August 7, 2005 1:36 AM
I've been thinking (only on rare occassions if the weather's nice) about relationships and cheating lately. I recently saw a film with several storylines, the majority of which involved cheating in some shape or form. And lately, all the stories I've been hearing about so-and-so's relationships have all been about cheating. Many, if not most, of my friends or acquaintances have all been the Cheater, the Cheat-ee, or the Third (or Fourth, in some raunchy cases) Party in relationships. What's up with this?
It seems as though we've become the victims of our own creations. We've created an entire culture (books, movies, television) that evolves around relationships, spawning unrealistic expectations and illusions of a significant other. We constantly desire to become carbon copies of timeless couples who, through good times or bad, are FICTIONAL. Romeo & Juliet, Scarlett & Rhett, Ilsa & Rick Blaine, Cliff & Claire Huxtable, Sally & Harry, George & Wheezy, ok, maybe not George & Wheezy but you get my drift. It looks as though real, everyday people are just not enough for us anymore. Are humans constantly looking for bigger and better? (I didn't mean "bigger" with any sort of connotation. Figure of speech; "Better" just doesn't go with anything else.)
I'm not sure anyone can ever be completely satisfied with what he/she has. It explains a lot though. It explains the entire chain of Starbucks. Why the hell aren't we content with "coffee" or plain old coffee-flavored coffee? No, we have to have 5 different variations on milk: half & half, whole, skim, soy, organic soy (I might have made up organic soy.) We have to have a hundred different flavors of coffee, and then we have to spruce up coffee itself by fucking with the concentration, the amount, the bean and calling it a hundred different names. I think we might be on the edge of some post-modern break down. We'll end up so evolved that we'll confuse ourselves and have nowhere to go but down.
Hmm... I think my train of thought took an express track to a complete lack of a point.
On a completely random note: I was at my drycleaners the other day when I saw this hideous shirt. By the way, you know you've been in New York for a while when your drycleaner guy greets you by name. I feel very loved.
He said to me, "We'll take very special care of your clothes, ma'am."
I replied in my sultry sex-goddess voice, "Don't call me 'ma'am', Vijay, it makes me feel old. And I'm not that old." (It's true, I'm not.) Then I slipped him a George and a wink. I was feeling generous that day.
He said, "Very sorry, Miss Sandra."
"Just don't let it happen again, Vijay," I said. Then I had him don a loin cloth and fan me with a large banana tree leaf while I sipped a fruity cocktail.
You have to read his lines in an Indian accent though. It's much more erotic that way.
So, I see this hideous shirt hanging in the rotating racks: it was a bright top with mesh, flesh-colored sleeves and all these colorful images that were supposed to resemble tattoos. It was like something a figure skater would wear if he were a member of the Sharks in West Side Story On Ice. I guess some people are really curious to see what they'd look like with tattoos all over their arms. The only thing I'd ever wear on my sleeve is a button or my achin' heart.
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