Uninterested Love

it occurs to me, there's something i always meant to document in written form, outside of my own head, that i still haven't: mcdoofus.

i've written about scoots, my forbidden love. see happiness is a red scooter. but i've never written about mcdoofus, my uninterested love.

perhaps i just let too much time slip by before even trying. all those once live wires of emotion in my head have long since had their power cut.

when i try to think about how i used to feel about it, him, myself, i mostly feel stupid. stupid for having thought i would not lie to myself. for having, not, for so long, realized, i do not know how to give love nor how to receive it. that i only know how to long for it. ache for it. play the martyr to its hopeless cause.

mcdoofus, as he was so affectionately dubbed by my mother, is the one experience in my life that i could never quite make sense of. even all these years later. after all this time of, just being friends. still, there's a missing quotient somewhere in the equation.

i can't recall a single, solitairy, specific moment when he ever made me happy, or even feel good about myself, and yet, in the most self-loathing way, i was entthralled with how well he fed into my desire to want that which did not want me.

i learned a lot from mcdoofus. mainly, how to let go. not gracefully, but just how. when forced to anyway. also, how willing i am to fall in love with anyone whom i know is unavailable.

deep at the root of it, i realized, i don't consider myself worthy of being loved. that i consider it a spectator sport. and i choose to sit on the sidelines and watch as the ball is kicked around by others. yearning to kick it with my own feet. yet desperately afraid to step foot on the field.

that's not mcdoofus's fault of course. he was merely the ball i chased, but never manged to catch.