Now you see the bunny run, now you see the bunny on your plate

I have had quite a week. I have gone to an exhibit of Klimt & Toorop paintings on Sunday with my - now - ex-roommate, C. I'm in love with Klimt's painting Medizin, and luckily for me it was one of the centre pieces of the exhibit. Of course, silly ice cube that I am, I went on the last day, which - naturally - was the day millions of other people who share my level of silliness decided it was the bestest day to visit the exhibit. One could hardly move without bumping into some or other stranger, or obstruct someone's intent gaze. I'm not even going to divulge on the numerous toes that have been stepped on, whether intentionally or not.
C. & I made fun of some of Toorop's paintings; it seems he could hardly paint flattering pictures of women. His woman looks rather haggard; sharp features, huge chins, with equally pronounced noses. I'm not attracted to women, but if I were I would be slightly offended by their depiction in these paintings: I cannot stomach people making light - or in this case: monsters - of my predilections unaccompanied by the famous tongue in cheek. Of course, our tongues - when joking - were firmly planted in our rosy cheeks, so to speak. No foul in our merry-making.

I must say that I had great fun that Sunday, though I'm not sure if C. had as much fun as I did. He appeared absent-minded - a state he's rarely in. Though I was a bit worried I brushed it aside quite readily since he's not one to linger beyond a necessary moment in a certain mood. He's quite adept in making his moods change from heavy to light. At any rate, I was sleepy, and went to bed as soon as I came home.

Wednesday I went to see D. D. and I had had a dalliance last summer, which resulted, like all dalliances that go unchecked, in a messy episode in which tears flowed - mostly, if not only his - like the mighty amazon river, his mouth delivered a rapid and continuous fire of words - mostly, if not only in a whiny tone of voice - and pairs of underwear were returned to wearer - in this case: me - in an envelope. I had chosen not to see him anymore. Drama of this sort is best avoided like wearing white after labour day. At any rate, he sent me an email saying that he was sorry he behaved in such a manner, and that he's over me, and that he would like to have a drink sometime. Sometime sounded quite pleasant, since it is entirely non-committal. I decided to make sometime this Wednesday. I called him, and we arranged to meet in Amsterdam. Note: I hate Amsterdam. With my newly acquired powers of self-deception I had turned the unpleasant act of visiting Amsterdam into an act I could look forward to without the slightest pricking of my sensibilities. Quite happy with this feat I went about planning my day in Amsterdam; I resolved to do some shopping, and buy some books in one of my favourite bookshops. The day went along quite nicely once I was there, though at around six my brain began to fatigue; it could no longer sustain the illusion, and I started itching to leave that Godforsaken place. I rang up D. to relieve my stress, but he was not cooperating - i.e. he did not answer his phone - and I slipped into a minor panic attack. Luckily, I got hold of him presently and we agreed to meet at his place and then go out for drinks & dinner (have you noticed the order?). We had Thai food, and two bottles of wine. Then we consumed an entire carton of B&J's. I stayed the night, which was probably not my brightest idea. But, my brain was already fatigued, sugared, and liquored up to think properly, so nothing but imprudent decisions could it make. There was some innocent hanky-panky, which left me feeling rather like an idiot. Since it reiterated the realisation that had already dawned on me: D. and I are so not meant to be an item, it's not even funny. He's a nice enough guy, good-looking enough, bendy enough, intelligent enough, but - unfortunately - I find him not captivating enough. If he could only grab and hold my attention for several minutes in row I would in an instant grow attached to him, but alas. I don't want to come across as a snob, or as some guy who thinks highly of himself. Moreover, I'm not calling D. boring - not at all even - I'm just saying that I'm not that into him. It's not his fault, and it's not my fault. It all bottles down to chemistry. There is none between us. Alchemy, perhaps, but not chemistry. I left Amsterdam feeling odd. And silly. I felt sixteen. And all the while the words D. uttered when lying in bed rung in my ear: "What's wrong with a little hanky-panky? it's not wrong if we both want it." But therein lies the sting D. I did not want it at heart. I was swayed by hormones, and the promise of connecting to someone. That promise, however, was unfulfilled and left me feeling lonelier than I had felt before I sallied into your bed.

Ah. Well. Today at work a colleague of mine Diana was grilling me; asking me all sorts of questions about my private life, and in a bout of candour I told her more than she needed to know on the level of our acquaintance. She is a strange woman. Guarded I should say. Quite difficult to assess. She has a way of talking of things in a light, and frivolous manner; in a sense luring you, like the pied piper, into disclosing your innermost thoughts. At any rate, I let her lead me down her mental path. I told her I don't like people. That I would rather be alone. That I enjoy doing things by myself. That I should like to buy a cat, and live like a hermit. She laughed, but she could as well have clicked her tongue in disapproval. I like her. She's human. I suspect some of my colleagues to be of an otherworldly nature. Quite scary folk. They would make colourful characters in a novel...