who were terrorizing us for the month of January, which is good news). We stood sort of awkwardly on my steps for a while and talked. He told me he enjoyed my company, and was glad we were going to be friends. I felt a little strange, and I rushed through it. I don't know. Sincerity kills me, in the best possible way.
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