I wore my sparkly red boots the other night to Nostrand Pub and this guy kept complimenting me on them. I finally had to use 363 inches of Nikola as a physical barrier. It’s probably the loveliest barrier one can employ.
I got to thinking last evening about how every boy I’ve ever fallen in love with had a component of letter writing to it.
Even with the ex. He didn’t even like the me he knew in person because he found her silly and superficial. It wasn’t until we began exchanging emails (in 1996) that he began to see who I really was, disentangled from all the frivolity I wore as armor.
I told Jack that I improve upon acquaintance and I think I understand why. When I am viewed through the lens of neurotypical ambitions and motivations, everything I do is scrutinized within the modality of wanting to be liked and adored. When, really, I dress to amuse myself. I certainly don’t do it for the pleasure of men. At least not strangers.
But if one were to assume things about me based on the way I dress, they would be working with the wrong parameters. It will never impress me to be told that my glasses are nice or my clothes are nice or…and this is Brooklyn specific…that I am “thicc.”
The only thing that has ever made me swoon is to hear my thoughts called deep and my tone lovely and my heart true. That requires the exchange of notes or, at least, witty banter. Noisy bars aren’t the proper setting for this. Why anyone would choose a late night bar setting to pick someone to sleep with is beyond me. It lacks subtlety but also strategy. It is clumsy and gauche.
But there is no Isle of Autism. No place we congregate in numbers reaching anything near a plurality. No bars for sensitive souls. So it’s incumbent upon me to wade through the online masses and spot the weirdos. It’s harder than you think. There is a whole class of alterna-fuck boys who use the accoutrements of weirdos to hide their basicness. And there are true weirdos who are damaged beyond repair. I am looking for a needle in a haystack inside another larger stack of pointy, needle-like objects.
And thus, I am doomed to walk the world alone. Or, at least, the mean streets of Brooklyn.