I'm terribly sorry, did I say that out loud?

Sitting in my office trying to find the will to go home, I stumbled upon this blog. The maintainer of the site is not only a resident of the upper east side, but lives close to me as he is listed as part of 86th street crowd at New York City Bloggers. It seems that I have been correct that some people, some people in my very neighborhood, have the life that I fantasize about. The life, which as Kevin Spacey says in American Beauty ( actually "Brad" says it-but he is reading Lester/Kevin's letter aloud), "that doesn't so closely ressemble hell." He loves his girlfriend, they have moved into together, things are fabulous. Mind you, I can't like a guy for more than two weeks unless he vanishes. A friend of mine called last night and said "Why didn't you mention you were seeing someone before?" I said
"Why should I bother? In another two weeks, it will be somebody else. A few months from now I won't even remember his name." And the sad part is it's true. Even my therapist can't keep track of all the boyfriends I've had in the last three months, even with a Venn diagram and a flow chart.

Yes, this is the post competition depression. (Very similar to the post master's thesis depression and post successful show run depression.) But when I see someone so blithely happy, well, in the words of Scott Thompson as the artist Matty Goon speaking to the Ontario School of Art "I feel like...to puke."

Rasputin, noticing my aversion to happy couples, asked me, "Can't you be happy for other people?"

"No, I really can't be happy for happy couples, not in that way. I'm not saying that I hope they wallow in freak like misery forever, I'm just saying it doesn't make me happy to see them happy."

Damn happy well adjusted people. Makes me wonder what NYC is really coming to.

Comments: Post a Comment

    This page is powered by 
Blogger. Isn't yours?