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August 23, 1998
Volume 16: Don't Take Any Wooden Nipples
This has been a bad year for Auntie, so far. She has been screwed around by a game design company that shall remain nameless; a web design company that is apparently now nonexistent; a high tech megalith that was unfortunate enough to be bought out by another high tech macromegalith. Her beloved grandfather, tough vicious old bastard with a lot of good genetic material, is riddled with puffing pink cancers about thirty years before his time. Heck, she couldn't even get a good D&D character started. Her online game is crashing because of a lib upgrade, her computer is occasionally misbehaving in disturbing ways, and she can't seem to make the BBEdit upgrader find the BBEdit executable.
She's also desperately, deeply, truly madly, overwhelmingly and permanently, in love. Now, there are men in Auntie's past. Lots. Some of them are better than others. Uncle Dynamite is a pretty good one and she recommends that anybody who is interested in a steady, intelligent, reliable gentleman with nice shoulders and good legs should ask for his email. Auntie is still very affectionately disposed toward Uncle Dynamite.
Auntie is affectionately disposed toward most men in her past, an affection tempered with disgust in some cases, but present nonetheless. Auntie's not a bad ex to have, she rarely manifests her existence again and when she does, if it's patently unwelcome, she shrugs philosophically and wanders off. Not enough hours in the day, you know?
But this one, this is a man among men. This man is conversant in politics and wine; loud bangy music and S&M terminology; warm and tender and clever and funny; just distanced enough to make him all the more maddeningly desirable; kisses to make the knees turn to rose petals. Tall, dark, handsome. This is the man. No question about that.
There is, as there usually is when one is confronted with one's perfect other, a minor problem. The object of Auntie's affections was legally claimed by another lass with her eye on the prize, a couple of years ago. Said lass recognized the value of said darling and snapped him up like matches in a bra store. Went to a great deal of effort, sensibly to Auntie's mind, since this is the be all and end all of the male species, to secure said darling. Auntie is sympathetic -- no, really, Auntie is sympathetic. You don't pull on Superman's cape, you don't spit in the wind, and you don't give up a good man once you've found him.
At least, not without a good reason. I offer the good reason that this man is equally in love with Auntie, wildly mad about her, enough that he's bent, warped, twisted, and outright broken many of his personal codes that he thought inviolate -- the largest being "thou shalt not take anybody close enough that their blood might melt thine ice". Relations grew slowly, without untoward intention, until, until, until. Then Auntie began to insist the truth be told, since Auntie's like that, and after the truth was told, everything was thrust into apposite chaos.
Six weeks ago, this man told Auntie that, despite the personal cost to himself, he could no longer entertain long-term romantic notions about her. You may have noticed, gentle readers, that the last column from Auntie was six weeks ago, and it was as wistful and plaintive as Auntie's ever been. The last six weeks have been spent in a miasma of despair that has been blanketed with irritability and mock sunshine as best to hide that Auntie's heart was being held together with baling twine, fishhooks and chewing gum.
Today Auntie sent perhaps the most despondent email of her young and sparkly life to said man. He said back:
"what I want in my life is the woman I grew to love, and that person is warm, open, intriguing, and more than a little frustrating at times. I don't care, I signed up to the package deal."
Okay, darling, light of my life and ruler of my autonomic systems, here's the package deal. We're alive today. Tomorrow can tend to tomorrow. Take me now, here on the desktop, sweep away the icons and trash and love me. Integrity be damned. Honour be damned. Everything is cardboard and silly putty without you.
What do you figure, gentle readers? Is Auntie an amoral evil thieving wench? Well, yes, but does true love justify it? Does the infinite right supercede the temporal wrong? You can tell her off, or on, just the same.
Posted by gtaylor at August 23, 1998 12:22 AM
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