Why is it that I always get the compulsion to write when its absolutely inconvenient to do so? Like when I'm stuck at work, and its the weekend, so my wife will be home at the same time I am so I don't have privacy to write down the thoughts that I really don't want to share? For that matter, what the hell is it that triggers this mindstate to begin with? I'm pretty sure over tiredness has something to do with it, but it can't be the only thing.
Oh well, this time its not too hard to figure out what brought these feelings on. She's available again. As in romantically available. Not to me, of course, I'm solidly in the friend-zone where I should be, but its not like that has been known to prevent me from fantasizing. I wonder what she would think if she knew how serious I really was when I joke about being one of her romantic candidates. Or if she knew how much it actually hurt, deep down, when she told me how her husband "never felt threatened by me," not because of the implication that he doesn't think I'd ever stand a chance with her (after all, I pretty much feel that way myself), but instead because it serves as confirmation that she in no way reciprocates these feelings. After all, even though I have done everything I could to assure my wife that she is in no way a threat to our marriage (and I mean it, if only because she has never done anything to deserve betrayal from me, and I don't think I could ever bring myself to inflict that kind of pain on anyone undeservingly), I know that on some level she feels threatened by her.
God, that last paragraph just proves how much of a dick I truly am on the inside, and how much I really don't deserve EITHER of them. And even so, I think that what makes me feel worst out of all of it is that the fantasy I've been allowing myself to indulge in is one where her husband decides to divorce her, decides to tell me about it before hand so that she can have someone with her, and then I help her through it, she falls in love with me, and I leave my wife to be with her. I mean, for fuck's sake, nobody ever hire me to write fantasy literature, because apparently I fail at writing fantasies with any grounding whatsoever in reality. I always used to think of myself as a nice guy, perhaps even too nice for my own good, but then I start daydreaming about breaking up not only the marriage of my best friend, but my own marriage to boot? God damn me. Seriously.
Wow, totally didn't see the self loathing coming when I was indulging in the fantasy earlier. Why can't I just be a normal guy who dreams of who's going to win tonight's superbowl instead? No muss, no fuss, no guilt. I guess then I just wouldn't be me. Though some days I wonder just how good of a thing being myself is, in my case.
