So, since the whole Mr. A thing ground to a really disappointing halt, I've been dealing with the uncomfortable realisation that I still have it super bad for The Writer. I've kind of known it for awhile. Even before I leapt in and started pursuing Mr. A I was asking myself whether or not I was ready to be with anybody else. I pushed aside those thoughts and threw myself headlong into the chase, because I figured that was the best way to move forward, and I do really love a good chase.
But I am still thinking about him. And it still hurts to do so. Which is really quite odd. I mean, I understand the concept of getting over someone, and how long that can take. But I haven't really been this hung up on someone that I never had any sort of physical Relationship with. I've had the unrequited pining thing before, but that's been for ex boyfriends, people that I've actually had physical and emotional connections with. What I feel for The Writer is a much more insidious, all encompassing thing. And it makes me feel truly, truly awful.
I realised the other night what I had really needed to happen, back when I was still in Dublin, in order to be able to move forward from this whole heartsick mess. I really should have just Slept with The Writer, in spite of his girlfriend, because one of two things would have come of it:
Instead, I'm left with the fact that he seems to be a really good guy. A wanker when it comes to books and his affectations, sure. A borderline hipster who wears really unattractive knitted jumpers with weird patterns on them. A guy whose goofy comments and self-righteousness made me roll my eyes with some regularity. Someone who drives me to the point of absolute madness, and who is quite happy for me to drive him there too until we're both sniping at each other and blowing up tiny landmines of abuse. In spite of all of these annoyances, he's still a good, moral guy.
And this is what kills me. If he'd just slept with me, or even kissed me, I could have formed a snap opinion of him and his views on all things relationship related. Instead, I can see that he truly values love, and his girlfriend, and everything that goes along with that. He is fiercely loyal, and wiling to do what it takes to make something work, and considerate, and, well, just bloody perfect in that respect. And until he screws that up, I continue to wait it out, in some sort of sick way. Hoping that one day he'll suddenly wake up and think 'YES! The way is clear!' and pack up his bags and never look back. But he won't, because he's a fucking stand up guy with morals and standards and a heart. In short, he is very much like me.
Intellectually, and I know that I've said this before, I know it could never work between us. We'd kill each other. It would be a crazy, passionate ride, but it would burn like an incredibly bright star that was falling rapidly and inevitably to a disastrous end.
I finished reading the final book of The Hunger Games trilogy recently, and in the last part the protagonist, when referring to why she was not suited to her best friend, states that 'I have plenty of fire myself... What I need is the dandelion in the spring.' And I identified with this (I'm secretly a sixteen year old girl), because I have far too much fire to be with someone as equally flammable as him. I need someone calm and quiet and relaxed. Someone who is willing to stand up to me if I'm being an idiot, but who is not too easily provoked. And that's not The Writer. Not at all.
And yet, here I am.
Next time this happens to me, I'm just bloody well sleeping with the guy.
B. J. Barnes
But I am still thinking about him. And it still hurts to do so. Which is really quite odd. I mean, I understand the concept of getting over someone, and how long that can take. But I haven't really been this hung up on someone that I never had any sort of physical Relationship with. I've had the unrequited pining thing before, but that's been for ex boyfriends, people that I've actually had physical and emotional connections with. What I feel for The Writer is a much more insidious, all encompassing thing. And it makes me feel truly, truly awful.
I realised the other night what I had really needed to happen, back when I was still in Dublin, in order to be able to move forward from this whole heartsick mess. I really should have just Slept with The Writer, in spite of his girlfriend, because one of two things would have come of it:
- It would have been really lacklustre, as most initial sexual encounters are. And awkward, and awful, and absolutely mortifying. And he probably would have pulled what I like to call his 'concentration face,' which would be enough to turn anyone off sex with him. This would probably have been enough to make me move on from the delusion that he was The One; or
- It would have been crazy, mindblowing sex because of the intellectual and emotional connection we shared, and I probably would have cried a little bit.
Instead, I'm left with the fact that he seems to be a really good guy. A wanker when it comes to books and his affectations, sure. A borderline hipster who wears really unattractive knitted jumpers with weird patterns on them. A guy whose goofy comments and self-righteousness made me roll my eyes with some regularity. Someone who drives me to the point of absolute madness, and who is quite happy for me to drive him there too until we're both sniping at each other and blowing up tiny landmines of abuse. In spite of all of these annoyances, he's still a good, moral guy.
And this is what kills me. If he'd just slept with me, or even kissed me, I could have formed a snap opinion of him and his views on all things relationship related. Instead, I can see that he truly values love, and his girlfriend, and everything that goes along with that. He is fiercely loyal, and wiling to do what it takes to make something work, and considerate, and, well, just bloody perfect in that respect. And until he screws that up, I continue to wait it out, in some sort of sick way. Hoping that one day he'll suddenly wake up and think 'YES! The way is clear!' and pack up his bags and never look back. But he won't, because he's a fucking stand up guy with morals and standards and a heart. In short, he is very much like me.
Intellectually, and I know that I've said this before, I know it could never work between us. We'd kill each other. It would be a crazy, passionate ride, but it would burn like an incredibly bright star that was falling rapidly and inevitably to a disastrous end.
I finished reading the final book of The Hunger Games trilogy recently, and in the last part the protagonist, when referring to why she was not suited to her best friend, states that 'I have plenty of fire myself... What I need is the dandelion in the spring.' And I identified with this (I'm secretly a sixteen year old girl), because I have far too much fire to be with someone as equally flammable as him. I need someone calm and quiet and relaxed. Someone who is willing to stand up to me if I'm being an idiot, but who is not too easily provoked. And that's not The Writer. Not at all.
And yet, here I am.
Next time this happens to me, I'm just bloody well sleeping with the guy.
B. J. Barnes
