“You shouldn’t be embarrassed,” Dora said. “It’d be more embarrassing if you acted like you didn’t care.”

…

I have been trying to write this blog for hours.  The task has proved difficult because although I swore not to censor my writing, I also don’t want to make accusations or speak about a personal life other than my own.

So, I’m at a loss.

To be vague, I can say that the realization I had Sunday has completely stifled my appetite and caused me to feel very like a fool.  (I hate feeling stupid.)  My faith in humanity is declining rapidly.  At the risk of sounding pathetic, I wish someone would save me from the complete and total cynicism threatening to paralyze my ability to enjoy daily endeavors.

Was I playing with fire?  Maybe.  Mitchell said I invited this to happen.  That may be true, but I still think I have been deceived.  I want to confront the source of this supposed deception, but it’s pointless.  If this person meant to take advantage of me, he/she will continue to beguile me.  And if there is truth to be told, I will have no way to differentiate it from lies other than my own judgment, which is currently impaired by what I have seen and heard.

Again, I am at a loss.

Somewhat related, while I was typing blog notes into my iPhone last night the Rev. said something about his life being ruled by melancholy and over-dramatic-ness. I imagine that some of my writing can appear this way: melancholy and over-dramatic.  Is it intentional?  Of course, sometimes.  A good writer will alter the details if it helps to emphasize his/her point, or if it simply makes the piece more entertaining.

Additionally, I found it interesting that Dora mentioned my Grandma yesterday.  (“I love that all she wanted to do was eat donuts, drink coffee, and smoke cigarettes.  She was an amazing woman.”)  Last night at Union Pool, the Rev. played a song about his grandmother called “Dorothy”.  He told the crowd that her husband died when the Rev. was only two years old.  My grandfather also died when I was two years old.  All of this is just coincidence, but it remained in my thoughts.

Also, in between the Rev.’s sets, Mitchell and I were talking.  Though my desire for food has dwindled, I have maintained adequate interest in staying alive.  Therefore, I was forcing myself to eat some raw cashews from a plastic bag in my purse.  I offered Mitchell some cashews.  “It’s pretty much all I have eaten today,” I said.

I have mentioned that my friends are amazing.  That this is an understatement was confirmed by Mitchell’s response: “Together, we can eat a million peanuts.”

We were on our way to see Reverend Vince Anderson and His Love Choir.  I hadn’t been since their Monday night residency changed from the now non-existent Black Betty to Union Pool.  Mitchell and I used to go every Monday, and I mean every Monday.  For us, the Rev.’s Monday night shows (which most of the regulars refer to as “church”) are enjoyable for many reasons.  The quality of the music, the dancing, the stories that the Rev. tells, the genuine message of positivity and… love.

Last night while the Rev. was playing “I Had a Ring in My Pocket, She Had Leaving on Her Mind”, Mitch and I drunkenly slow danced. This is common for us during that song and the Rev.’s cover of “Dancing Queen” (one of my favorites).  We proceeded to have a booze-induced conversation about our possible marriage to one another.  It’s not too bad of a plan – we both have the same priorities when it comes to the gift registry (sandwich press, daiquiri machine, and deep fryer).  We both take pleasure in drinking, dancing, and Tori.  And we love each other.  Even last night Mitch told me, “You are an asshole, but I love you.”

Still, I don’t really understand being in love.  I’ve seen it on television shows and movies, and it appears pretty delightful and at times even exciting.  Enough movies have taught me that if I just walk around the city with a stack of papers, a gorgeous man is sure to bump into me and knock the papers out of my hand.  He’ll help me pick them up, and then as we both awkwardly stand and look into each others’ eyes, BAM! we’re in love.  Cue the music and the montage of scenes depicting a lifetime of happiness together.  It’s obviously my fault that I’m not in love since I could surely find the time to walk around with a stack of papers, but I don’t.  Maybe I just want it to be easier than that.  Don’t get me wrong – it should not lack intensity and occasional ferment.  The random storm causes an inspiring disquiet; it reminds me that I’m human.

So, in an effort to know love, I looked it up on Dictionary.com.  There are a LOT of definitions.  Here are a few:

- a profoundly tender, passionate affection for another person.
- sexual passion or desire.
- a person toward whom love is felt; beloved person; sweetheart.
- to have love or affection for another person; be in love.
- in love: infused with or feeling deep affection or passion
- in love with: feeling deep affection or passion for a person

I’m still confused.  It’d be better defined as “undefinable”.  In my mind, words are not capable of doing such a thing justice.  I know that I really like someone when I can’t explain why, but I don’t think I have ever been in love.  Maybe for there to really be love there has to be reciprocation.  Otherwise isn’t it just one person longing for another?  And what if it is reciprocated but never spoken – does it exist?  It seems like that would just revert to pining, since neither person knows how the other feels unless they say it.  Sure either half can interpret the other half’s actions as love, but that could be a case of straight self-deception.  Being “in love” to me implies that you are being loved back.  If this is the case, because we cannot read minds and because so many of us refrain from verbalizing our feelings, we could be in love right now and not even know it.

I find it all very, very puzzling.