there's no replacing you baby
So this is my third post and I'm already failing at blogging conventions, but I can't recall where I read this and I don't feel like looking it up right now. I have a point to make. Why yes, I am drinking.
But I have read-- and would I lie? to you, gentle reader?-- that four years is a common cutoff point for committed relationships. OK, maybe it was bullshit evo psych because the argument was that that's about how long it takes to get a kid to the "probably will survive" stage of its adorable, button-nose little life. After that, the resources contributed by some man become less vital. Actually, it must have been bullshit evo psych, because that assumes you get pregnant right away, or that 3 or 5 wouldn't also work pretty well. Remind me again of the ideal hip-to-waist ratio to hook the lizard brain of my ideal mate like the really nice heroin you can only get if cigarettes no longer suppress your appetite and your Vogue shoot is next week. Or low- to mid-grade Scotch.
How do I keep attracting men into bourbon? This is bullshit.
And now, gently glide with me down to a lower gear, an emotional gear, in which we discuss my compelling and novel personal life in a way that will allow you to actually think about your own personal life. Making it interesting. Imagine how that will work. Tell me about your relationship with your mother.
Anyway, the point was that four is actually the magic number, evidently, for my long-term relationships and Matt's youthful (but formative! and characterized by the meeting of two thoroughly awesome brands of awesome!) period of dating my former roommate. 6 months therefore feels comically short, like I should still be meeting him at Blind Pig and asking him how his classes are going.
It's trite of me, of course, to wonder if all of our work isn't actually self-portraiture and yet I do wonder it. I'd hoped to find a spot that acknowledges more gracefully a few different registers: that some things are utterly private and others are to be read, in a shouting voice, at the empty heavens. I don't really want to separate my personal and political and professional during my own free time or attempt to organize my own meanderings.
I've therefore decided that my personal is not really so personal: certainly it's not novel enough to count as secret. Rather than thinking about my own privacy, which isn't really such a big deal, I'd rather let the embarrassed silence of my vast public speak for itself.
But I have read-- and would I lie? to you, gentle reader?-- that four years is a common cutoff point for committed relationships. OK, maybe it was bullshit evo psych because the argument was that that's about how long it takes to get a kid to the "probably will survive" stage of its adorable, button-nose little life. After that, the resources contributed by some man become less vital. Actually, it must have been bullshit evo psych, because that assumes you get pregnant right away, or that 3 or 5 wouldn't also work pretty well. Remind me again of the ideal hip-to-waist ratio to hook the lizard brain of my ideal mate like the really nice heroin you can only get if cigarettes no longer suppress your appetite and your Vogue shoot is next week. Or low- to mid-grade Scotch.
How do I keep attracting men into bourbon? This is bullshit.
And now, gently glide with me down to a lower gear, an emotional gear, in which we discuss my compelling and novel personal life in a way that will allow you to actually think about your own personal life. Making it interesting. Imagine how that will work. Tell me about your relationship with your mother.
Anyway, the point was that four is actually the magic number, evidently, for my long-term relationships and Matt's youthful (but formative! and characterized by the meeting of two thoroughly awesome brands of awesome!) period of dating my former roommate. 6 months therefore feels comically short, like I should still be meeting him at Blind Pig and asking him how his classes are going.
It's trite of me, of course, to wonder if all of our work isn't actually self-portraiture and yet I do wonder it. I'd hoped to find a spot that acknowledges more gracefully a few different registers: that some things are utterly private and others are to be read, in a shouting voice, at the empty heavens. I don't really want to separate my personal and political and professional during my own free time or attempt to organize my own meanderings.
I've therefore decided that my personal is not really so personal: certainly it's not novel enough to count as secret. Rather than thinking about my own privacy, which isn't really such a big deal, I'd rather let the embarrassed silence of my vast public speak for itself.
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