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Desperately seeking Susan?

I just had a blast from the past. I watched Desperately Seeking Susan. I can't believe I saw that movie so many years ago. And only because Madonna was in it. At that time, I had a HUGE Madonna crush. Something that few of the kids who grew up with the Backstreetboys can understand. She was fresh, outrageous and projected the kind of sexuality we only dreamed of.

The movie also reminded me of one of my theories: the Bovarism. That irrepressible urge to think that the grass is always greener on the other (wilder) side. Like Roberta, the clean and proper housefrau in Desperately... I've been prone to daydreaming about that wild side, that part of me that seems to have departed to never come back. Not even to pick up his old clothes. I still feel that that part of me is here. But I cannot summon it at will. It just comes and goes as it pleases. It comes mainly when I'm online and then it dissapears for ages. Until it pops up again.

I wonder what it is that makes me pine for that part of me. Is it ennui? Is it nostalgia? Boredom? Envy? I have no idea. I know that many men (me included) think that domesticity is ok. And I also know that many feel that it is a burden. I don't think it is that bad. It gives you security. But I guess that cuts both ways and it takes the edge, the excitement out of your life.

Oh, the buying stuff in second-hand stores. Living on popcorn and Ramen noodles. The endless nights. The one-week stands. The hurried, hot, sweaty, mind-blowing sex. Listening to music that no one else listened to, going to midnight movies and crashing at friends' houses for two days. Having an affair with your ex just to spite him (or because you always thought his brother/father/roommate was hotter) and then starting all over again. Writing papers in three hours, putting together portfolios in one. Crying over a B+ and dancing in the street when it turns out to be an A-. Sharing lunch with seven people outside a museum. Swapping clothes with a friend who just happens to have a style that's a mix of Diana Vreeland and Grace Jones. Working free-lance and making house calls to make bored housewives pretty and flirt with their husbands/sons/brothers. Getting away with murder and a weird hair color. Wearing studs and black leather at high noon and early morning. Laughing your head off in a R showing of The Exorcist, going to see your first porno movie in a theater. Fucking under the rain and having mind-blowing orgasms. The thrill of the empty houses with three men in it that don't know you're doing all of them. The father and son who are secretely sharing you. The novels that seem written just for you. The movies that inspire you to cut your hair in a mohawk. Wearing eyeliner and all black. Shoulder pads and ankle boots. Making your own t-shirts and writing a diary you keep under key.

It all seems like a fucking dream sometimes. I'm forced to normalcy. Swore into everyday blandness. But it's life, isn't it? You, with your life and times will someday look back at your blog and wonder what the ennui is all about, why the angst, the never ending pining and pondering. I promise. Hopefully, it won't be painful. The same way it's not painful for me. It's just a touch of nostalgia. A Bovarism that never ends. Maybe it's just part of growing up.

And that's good enough for now. Cheerios, babyboy.




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