The fire-eater.

She is exotic - she reminds me of Rome, although the woman has never been there. She is beautiful - as fragile as a geisha, as resourceful as a contortionist, as lovely as a tea-leaf-picker in harvest. She is funny, like a Bavarian with a big mug of beer. Although she has never read Camus, I find that in her, I find all the vestiges of my own domesticity. Sometimes, I feel like making slow, passionate love to her, eat away at the shreds of modesty she manages to stow away with her dry cynicism, sometimes, I feel like fucking her so hard that the whites of her eyes show and that she claws my back, desperate to draw blood. I can see that she is enchanted with my virtual self, so full of the enthusiasm I manage to espouse, she finds herself at ease with my vitality, I with hers. She corrects my bad grammar with a laugh that rings through my ears like somebody dropped me in the middle of the Appalachian Trail and left me to fend for myself. She swears by her love for me, and I find myself hesitant to accept it, to tell myself it's more than just a dream. When I tease her about her insecurities, I can feel her jaw tighten as she sulks, and I want to kiss the corner of her lips, reassure her that my love for her is without remorse. And I want to pick her up in my arms, and carry her to my bed, tell her that it is here, in my arms, that she will find the sanity life cannot give her. I have plans for her. So, I will wait.

The bouncy red.

Okay, S said yes.

Now what? I don't know.

Do you think this has a future? Probably.

Is this a bad idea? This is past a bad idea.

Do you really love her? More than I'd like to acknowledge.

Would you mind that she sleep around? Probably, no.

What is your emotional dependency on this woman? Till now, nothing significant enough to be documented.

What is her name? Dammit, computer. I'm trying to get a life here.

The little man and his quiver.

The asshole shot me in the leg. Who, you ask. Cupid the motherfucker. And I can't get out. I think I am falling for S. And I don't even know how.

SI + S = ?

A few months back, I had resorted to gallivanting across social networking sites so that I might find a small semblance of rationality in the make of these patterns. In my 'travels', I had an online encounter with a rather unique character, who I will call S here (because she decided to call herself that before revealing her true name to me). She is a SI, yes. And from what I gather, she is at least a decade older than me, or even more (who knows?). I'll add here that she is attractive, if one believes the the picture on her profile page is truly of her. What makes her an unique case is the fact that she IS like all these SI farts, in the way she proposes and/or disposes. Not far removed from the way these SIs talk/gesture/pontificate. A classic case of personality upheaval. I may go as far as to say she is as removed from a priori practical knowledge as my grandmother, yet, in her, I find a cynical battery of thoughts. From what I understand, she has a family that is a textbook-sampling of all that is SI and no, there are no Chautauquas to be learnt in that regard. Nondescript mediocrity. I may be wrong, and further away from the truth than I suspect, but this I know - the differences in culture make for a rather huge gap in understanding why these SIs act the way they do. I have never - yes, never - met a SI who distances himself/herself from this extraneous diaspora by contending that he/she will imbibe what's right and discard what is wrong. She is mildly coquettish, but I sense a deep discontent in her, like she is eager to set things right by giving them time, but has lost most of her bearings, borne down by the trappings of emotional virtuosity. I sound like a New Orleans shrink, so I will admit I am a bit frazzled by all this. We began a vigorous tour-de-force of messaging a month back, and it hasn't stopped yet. It bothers me. Like something is drawing me to this culturally-handicapped person. She can never respond to my Indie puns or my sourdough greetings, either because she does not get them or because her frame of cultural relevance collapsed with the company she chose to adorn herself with. Anyway, who am I to find meaning in all the kitsch?