I've been doing some math about things that have been going on these past few months. They probably just add up to confirmation bias, i.e. seeing what I want to see in what I observe. But, last week's post, "Secret admirer?," is about something that has been working my very last nerve since that notion crossed my mind.
Is there a secret admirer of old Rich in the midst of today's hottest Pop diva's? Well, it might be such a secret that even she doesn't even realize that she's a secret admirer. Is she there? Where? I feel the space next to me on my bed to see if she's magically materialized yet. Nope. As I waited for the shower to warm up tonight, there was plenty of time for her to get undressed and hop in. No go.
What the hell could she want from me? In true schizoidal spectrum reasoning, I know all about what she wants, but I'm not at liberty to talk about that.
Now for the eternal question: what am I going to do about it? This topic came up recently with my psychiatrist about unavailable women in general, and my answer now is the same answer that I gave to my psychiatrist: I'm going to do as little as possible about it until it runs its course.
Of course, I will not attempt to contact her in any way. If one of her people tells her there's a guy outside her residence who just wants to talk to her, she'd better know it sure as hell ain't gonna be me.
How will it run its course? A likely scenario is that she will start dating Joey Jerkoff from the hot new boyband Cornhole Me With Crisco before too long, by which time I will have adjusted to this level of discomfort I'm having to go through. It's like when David Carradine on Kung Fu just sat down and chilled in response to the evil Mexican witch doctor putting a curse on him, and in turn chased that dude out of the village. All he did was chill.
Is there a secret admirer of old Rich in the midst of today's hottest Pop diva's? Well, it might be such a secret that even she doesn't even realize that she's a secret admirer. Is she there? Where? I feel the space next to me on my bed to see if she's magically materialized yet. Nope. As I waited for the shower to warm up tonight, there was plenty of time for her to get undressed and hop in. No go.
What the hell could she want from me? In true schizoidal spectrum reasoning, I know all about what she wants, but I'm not at liberty to talk about that.
Now for the eternal question: what am I going to do about it? This topic came up recently with my psychiatrist about unavailable women in general, and my answer now is the same answer that I gave to my psychiatrist: I'm going to do as little as possible about it until it runs its course.
Of course, I will not attempt to contact her in any way. If one of her people tells her there's a guy outside her residence who just wants to talk to her, she'd better know it sure as hell ain't gonna be me.
How will it run its course? A likely scenario is that she will start dating Joey Jerkoff from the hot new boyband Cornhole Me With Crisco before too long, by which time I will have adjusted to this level of discomfort I'm having to go through. It's like when David Carradine on Kung Fu just sat down and chilled in response to the evil Mexican witch doctor putting a curse on him, and in turn chased that dude out of the village. All he did was chill.
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