|Who cares about braincells, T.V. kills moods!
||[Feb. 9th, 2007|10:02 am]
Less than a year ago (I don't remember precisely when, some time after my massive head trauma) I had what I wish had been only a one night stand with a woman addicted to T.V.|
She was beautiful, she was smart, she was relatively level headed, but she could not become unglued.
The brief encounter started with some powerfully passionate nights of heavy petting to choice movies, like many encounters, but we didn't hump the first few times and, for that, I am glad. Had we, I might not have had a clear head when a particularly pivotal moment that embodied an insurmountable difference arose.
The night we were "consummating our relationship" (I really need to find the origin of that stupid saying, either that, or just come up with a better one) we had gotten all of our clothes off, I had earned my keep twice (how's THAT for an original stupid saying?), we were both very happy with our raging entanglement, and right about the moment I was ready to become physically one with this person (for a minute or two ;-) she went completely limp in my arms.
She stopped, for 30 seconds, to recite the complete dialog... ...of a commercial. I had finally forgotten that her TV was always on, when it jumped out of no where, attacked me, and slapped me repeatedly across the face.
It took me a while to rally from that blow. The fire had completely left my veins, and I had to use every fragment of my will to force myself to a state of arousal, with the complete intention of using the old "roll over and fall asleep" trick to cut any further interaction short.
I tried again in later days, always averting my eyes from the TV, but I could never again ignore the shadows that jumped around the room, cast by our asses against the glow of her stupid TV. This was true of our discourse as well. At first, I found her knowledge of cinema charming and exciting. Slowly, I began to realize that it's all we ever talked about, and instead of being party to discussion, I was more of an audience to her every cinematic meandering. I had to escape!
But I am such a wimp. If I were snagged by a trap made of Gorgonzola, I would sooner chew through my own leg than the trap, if it got me out of the guilt of hurting a woman's feelings.
I couldn't figure away out. And I'm not the kind to stop returning phone calls.
Fortunately, opportunity presented itself. We were talking about Taxi Driver when I inadvertently confused Scorsese with Coppola. She flipped. In what I think was an effort to impress me, she feigned disgust for my inability to tell the two apart. I threw my arms up and with in the hour, we went from me telling her that I didn't think it was going to work out at all, to her bemoaning the fact that she had, at one point, "thought I was cool."
Wow, someone thought I was cool? What was she smoking?
I had almost forgotten about her when, last night, that stupid commercial came back to haunt me. I was cooking in the kitchen when my roommate's TV belted out that same 30 second dialog that had managed to submerge my normally towering libido. That memory is haunting me. Hopefully it will now go and haunt all of you, instead!