so, most of the day, i texted with this guy. and about an hour ago he is like, hey, i could drive to baltimore next weekend. it would be an economical type of vacation. it’s a little crazy, but a good kind of crazy. i could even bring mushrooms, if you want to be crazy with a capital c. i try to do them about once a year—good for the brain. all right, i say. okay. i did ask you to marry me this morning.
don’t ever say that i don’t surrender to the moment!
hm. it sounds like a joke, but it occurs to me that i got perfectionistic* about spontaneity. ‘yeah, today i will propose marriage and assent to a man with a cat allergy driving to my house from another time zone with hallucinogens and the intent to fornicate. so what if i haven’t been out with a boy in….well, in God knows how long. IN YOUR FACE, DAILY AFFIRMATION.’
i want to point out for the record—for some reason—that this guy has a profession and children. he’s not a hobo or something. (i’m the one with a hole in my shoe….) though there is definitely an unsavory classist element to our mutual fascination. i think he might think of me sort of like the gwyneth paltrow character in the royal tenenbaums. like maybe he has a burned-out ex wunderkindern fetish? maybe. and i will admit that i have a thing about the skilled trades. a midwestern trade unionism fetish? now this is getting specific.
* ‘perfectionism’ is an awful term. i feel like there’s got to be a more accurate word for this in other languages.