If I'd Known What You Were Up To, I Would've Shot You Down | Matches blog

If I'd Known What You Were Up To, I Would've Shot You Down

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Here is a story that has a some common universals: love and stupidity. We have a girl's heart eclipsing the brain which causes feelings to block the cerebral cortex. Removing the heart so the brain can think clearly is a painful process, common side effects are tears and realizations. It's messy and painful but that's love or at least one way of looking at it. Alright the guy, well, the guy in the story is just stupid, nothing really too ground breaking about a girl dating some jackass and if there was any doubt to that he isn't, he goes ahead and plays the "No, you are!" card. You know that game? It's where you accuse your girlfriend or boyfriend of doing exactly what you are doing to them. You beat them to it so in hopes that they can't bust you out on it. It's a pretty dumb thing to do, really transparent, and all you are setting yourself up for is a Spy Vs. Spy dynamic which is awesome if you are a comic strip but a really bad idea in a relationship.

Alright, I took a philosophy class 8 years ago so here is my theory:

Two constants: Love and Stupid. Love can be simple and is universal, stupid can be simple and is universal. Love can be stupid and stupid can be love and since both are universal, love and stupid can be a lot of things making both constants universally undefinable thus making neither love or stupid dependent on each other on each other for sole or any definition.

I think that theory works. Maybe not. Alright, I am going to go to a keg party in hopes that I run into a student of philosophical logic so I can get this checked out. In the meantime, here is a bad relationship story...


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I Know You Are But What Am I

I met him by 79th and State, asking for directions at a gas station. At 30, plump and brown, I was a spinster with a golden heart. I left with an unaccustomed fluttering feeling and no expectation of ever seeing him again. Two weeks later, I was driving in a gray downpour. I turned from Lawrence to Broadway. Serendipitously, he was standing outside Starbucks, steam emanating from a plastic cup in his hand. Conditioned by a lifetime of Bollywood movies, I fall in love instantaneously. We sit by the lake, read the concrete horoscopes in Chinatown, eat tofu barbecue from Soul Vegetarian. Do things lovestruck people in Chicago do. I love him ridiculously, with the naive ardor of first love. After three years, he wants to marry me. I want to marry him, too. But there are logistical issues. Things sort of end, but...

...we still speak every week. He tells me that he loves me like family, that we will always be best friends. A week later, he stops talking to me. Completely. After three years. Cold turkey. No warning, no explanation. My grandma dies that week. I feel as though a wild animal is goring my heart. I email, call, text. No response. A dead zone. I cry myself to sleep for three weeks. He calls back. He was in NY, with another, while I was at the funeral. She is different from you, he tells me. She's beautiful, modern, open. I watch his Facebook posts with the self-flagellation of a Shiite mourner. On his birthday, I'm in the hospital. "Beautiful day", he writes, "Hookah and nice beats." For the past three years, we opened gifts in my broken down Suzuki. He doesn't even text. I call when released. His response: "Stop emotionally manipulating me." Its downhill from there.The other woman is an ardently hypocritical feminist. She reads bad poetry at hispter cafes. She's South Aisan, too, but light, bright, damn near white. I read her essays online. Marriage, oppressive, love temporal, lust the only certitude. Her genre: love poetry. Meanwhile, he's head over heels. He maligns me, his faith, his family. Obstacles to their epic L.O.V.E. In a few short months, she dumps him. He is devastated. And bizarrely, because I cant bear to see him hurting, so am I. Last week, Im at a cultural event in NY. I come face to face to her with her in the dingy bathroom at Joe's Pub. I recognize her immediately from photos. Nice skin, cunning smile. What to do? What to say? My heart starts thumping, my hands shake uncontrollably. I wait for the fight song from Rocky to come on but it never does. I went to prep school. I never learned how to bitch fight. I wrap my embroidered shawl around my shoulders and turn away. As I'm leaving, I see her chatting up a caramel skinned guy with a Peter Pan hat. And I think of a saying in our language: there is no medicine for stupidity.