Tuesday, April 30, 2013

I lied

I could be happier. At least, I catch myself thinking I could be deliriously delirious. I really need to give up fantasizing, especially when I'm listening to the first movement of Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto. I lose myself, and there's no delusion behind it. It's pure self-indulgence, and it only leads to further angsting myself, even if my imagination is one killer imagination. 

And really, what I'd like to know is: Why do I get all wistful and fantisizational when I'm hiking, or on the treadmill, or the elliptical machine, or when I'm pumping out the reps? Am I somehow subconsciously tapping my testosterone reserves?  Am I bringing this upon myself?

My guy pal, Mat, (English major, Philosophy minor) says I'm like a teenaged boy. He says our Poetry professor was too. And the two of us, my professor and I, together, have tapped the midlife feminine sexual predisposition of a guys' locker room. I guess that means the guys in the locker room are gay.

So while I'm feeling all cat scratch fever and sorts, and since Ethics is finally at an end... I admit. I have this terrible, terrible, raging crush that isn't wrapping itself up nearly as nicely as I thought it would.



L-- wants to hit the Rocks. I guess I'm going to hike; and try not to keep thinking about boys. Boy. 


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