Despertar

let's talk about love

Let's not. I hate love right now. It makes me do stupid things and feel stupid ways, and I have yet to enjoy any measure of success with it.

*

I'm really worried about the new X-Files movie. I'll see it, of course, out of some mixture of loyalty and curiosity and on the off chance that it'll be fabulous, but I consider it to be just that, an off chance.

They say the movie dispenses with all the cancer/conspiracy/origins arcs and plays out more like a standalone episode, to appease all those fans who tuned in specifically to see mothmen and bat creatures. This is a relief to me, too: I have to confess, at no point during the show's nine years did I ever have a really firm grip on the status of the conspiracy, or a really strong interest in where it was headed. I was into the romance of it, the evolution of the characters and their relationship. I wanted to know whether Scully would actually totally sacrifice everything to feed Mulder's obsession, and if so, whether Mulder would ever show her any gratitude for it. They were Marcus and me, and I wanted to know how our story would turn out.

Now that I already know how they ended, now that I already know how we ended, I'm not sure if their onscreen chemistry will hold the same significance for me. They had sex. They had a baby. Scully totally failed me as mother to Mulder's baby, both during his absence and when he was returned.

I'm imagining they'll come up with some great new adversary, or bring back a beloved old one (Tooms maybe? The ghosts who stole Christmas? Lord Kinbote?), but it'll be like the moment when casual sex turns into dating, the space between them will be full of love but no tension, they'll be comfortable and the charge will be gone.

I go back and forth. I'll see it, I won't see it, I'll see it, no, I shouldn't. Well, of course I'll see it.

I'll probably see it.

*

I may have been too hasty in reacting to my new set of circumstances with Justin. A series of clarificatory talks later, we've learned that really, all he felt guilty about was the sex, and that maybe that's all that has to end.

He called me retarded for skipping the party, and was otherwise truly surprised at how much I (over)reacted. Evidently he thought it would be way simpler than that, and that I would be grateful for the change. He thought I would sigh at relief at not being expected to casually pleasure him when he wasn't doing what he considered to be enough in return.

He wasn't doing anything wrong, though. He was doing better than anyone else has done for me, ever. He already likes me more than Marcus ever did, and has shown way more gentility and restraint.

I hate him. I hate them both. I hate myself. I think I'm going crazy