The Misadventures of Quinxy truths, lies, and everything in between!

12Jul/100

The Meaning of Pizza

My tummy hurts.  I just ate too much of a pizza, a pizza I had delivered from Chicago.  From the best authentic Chicago pizzeria in Chicago, Lou Malnati's Pizzeria.  Shipped overnight, packed in dry ice.  Hard not to eat too much of it.  I bought it to craft a moment.  But, the moment came and went, unhappened.

I met a harmless girl at the cafe a few weeks back.  We had a perfect, orchestrated social interaction.  I was like a conductor leading the interaction.  It was one of my finest social moments ever.  I hate the humans, a little bit.  Which is to say I love them like God did back in the day.  Back when they pissed him off and didn't do what he wanted and he didn't understand why, so he smote them all except for that Noah fella and all them critters.  I don't plan on smiting anything, besides the grievous ethical problems, I'm just not that energetic.  But I suffer God's misunderstanding of humans, from time to time.  So, these little perfect moments mean something to me, when everything sings with a harmony that feels like it was always and forever just unheard.  And I get excited thinking I found my groove.

And so I bought the pizza.  She was a recent transplant from Chicago, weeks recent. And I smoothly asked her to join me on the weekend for the Hollywood Forever Cemetery movie with some friends.  And she eagerly accepted.  And I got the pizza because in the course of our conversation she'd recommended it, and told me you could get it online, and so I did after some initial considerable confusion with me thinking she said "Illuminati's Pizza" and "Lou Minati's Pizza".  Because it's been years since I had a decent Chicago pizza, and there's only once place in the whole of Los Angeles that does a Chicago style pizza, and it's in Silverlake, and I wasn't sure how authentic it really was (it resembled not at all the Armand's Chicago-style pizzeria of my Washingtonian youth).  And we talked a few times leading up to that Saturday, but then the day came, I called, and she suddenly had other plans.  She flaked, but asked me to ask her again.  Humans.  I don't know what to make of them.  I should make it clear my intentions were not unusual or extreme.  This wasn't meant to be a date, I had no specific interest in her beyond her being interesting, the banter being fun, so let's pal around.  I didn't find her attractive, but she was not necessarily particularly unattractive either.  (All this I say relative to me, I have no idea what the rest of the world thinks of her.  They probably found her prettier than I did, my tastes being a few degrees off the norm.)  She was in that gray area where given the right interactions I may have come to find her prettier, but I had no such ambitions, my interest was purely platonic.  And she flaked, and even though she very pointedly said she hoped I'd ask her again, when I did, I got a similar result.  She was busy again with work, and her brother, and she is now traveling about the country on work errands.  And, to my way of thinking, and I think the world's thinking as well, if she'd had any significant interest in hanging out, it would have happened by now.  Ah well.

I don't mind that nothing came of it.  I don't mind perhaps not being her cup of tea.  I have no expectations that I be anyone's (though am grateful that I am some people's).  And perhaps her new job is demanding, and her new apartment requires setting up, and her brother...  but I just wish society didn't so much rely on subtleties and subtexts.  Because I drown in the excess of available cues.  And I miss out on quite a few friendships and dates as I always err on the side of caution.  It's like if you know your sense of smell isn't so good, it's better to be safe than sorry and scream "Fire!" when you think you smell even the slightest hint of smoke; it's like the identical opposite, actually.   I won't call her again.  Two attempts on my part was enough.  Who needs the bother?
I should perhaps stick with the people who make more native sense to me (though there are few).

The pizza was good.  Some people (like my dad) have this charming notion that everything happens for a reason.  Ah, pretty, lucky little imbeciles.  If I believed them I would say, "I met her solely so that she could introduce me to Lou Minati's pizza."

^Quinxy

2Jul/100

Sometimes I Hate the Humans

We hate what we don't understand, and that's why sometimes I hate the humans. Technically, I am a human, too. But, I am the exception; I make complete sense*.

Clearly if the world and its many inhabitants tend to confuse me, it's assuredly in me that the trouble lies; I'm not so arrogant as to assume that it could be otherwise.  And the humans are not truly so confusing, I suppose, for they are predicable.  That which doesn't surprise should not confuse... But where I get routinely tripped up is in those irregular and brief moments when things make a kind of unfamiliar but overdue sense... and I make the fatal mistake of feeling into believing the world has finally been set right, that I have finally hit upon the grand unifying equation for living my life:  that I have found my groove, my niche, my self.

It comes when the girl who shouldn't like me does, when the stranger suddenly becomes the friend, when my written words find a brief delighted audience, when there is resonance... and the universe has found my harmonic, or I, its.

These last few weeks have seen one undoing peculiar interaction flow into another undoing peculiar interaction: nothing rotten, but nothing right. I am grateful in these teasingly queer moments that days have endings, that weeks have endings, that years have endings, and that perhaps the end is the beginning.

^Quinxy

* I make complete sense to me, whether or not I make sense to others is speculative; I do at least go to great lengths to volunteer the information necessary for me to be understood.