The ranks of the freaks who suspect they could never love anyone

Talking to Nick the Cute Waiter about my love thing last night - because I'm still on that topic, he listened to me wax on about it for about 20 minutes, then he told me that "you won't find love when you look for it" and that "if you're not finding it, then you're not ready." I asked him why he was speaking in bumper stickers. Then, I started talking about the validity of "narrowing the field" and what-not. He told me that I was taking what other people said about me too seriously. I kept talking and kvetching, which I do sorta well for a gentile who's seen too many Woody Allen movies.

And I guess I wasn't listening to him or I guess he thought I was beyond help, for that's when he told me, "Your soulmate's gonna need to be deaf."

I was confused - yet offended.

"What?" I asked, taken aback.

First, Nick, who's 21 friggin' years old, apologized for it.

Then, at my urging, he told me that I worried entirely too much and didn't listen enough.

And then, and I don't know if I got this phrasing exactly right, Nick told me, "God only knows how big the butt-plug will need to be to get you to loosen the fuck up about your life."

So, yeah.

I got quiet. So quiet, in fact, that Nick, who was laughing when he said all that, wondered for a moment if I was still on the phone.

I was.

Part of me thinks he's wrong. Part of me thinks he's right. Part of me knows not to care what the hell he thinks. Part of me thinks, "Dickhead." Part of me thinks, "Damn, he just said that. That was so harsh that it was sorta awesome."

Considering all this, I didn't really have a response for what he said.

Black called in the middle of my chat with Nick, so I clicked over and talked to Black instead of Nick.

Black's like me. (Cool, I just found an excuse to type that.)

Girlfriend-less Black waxes about love the way I do. Black thinks about it like I do. There's comfort in that, and that's the conversation I was better prepared to have last night, however much I may need to hear about needing to relax and ceasing worry.

Part of me, I know, kinda enjoys worrying. It's familiar and friendly, and it feels like action - even though it's more like wheel-spinning.

Does that make sense? That kvetching is actually a comfort on a lonely night in a messy apartment? Late-night, unnecessarily philosophical phone calls with Black about how we should date more and about how we're smart but misunderstood creatures who just haven't connected with the right person (OR INSERT: job ... faith ... meaning ... direction ...) are no longer about finding answers.

They're just about enjoying the talk.

I understand that. And I understand the implications of what sort of person that makes me.

I'm good at talking. Really good at it. I like doing it. And I enjoy the maddening way I think.

Others can't really stand it. Some can.

This morning, I got a great e-mail from a guy who reads the blog. He told me to trust myself implicitly, to remain feeling and vulnerable ... and that love will come eventually.

This is all too complicated to go into now.

I have a life that I need to fix. In the meantime, I just have to live in it.