Me: OK, so…
You: Wait a sec.
Me: What?
You: You’re not going to set the mood for us? Nothing?
Me: The mood?
You: Yea. Where are you?
Me: What does that matter?
You: Hey listen dickweed when someone tells me a fucking story, I want to know the time and place.
Me: OK, ok, it’s present time.
You: And where are you?
Me: I’m lying down on a psychiatrist couch with no one else in the room. I could presumably be the psychiatrist, but we both know I’m not.
You: Ok.
Me: Is that enough?
You: What are you listening to?
Me: Nothing
You: What am I listening to?
Me: Holy shit… think Coldplay’s second album.
You: X & Y?
Me: No, A Rush of Blood to the Head.
You: OK, Politik, right?
Me: Yea.
You: Great.
Me: I don’t want to be interrupted again so can I just go?
You: Yea.
Me: Great. Ok, so…
You: No, wait, what’s the weather?
Me: It’s sunny
You: But you’re about to get depressive aren’t you?
Me: Some would say, yes.
You: So why aren’t we in the rain?
Me: I’m trying to go against type here. I’m an artist.
You: Interesting. I respectfully disagree, but we’ll go with it.
XY: I think I figured it out. It’s taken me almost 27 years, but I think I finally got to the root of my problem.
You: That seems interesting… would you like to share that information?
XY: Well, not really, it seems pretty personal. I mean, if you were lying here and about to tell me that you’ve unlocked the secret of your own personal life, I would probably say
something like, “shit, that sounds pretty deep, why don’t you hold on to that for a bit and mull it over before you share it out.”
You: You’d really say that?
XY: Probably not, I’m just saying that now so I can put off telling you what I found out. I don’t think I turn up looking like roses with this conclusion so it’d be best for me, personally,
to hold off.
You: There’s no judging here.
XY: I’m not buying that. But that’s ok, you’re not really selling it are you? You have to say that so I can feel comfortable enough to reveal some dark shit about me right? I mean,
who wants to reveal that they’re a premature ejaculator or a guy that likes little boys, or a woman teacher who wants to fuck a student to someone that’s going to pass judgment,
right? Fucked up people don’t need the extra headache, right?
You: You’re still stalling.
XY: You pick up on shit quickly. I don’t suppose that means you’re a good listener, maybe it just means you’re an impatient listener, or just impatient. The good news is that I
figured it out. It’s taken me almost 27 years, but I think I finally got to the root of my problem. I want perfection.
You: Seems like a legitimate desire to me.
XY: Really? ‘Cause I was taught that no one’s perfect, unless we’re counting G-d, and I don’t think G-d, if it’s a woman, is in my league. I’m literally looking for the perfect girl, that
will only call when I want her to call, will always pick up the phone when I call. I’m looking for a girl that is good looking, but not too good looking that she’ll realize that she can do
better than me. I want a girl that has money, but is not rich so that I don’t feel insecure about the fact that I’m Civil Service. I want a girl that’s in shape, but not in too much shape,
because I don’t want to look like a hypocrite because I don’t go to the gym. I want a girl that’s intelligent, but not so much smarter than me because I don’t like coming off stupid. I
want a girl who’s into politics, but not a neo-Con, because I just don’t get those people, and I like talking about politics. I want a girl that likes to have sex, but not too much sex,
because I can be self conscious about it, and I don’t want to always be thinking about how good I am at sex. I want a girl with a close family, but not so close that I have to compete
with mom, dad and little bro for their affection. I want a girl with the same religion as me, but not more religious than me, because I don’t want to feel inferior in the eyes of our
Lord, ya know? I want a girl with cool friends, but not too cool, because I don’t want to start liking her friends more than I like her, that could get weird. There’s more stuff too, you
know? I just wanted to get rid of the tip of the proverbial ice berg. So what do you think? Do I have relationship problems?
You: Yes.
XY: Of course I do. Very perceptive, I hope you don’t get paid to give this type of advice. The way I see it is this; everyone starts out looking for this right? I mean, when we’re young,
we want the perfect girlfriend or boyfriend (depending on your level of gayness). But, for some reason, most normal people grow out of this fantasy and start settling for people with
most of these qualities. They’ll sacrifice the religion thing for looks and call frequency, or, they’ll trade gym rate for intelligence and financial grounds. This almost seems logical to
me, almost. People argue that they eventually start ditching the idea (or ideal) of perfection and start dealing with the concept that there are certain people (or just one person) that
are perfect for them. I can get behind this, but these same people lose me when they say they’re looking for a person just as “fucked up” as they are. Why would I want to be with
someone just as fucked up as me? I can’t tolerate myself. Why in the fucking world would I want to deal with me to the second power? No way, nah ah, give me someone that is
the opposite of that. Where I am fucked up, I’d want my significant other to be completely fucked down.
You: Fucked down?
XY: Like fucked up means anything? The way I see it, is this; settling breeds more settling. I just decided to never settle. Apparently, I made this decision when I was 10 years old
and couldn’t decide on whom I liked more, Michelle Spinato or Diana Drayer. I couldn’t figure it out, so I lost both of them, and ended up like I always do, alone. But let’s say I just
decided that Michelle Spinato was the one for me. I should’ve known this right? The fact that I had to think about it so much was surely a sign that I wasn’t totally committed, right?
Where would this have lead me? I’ll tell you where, heartbroken and distraught at the tender age of 11. Honestly, I don’t need that shit. I don’t need it now, at 27.
You: You’re 26
XY: Who gives a shit how old I am? I will not settle, I will not, is that clear? I will not find someone that is just as fucked up as I am. I will not worry about it either. I will enjoy this
precious life, for it is too short to worry about women or sex, or blow jobs, or marital bliss. I will want those things, no denying that, but I will not let them get in the way of the thing
that matters most anymore. Robert Kennedy once said, “Those who live with us are our brothers, that they share with us the same short moment of life; that they seek, as do we,
nothing but the chance to live out their lives in purpose and in happiness, winning what satisfaction and fulfillment they can.” Happiness, according to dictionary.com, is defined as
pleasure, contentment, and joy. I will live out the rest of my days in that pursuit, that chase for happiness. As for what is bothering me? The loneliness, the women, the perfection,
the “fucked-upness?”
You: What about those things?
XY: I already asked myself that question, what good are you? Those things will no longer deter me from being satisfied, and more importantly, no longer stop me from making the
people that I call family and friends happy. For those people will no doubt, make me happy in return. Will I meet the right woman? I don’t know. Questions like that can drive a
man crazy. Questions like that can make a man write a scene about a make believe psychiatrist on a make believe couch with a make believe audience. I surely don’t want to be
that guy. No thank you.
You: You don’t think you’re that guy?
XY: I fucking hope not, but I guess you never know. I suppose that what this session has proven is that if I were a sentence, I would be like one of those S.A.T. sentences that have
blanks in them. Something like this: Today Wegener's theory is ____ ; however, he died an outsider treated with ____ by the scientific establishment. Now, you and I know the
answers would be something like, “unchallenged” and “disdain.” Stay with me, I’m trying to make a fucking metaphor here. I am an incomplete sentence and maybe the girl that I’
m suppose to meet is an incomplete sentence that looks like _____ ________ _______ __ unchallenged; ________, __ ____ __ _______ _______ ____ disdain __ ___
__________ _______________.
You: What?
XY: You’re so literal it’s pathetic. What I’m trying to say is that people, men and women, are all incomplete. Looking for someone just as fucked up as you are is only looking for
the same type of incompleteness, which will still leave you wanting more. I don’t want to want more anymore. I want to be satisfied. I want to meet someone that will fill in those
blanks. And you want to know what? Maybe I don’t need a woman for that. Maybe my friends and family satisfy me all I need. It’s possible, right? I mean, I hope that’s not true. I
will continue to live with the hope that there is a woman out there that will challenge me and not disdain me, that will fill in my blanks, so that I may fill in hers (sorry, unnecessary
dirty joke). But I can no longer allow myself to be bogged down by the concept of loneliness and this ridiculous pursuit of perfection. For the first 27 years of my life, I’ve been
misguided. I’ve been looking for this perfect girl to complete myself, when all along, I’ve had all the missing pieces in front of me; my family, my friends. The pursuit now is for
gratification, for me and for others; and in this quest, I hope to find the woman of my dreams…. And no one said that your dreams were perfect.
You: So do you feel better?
XY: For now. Till the next time….
You: Wait a sec.
Me: What?
You: You’re not going to set the mood for us? Nothing?
Me: The mood?
You: Yea. Where are you?
Me: What does that matter?
You: Hey listen dickweed when someone tells me a fucking story, I want to know the time and place.
Me: OK, ok, it’s present time.
You: And where are you?
Me: I’m lying down on a psychiatrist couch with no one else in the room. I could presumably be the psychiatrist, but we both know I’m not.
You: Ok.
Me: Is that enough?
You: What are you listening to?
Me: Nothing
You: What am I listening to?
Me: Holy shit… think Coldplay’s second album.
You: X & Y?
Me: No, A Rush of Blood to the Head.
You: OK, Politik, right?
Me: Yea.
You: Great.
Me: I don’t want to be interrupted again so can I just go?
You: Yea.
Me: Great. Ok, so…
You: No, wait, what’s the weather?
Me: It’s sunny
You: But you’re about to get depressive aren’t you?
Me: Some would say, yes.
You: So why aren’t we in the rain?
Me: I’m trying to go against type here. I’m an artist.
You: Interesting. I respectfully disagree, but we’ll go with it.
XY: I think I figured it out. It’s taken me almost 27 years, but I think I finally got to the root of my problem.
You: That seems interesting… would you like to share that information?
XY: Well, not really, it seems pretty personal. I mean, if you were lying here and about to tell me that you’ve unlocked the secret of your own personal life, I would probably say
something like, “shit, that sounds pretty deep, why don’t you hold on to that for a bit and mull it over before you share it out.”
You: You’d really say that?
XY: Probably not, I’m just saying that now so I can put off telling you what I found out. I don’t think I turn up looking like roses with this conclusion so it’d be best for me, personally,
to hold off.
You: There’s no judging here.
XY: I’m not buying that. But that’s ok, you’re not really selling it are you? You have to say that so I can feel comfortable enough to reveal some dark shit about me right? I mean,
who wants to reveal that they’re a premature ejaculator or a guy that likes little boys, or a woman teacher who wants to fuck a student to someone that’s going to pass judgment,
right? Fucked up people don’t need the extra headache, right?
You: You’re still stalling.
XY: You pick up on shit quickly. I don’t suppose that means you’re a good listener, maybe it just means you’re an impatient listener, or just impatient. The good news is that I
figured it out. It’s taken me almost 27 years, but I think I finally got to the root of my problem. I want perfection.
You: Seems like a legitimate desire to me.
XY: Really? ‘Cause I was taught that no one’s perfect, unless we’re counting G-d, and I don’t think G-d, if it’s a woman, is in my league. I’m literally looking for the perfect girl, that
will only call when I want her to call, will always pick up the phone when I call. I’m looking for a girl that is good looking, but not too good looking that she’ll realize that she can do
better than me. I want a girl that has money, but is not rich so that I don’t feel insecure about the fact that I’m Civil Service. I want a girl that’s in shape, but not in too much shape,
because I don’t want to look like a hypocrite because I don’t go to the gym. I want a girl that’s intelligent, but not so much smarter than me because I don’t like coming off stupid. I
want a girl who’s into politics, but not a neo-Con, because I just don’t get those people, and I like talking about politics. I want a girl that likes to have sex, but not too much sex,
because I can be self conscious about it, and I don’t want to always be thinking about how good I am at sex. I want a girl with a close family, but not so close that I have to compete
with mom, dad and little bro for their affection. I want a girl with the same religion as me, but not more religious than me, because I don’t want to feel inferior in the eyes of our
Lord, ya know? I want a girl with cool friends, but not too cool, because I don’t want to start liking her friends more than I like her, that could get weird. There’s more stuff too, you
know? I just wanted to get rid of the tip of the proverbial ice berg. So what do you think? Do I have relationship problems?
You: Yes.
XY: Of course I do. Very perceptive, I hope you don’t get paid to give this type of advice. The way I see it is this; everyone starts out looking for this right? I mean, when we’re young,
we want the perfect girlfriend or boyfriend (depending on your level of gayness). But, for some reason, most normal people grow out of this fantasy and start settling for people with
most of these qualities. They’ll sacrifice the religion thing for looks and call frequency, or, they’ll trade gym rate for intelligence and financial grounds. This almost seems logical to
me, almost. People argue that they eventually start ditching the idea (or ideal) of perfection and start dealing with the concept that there are certain people (or just one person) that
are perfect for them. I can get behind this, but these same people lose me when they say they’re looking for a person just as “fucked up” as they are. Why would I want to be with
someone just as fucked up as me? I can’t tolerate myself. Why in the fucking world would I want to deal with me to the second power? No way, nah ah, give me someone that is
the opposite of that. Where I am fucked up, I’d want my significant other to be completely fucked down.
You: Fucked down?
XY: Like fucked up means anything? The way I see it, is this; settling breeds more settling. I just decided to never settle. Apparently, I made this decision when I was 10 years old
and couldn’t decide on whom I liked more, Michelle Spinato or Diana Drayer. I couldn’t figure it out, so I lost both of them, and ended up like I always do, alone. But let’s say I just
decided that Michelle Spinato was the one for me. I should’ve known this right? The fact that I had to think about it so much was surely a sign that I wasn’t totally committed, right?
Where would this have lead me? I’ll tell you where, heartbroken and distraught at the tender age of 11. Honestly, I don’t need that shit. I don’t need it now, at 27.
You: You’re 26
XY: Who gives a shit how old I am? I will not settle, I will not, is that clear? I will not find someone that is just as fucked up as I am. I will not worry about it either. I will enjoy this
precious life, for it is too short to worry about women or sex, or blow jobs, or marital bliss. I will want those things, no denying that, but I will not let them get in the way of the thing
that matters most anymore. Robert Kennedy once said, “Those who live with us are our brothers, that they share with us the same short moment of life; that they seek, as do we,
nothing but the chance to live out their lives in purpose and in happiness, winning what satisfaction and fulfillment they can.” Happiness, according to dictionary.com, is defined as
pleasure, contentment, and joy. I will live out the rest of my days in that pursuit, that chase for happiness. As for what is bothering me? The loneliness, the women, the perfection,
the “fucked-upness?”
You: What about those things?
XY: I already asked myself that question, what good are you? Those things will no longer deter me from being satisfied, and more importantly, no longer stop me from making the
people that I call family and friends happy. For those people will no doubt, make me happy in return. Will I meet the right woman? I don’t know. Questions like that can drive a
man crazy. Questions like that can make a man write a scene about a make believe psychiatrist on a make believe couch with a make believe audience. I surely don’t want to be
that guy. No thank you.
You: You don’t think you’re that guy?
XY: I fucking hope not, but I guess you never know. I suppose that what this session has proven is that if I were a sentence, I would be like one of those S.A.T. sentences that have
blanks in them. Something like this: Today Wegener's theory is ____ ; however, he died an outsider treated with ____ by the scientific establishment. Now, you and I know the
answers would be something like, “unchallenged” and “disdain.” Stay with me, I’m trying to make a fucking metaphor here. I am an incomplete sentence and maybe the girl that I’
m suppose to meet is an incomplete sentence that looks like _____ ________ _______ __ unchallenged; ________, __ ____ __ _______ _______ ____ disdain __ ___
__________ _______________.
You: What?
XY: You’re so literal it’s pathetic. What I’m trying to say is that people, men and women, are all incomplete. Looking for someone just as fucked up as you are is only looking for
the same type of incompleteness, which will still leave you wanting more. I don’t want to want more anymore. I want to be satisfied. I want to meet someone that will fill in those
blanks. And you want to know what? Maybe I don’t need a woman for that. Maybe my friends and family satisfy me all I need. It’s possible, right? I mean, I hope that’s not true. I
will continue to live with the hope that there is a woman out there that will challenge me and not disdain me, that will fill in my blanks, so that I may fill in hers (sorry, unnecessary
dirty joke). But I can no longer allow myself to be bogged down by the concept of loneliness and this ridiculous pursuit of perfection. For the first 27 years of my life, I’ve been
misguided. I’ve been looking for this perfect girl to complete myself, when all along, I’ve had all the missing pieces in front of me; my family, my friends. The pursuit now is for
gratification, for me and for others; and in this quest, I hope to find the woman of my dreams…. And no one said that your dreams were perfect.
You: So do you feel better?
XY: For now. Till the next time….
