Dark, brooding, intense–sign me up!

It is, oddly, rather slow here today at my temporary workplace and as a result I was able to go to lunch and everything, like a normal person. Oh, and I know what I said yesterday about this place being an Everlasting Gobstopper, but guess what.

Guess.

Today they have asked me to stay another week. At this point I am slated to be here till 2015.

Anyway, I got to have lunch with a friend of mine, and we ended up on a fascinating topic. The intense, brooding, damaged man. Why do we love him?

In high school, I went back and forth between two boys: Cardinal–who I have talked about before–and Giovanni Leftwich, who I have also talked about before, and really what haven't I talked about, seeing as I have had this blog since God wore a onesie.

Oh, and before I drone on about men, can I ask for everyone to just take a moment and wish me well, whether that be through prayer, kind thoughts, good vibes or what have you? Because (you may want to sit down) I got a gel manicure yesterday and one of the nails did not cure correctly and it dried–

–seriously, brace yourself–

to a dull finish. Do you want pictures? I can provide them. Or is that too graphic? Okay, hang on.

Tragicnail
I just had to take a picture with my cell phone, email it to myself, access the email on my work computer, open it in Photoshop and then upload it here. The things I DO for you people. But see the one nail, there? How dreadfully dull?

I know.

This means I will be forced to return to the manicurist and have her fix it. Oh, the tribulations I endure.

Anyway, back to men. Speaking of tribulations. So in high school, I vacillated between these men, and Cardinal was all fun-loving and a laugh a minute and so on, but guess who I loved. LOVED. Giovanni, who was intense and damaged and brooding. And I went on to love him for many of my so-called adult years, too.

The friend I had lunch with has a similar story. She isn't much younger than me, and yes, we DID use our senior citizens' discounts, Shecky Greene. But way back in high school she loved a (yes) brooding intense damaged man, and although years have passed and they have supposedly moved on, she still carries a torch, and when she hears from him it's all, oooh! I.B.D. man!

Why. Why do we love them? Because the more she described this man, the more I was all, oh! Yes! I would have loved him, too. With his dark hair and his glasses and his moods and his brilliance and his romantic gestures and his despondency.

How many of you are reading that and similarly saying, Oh, he sounds good.

WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH US?

Why are we not drawn to fun-loving secure healthy men? I mean, doesn't that sound more, I don't know, rewarding? And I know some of you are. When I lived in Seattle, my friend Pam and I would walk around Greenlake, and she would be drawn to the healthy athletic men running past or or rollerblading or some other stupid activity that's good for you, whereas I would be staring at the men wearing all black, sitting under a tree torturedly writing poetry.

And by the way, …friend is not tortured and damaged. In fact I tried to tell him about this lunch and he wrote back with, "Should I be brooding now?" Then he tried to complain heartily about his life and I was all, yeah. Bob Geldoff in the Pink Floyd movie you are not.

So I must be getting better about it. But still. You show me Harold from Harold & Maude, or Andrew McCarthy's character in St. Elmo's Fire, or Vincent Van Gogh or Sid Vicious or Kurt Cobain and oh! I am all about them.

You feeling me?

125 thoughts on “Dark, brooding, intense–sign me up!

  1. Fay (and yeah, guys do it too... we called it the Sad Girl Syndrome. Sad Girls got ALL the dudes!) says:

    Oh, man, I went to music school, y’all. Hours and hours spent in practice rooms, watching broody moody bass players and/or drummers rehearse whatever esoteric jazz they were working on that week. If I had a dollar… well, I’d have a lot of dollars.
    Then I lived with a true IBD for 3 years. I call ’em Life Sucking Parasites.
    Bass players are totes hot, though.

    Like

  2. Fay (and yeah, guys do it too... we called it the Sad Girl Syndrome. Sad Girls got ALL the dudes!) says:

    Oh, man, I went to music school, y’all. Hours and hours spent in practice rooms, watching broody moody bass players and/or drummers rehearse whatever esoteric jazz they were working on that week. If I had a dollar… well, I’d have a lot of dollars.
    Then I lived with a true IBD for 3 years. I call ’em Life Sucking Parasites.
    Bass players are totes hot, though.

    Like

  3. Fay (and yeah, guys do it too... we called it the Sad Girl Syndrome. Sad Girls got ALL the dudes!) says:

    Oh, man, I went to music school, y’all. Hours and hours spent in practice rooms, watching broody moody bass players and/or drummers rehearse whatever esoteric jazz they were working on that week. If I had a dollar… well, I’d have a lot of dollars.
    Then I lived with a true IBD for 3 years. I call ’em Life Sucking Parasites.
    Bass players are totes hot, though.

    Like

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