Monday, May 02, 2011

Pictures of Them

As you stand there in the ruins of another failed relationship, amongst the blow back from the horror that just happened, do you start to think? Or are you so stunned at being told, in more than one way (and maybe even a foreign language) to go fuck yourself that you cannot even form a single clear thought. The storm you've just witnessed may have taken your breath away, and left you feeling like you've been hit by a bus, but it surely wasn't that unexpected. After all, you entire 'relationship' life has been one storm off after another. The ruins of your failed relationships make Egypt green with envy.

However, once the shock of the loss has passed, and it will pass eventually, you start to realize that you have in fact been here before, and if history is any judge, you will be (sadly) here again. You close your eyes, and you picture the latest ruin, and it finally occurs to you, that if you were to line her up beside all the other 'hers' that have told you to fuck yourself, it might look very familiar. The people you call your friends have made this joke for years about your 'type', but you scoffed at that saying you were not so limited in your appreciation of the fairer sex. Then you start to ponder, after a while at least, if maybe, just maybe those so-called friends were on to something. Something so vague and buried in your own psyche that it takes someone with some distance to point it out to your blinded eyes.

The horror that it entails is not something that you wish to consider too much, after all, it is a startling, and somewhat disturbing realization.  It is not just the sad fact that if you were to line up pictures of 'them' (them being your last 5-7 relationships) you might detect an odd fact. That fact being that if a stranger were to look at the photos they might ask "Oh, are they all sisters, or related somehow?" You would wince with pain if you were asked that question aloud, but as you put those pictures (both real and the ones you carry around in your head) into an "all-star studded ex-girlfriend" line up, you realize, that the similarities are eerie.  The sad truth of the matter become suddenly, shockingly apparent right there before your very eyes. You sir, have a, what is commonly referred to as a 'type', and there is no mistaking it. The evidence is overwhelming.

Of course, you try to mount some sort of (weak, unconvincing even to you) defense, in the hopes of convincing someone, anyone that you do not have a type. Then again, as you ponder this concept deeper, you begin to wonder all sorts of other things. Things you are afraid to verbalize because if you spin the idea out to its logical conclusion, that conclusion just plain frightens the pants off of you. And the world is a much better, safer place if you mange not to take off your pants. 

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