me, myself & andrei

24 Feb 2009
To my Future? Girlfriends

I raise a glass of red wine to all the girls I had or didn’t have.. cin-cin. And start writing this overdue cruel honesty pour-out. It’s a self-addressed post, actually, that is Cc-ed to my ex archived ones :)

Kindly press play! ;)

Once upon a time I’ve been told that I belong to this Nordic wooden house, so North that it’s only me and my life companion living there.. and a small connection to the Internet :) And that I belong to this pack of solo individuals that have an endeavour to bring (or at least try to bring) change over a glass of red wine (cin-cin once again), behind a book or a computer, with a pin-pointing facial expression that brings commitment to the endeavour (a really hard to find figure these days).. only disrupted by this kind-aura gifted, warm skinned, open minded and shameless companion that brings feminine (or should I be specific: maternal?!) love and care aside.

Lovely? Scary? Pathetic? Well.. the girlfriend didn’t depict all of this, as this is my perception of that, but I think this was as close as it can get to a clean description of yours truly. Classic you’ll say.. I don’t think classic is old-fashioned, but that’s another story :)

Anyway, little did she know that while arguing that the companion is not going to be her, she depicted a scenario that not even I could comprehend at that stage in life. The scenario of being a nerd. Now hold your pants! :) A nerd in the sense of single-minded, that I concentrate fully on one thing and one thing only, or in a sense that links to Michael Lopp (please read it before you go beyond this paragraph). When I read his post, I couldn’t help but ask: how the hell did he tap into my brain?

So, basically yes. I do “see the world as a system which, given enough time and effort, is completely knowable”. Not predictable, just knowable. And yes, it is an illusion. And your nerd, yours truly, knows about it :) And yes, I do like puzzles. Not the crappy Rubik’s-cube-like, but vivid puzzles. And yes, I have an appetite for information. Or actually for knowledge, now that I can make a clear cut between them. And yes, I admit. I do have a disturbingly arrogant and annoying efficient relevancy engine.. I am rude. Plain and honest. It doesn’t mean I don’t truly have you close at heart though - not an apology, just stating another fact. And yes, I come off as not liking people. Although in my case, I actually do like the feminine “species” :) I honestly say that whoever you are, as a girl (or woman - I will never know when to make the step away), not for your looks, but for who I think you are, you start from a positive level, while men (never had a problem with this step) will always start from zero. And some on you do know that I need to adjust to new places..

Bottom line is that you = project. Awful, right? Disgusting even?!

Could be. Overall, as nerdy this would sound, I’d love to be someone’s project :) Imagine the attention, the dedication, the commitment! *shivers* It should make anyone get goose bumps at the thought that someone can deliver so much focus. Like a magnifying loop that takes plain sunshine and concentrates it to such an extent that it starts a fire. Precious I say!

Half a year ago, I wrote about “women”.. I wrote _about_ girlfriends. Now I can only think of the trigger of that post - another post (now half-translated into English below) entitled Eulogy to True Women.

I can only think of the small projects that I have been given so many nice names, that I will hardly forget for a lifetime.

I can only think of the passion I’ve lent, sold, or freely gave. The passion that I have been lent, sold or freely given.

And yes, for Christ sake! I can not not think that I’m sorry for all the times when I didn’t know that being ashamed or confused is worse than being honest and open.

And I’m sorry for the times when I wanted a secret relationship and I didn’t push you to the point where our energies break free. Instead I kept it locked, creating shame out of secrecy.

And I’m sorry for not knowing why I stopped in the middle of kissing you, or even in the middle of getting you undressed, for I thought it wasn’t fair to you. I’m sorry that I have been over-thoughtful and instead of telling you that you make me go crazy, I have been asking myself “Would I spend a lifetime with her?” So I bluntly ignored a moment of heaven with you, for a cruel and stupid safety. For all I knew, I was doing the right thing for you. I was trying. I have put you in a cab or drove you home, as if something wrong has happened and that I’m correcting it by dropping you. I’m sorry that I was reluctant to have you at my parents’ place. Without any doubt, I was acting coward.

I’m sorry for looking too much at what people say. I’m sorry that I didn’t show you to a true extent how much I enjoyed you. That I didn’t share the fantasies I had with you. The kisses that I dreamt about. The nights. The clothes that I undressed you of.

And I’m sorry that I’ve been dreaming of that special night, and that I couldn’t replicate the ecstasy afterwards. I’m sorry for dreaming still of that night. I’m sorry for trashing your current relationships in my dreams, and making love to you as if you had no boyfriends.

And I’m sorry that I didn’t take you under a blanket on the sands. And I’m sorry that I’ve been thinking of so many other things, and not of you while I was sitting right next to you.

Sorry I am indeed. For if I knew myself better, the above would have happened differently.

:) But I’m not apologizing. For if things happened differently, I maybe wouldn’t say it out loud that I enjoyed having you as a small project. And maybe I wouldn’t have been able to go through and share all of the above.

Maybe I wouldn’t have been able to recall your each and every smell, pressure of the kiss, touch of your sweaty or dry hands, taste of your skin and shape of your face.

I enjoyed having you as a small project. Some of you I still enjoy. I’ve archived you and I play with a hologram of you now and then. For all I know, I’d take some of you out of the archives and have you as small projects once again. Some of you are still drafts and you still have the power to pump 5 cl of adrenaline at a blink of an eye. At least the hologram can. And at least the thought of being able to be shy-free can. Because now I now a little bit better who I am, and I know a little bit better who you were and probably still are. Enough to make a difference.

For all that I’m sorry about, for all the things I admit, I wouldn’t have it any other way if that implies losing a bit of my vivid memories with you. If that implies losing a bit of lust that I nourish for you now. If that implies less imaginary kisses with some of you that I obviously didn’t kiss enough. If that implies not undressing your whispers any longer.

This is to my former girlfriends.

To my future girlfriends.. Blonde, brunette, redhead, tall, slim, curvy, blue-eyed, child or experienced.. Now you know it “all”. Glad to meet some brave and forthcoming girls! :) Hope you can survive the “legacy”.. At least now I’m closer to my - and you have it easier to know if I am close to a - definition of  objet petit a, whether it is my a, or your a :)

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PS: In the end, while writing the above, I managed to raise three glasses of red wine to you, former and future ;) cin-cin!

PPS: And to all the fuckers out there that think this is so un-manly.. I tell you to go fuck another drunk bimbo that you won’t remember the name of the next morning. I’m just certain.. cer-tain.. that it is so much better that way, so leave me the hell alone with your count of.. wait, wait.. I forgot you lost count of the women you devoured.. tsk, tsk, tsk. Well, you got the picture. What are you waiting for? Shove off!

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Dragoș Bucurenci - Eulogy to True Women - Part 1 (Translation)

The women of the best friends. The friends of the best women. Best-friends-women.

The women that think of fucking as much as we do, but have the decency not to talk as often and as ugly about it. The women that send us gifts, that wait for us with lights off in the car parked on the corner of the street, that pay for our treat, that provide for us, savour us and then ask us to forget them.

The women that look-alike with our favorite actress. The ugly women that know how to make a man wanted. The women that turn their heads for other women, that put the hand on men’s arses, that go along in sex-shops and would make even a sexolog blush.

The women that do not want kids. The woman that I’ve always thought they want more because they are never pleased with less. The women for which we end to exist at the beginning of an orgasm and that never forget about us before they lit their cigarette. Those that we put in the blush for their screams, those whose know-how makes us shudder of pleasure, those in front of which we close our eyes and we moan. The fountain-women, the geisha girls, the jades, the insatiable ones.

Those that don’t close their eyes when you kiss them.

The women that grow old away from our eyes. The women that we see every now and then, those that we miss, and in fact those who we unwillingly want to see more often. The mature women, no matter how young they are. Those that are still beautiful, no matter how much time has passed.. The women of whose wrinkles we fear more than our own ageing.

The women that reply in a flash to sms. Those that gossip about us with their friends and then gossip about their friends with us. Those that always are in the mood of our lack of mood.

The impossible matches, the fantasies abandoned rare-ripe, the shabby and floppy daring tries, the perfumes with names that are forgotten before asking what their name is.

The women that smell like sheets, that put their hands between our legs, that pee with the bathroom door open, that get us naked in the elevator and shag us in the hallway.

The women that snore.

The women that we don’t name, those that make us smile mysteriously, the women that have went through our lives faster than a blink of an eye.

The women that we don’t fall for. The true women. The kick-arse women. The goodies that are never good to love.

[…]


Andrei