Mary frequently doesn't respond to my texts for days or weeks. I keep at it, and then one day she responds immediately. Then once in a while, I get her to call me, and we talk for two to seven hours. Last weekend, after a couple of unresponsive weeks, she became rather chatty, albeit with rather random responses.

On Sunday evening, we talked on the phone and watched the second episode of a show called Paradise that she's obsessed with. The last time we talked on the phone, she asked me to watch the first episode with her, and I said I wanted to watch all the episodes with her as a clever way of getting her to talk to me more often. She said maybe I wasn't really tricking her because that's what she wanted. So there were only two weeks between these phone calls, which is a record.

This time, I was high. I've texted people I trust while I was high, including Mary, but I've never talked on the phone. Mary's voice sounded softer than ever and like it was right inside my ear. Most of the episode proceeded uneventfully, but there was a part where a woman picked up a carton of ice cream at the store and asked her son, "Horse?" and he said, "Horse." I understood this to mean that the ice cream was horse-flavored, and I didn't question that. It's kind of a weird show. In the next shot, her son was riding the coin-operated horse ride outside the store. I laughed my ass off as I explained my misunderstanding to Mary, and she laughed at my laughter and asked why I don't laugh more often. I should have told her she needs to be funnier.

Then there was a part where a woman, I think the same one, told some guy that it was sexy when he did what she wanted. I boldly asked Mary if that was true and said that I could do what she wanted. She laughed. When the episode ended, I said it again and told her I needed to say it now before I got my inhibitions back. She said that because I probably wouldn't remember that conversation, she would be blunt, and of course I didn't like the sound of that, but all she said was that it was obvious (i.e. that I wanted to do what she wanted). "Within reason," she added before I got a chance.

"I trust you," I said, and that was so true. I've told her before that if I could, I would give her my soul and feel perfectly safe.

I kept her talking while she needed to go to bed, and she said she was going to do a Sudoku before bed and that made her a nerd and also a hypocrite for calling me and her sisters nerds. I said she needed to tell me what words I was allowed to call her so I didn't get in trouble. She said I can call her whatever words she calls me.

I said, "I like that you set the rules, and I have to obey them."

She said, "I know you do."

Perhaps this experience is just weird to anyone else, but it was beautiful and titillating and thrilling to me, and this is my blog, so of course I'm going to write about my life, not everyone else's. I used to be scared that she would feel misled about our friendship if I told her I loved her, and now I routinely test her boundaries and kiss her ass, and she doesn't hate it. I guess I'll keep at it until she gets a boyfriend or tells me to get lost, but I don't anticipate either of those things happening.

She hasn't responded to me about watching Paradise together this evening, though, so DuckTales alone it is.

The hopeless romantic inside me has been screaming to get out for years. Since I told my friend Mary that I was thoroughly smitten with her, she's let me let him out by writing her love poems and saying really sweet things, especially when I'm high. Just the sweet things, I mean. I haven't yet attempted to write a poem while I'm high because that takes more effort than I usually feel like making. Mary is emotionally unavailable for various reasons that may or may not ever change, but at least she lets me express myself. I don't care if you think that's pathetic. I think it's sweet.

So this year, I asked if I could send her flowers for Valentine's Day. I would have done it without asking except that I had to get her address. She said she loved flowers, briefly exposing the sensitive soul beneath her tough exterior. Then I procrastinated because the trauma from years of poverty makes spending large amounts of money feels like cutting my fingers off. Then, two days before Valentine's Day, the store I'd picked to order from was too busy to take any more orders for Valentine's Day. I was horrified... until I remembered that her birthday was two weeks later. I asked if she would be crushed if the flowers were a few days late and apologized for letting her down. She said I hadn't let her down because I didn't owe her anything. Then I hoped she would forget about the whole thing and be surprised on her birthday, which was my brilliant plan all along.

I see the florist picked yellow because I selected "Friend" on the order form. There wasn't a "Friend who is vocally in love but respects boundaries" option. I knew that yellow was the apology color, and I used yellow flowers for that purpose once many years ago. I found out that it was also the color of friendship when a friend sent me a yellow heart emoji, which didn't make me think of friendship so much as cholesterol poisoning. My friendly little note was something like, "Happy birthday, Mary! You are a star shining in the darkness, and I am so blessed to have your light in my life." I gravitated toward that metaphor and once wrote an entire poem stretching it to the limit because she's one of the bright spots that makes living through these godawful times worth it. Not the only one, of course. I haven't made her solely responsible for my happiness because that would be unfair to her and unhealthy for me. See, I'm mature and stuff.

I felt like it was my birthday too, though, when Iran's "Supreme Leader" and several other vermin were removed from the planet. Now look, I hate the U.S. government. I hate the Israeli government. I don't think Trump should be allowed to unilaterally order strikes and bombings whenever he wants. I don't want another twenty-year war in the Middle East. Nonetheless, what's happened has happened, and the deaths of these dictators, torturers, and murderers are very good things, and certain leftists who can't see that really need to get their heads out of their asses. The Ayatollah was evil. The Islamic Republic is evil. Whoever needs to hear this, please stop saying stupid shit like "Iran has a right to defend itself" as if its brutal theocracy, which very recently murdered thousands of protesters, represents the people who are currently cheering, dancing in the streets, setting off fireworks, and writing "Rest in piss" on Reddit every time another member of it is reported dead. (Seriously, they love that phrase.) This. Is. What. Iranians. Wanted.

And again, I'm not unaware of the political problems with the circumstances under which it happened, the unacceptable collateral damage to civilians, or the risks for the future, but not wanting wars is not, in itself, a sufficient reason not to kill dictators. "No wars" is an ideal to strive for. It's not an absolute value like "No child porn." Given the choice between having a war and leaving generations of people to live in hell, I know what I find morally preferable. Oh, and in this instance, there's the little detail that the US is responsible for the current dictatorship in Iran because the CIA overthrew its democratic government in 1953 and installed a monarchy, which the Islamists overthrew in 1979. The US owes Iran. This is a form of restitution, though it won't do any good to the millions who have already lived out their lives under this regime. Oh, and this regime also supplies weapons to Russia, which just entered the fifth year of its three-day military operation against Ukraine. So that not happening anymore is another potential benefit.

I guess this regime also supports Palestine against Israel, which may be the sole reason why certain leftists are pretending it deserves to exist. Oh well. Evil people have their moments, as evidenced by Trump and Netanyahu having one this weekend, but that's still not a good enough reason for Khamenei and his cronies to stay alive and continue spreading misery and death. Byeatollah!*

*A leftist acquaintance on Facebook flipped me off for posting that. I told him (in Spanish, because he spoke Spanish), "If you like a murdering dictator, you can burn in hell with him." I know insulting people doesn't often change their minds, but he needed one hell of a reality check. And he said, "The same for pedophilic and genocidal idolaters." And I said, "Of course, Trump and Netanyahu are also pieces of shit. I'm just happy that they did a good thing." He didn't respond, perchance because his brain had exploded.

​but she also pushed me out of Mormonism, gave me an existential crisis that catalyzed my spiritual growth, and taught me patience that's coming in very handy right now, so that's fine. Thank you, Calise.

I'm trying again for what had damn well better be the last time one way or another, and while it may be premature to report on that effort now, I'd much rather talk about Mary than the fascist twats who run my country. I'm pretty sure she won't see this, but I don't much care if she does. I'll act embarrassed and she'll find it amusing. ​If my life were a work of fiction (which, I now realize, I can't prove that it isn't), ending up with her after all this time would be an ironic and satisfying twist because she's one of the first people I met in Utah when I moved here almost 14 years ago. I was 18, and she was 22. She went to a church activity with some friends from a different congregation, then talked to me because she made it her mission in life to talk to people who sat alone. "You were a chicken shit," she told me this past week as we reminisced about it. She invited me to go shopping with her and her friends, and I, being a loser, later wrote on Facebook, "Does three girls and me count as a date?" but then it didn't happen. If I hadn't met her then, I probably never would have. We didn't cross paths again until five months later, at which time she greeted me with enthusiasm, and I didn't recognize her.

Because Mary was older than me, seemed to have her shit together, and looked like a goddess, I never imagined being with her. That's not to say, of course, that I never imagined her. I remembered her and reached out occasionally after I stopped seeing her in person, partly because she was a good friend and partly because she was a 12 out of 10. With permission, I named a character after her in my comic strip that never came to fruition. Long story short, last year I decided for no particular reason to make an intentional effort to get closer to her, and as I learned that she isn't perfect or invincible after all, I accidentally fell in love. I should have seen that coming, but I wasn't thinking past the little dopamine rushes from her texting me back - which, for reasons she's repeatedly assured me have nothing to do with me, she was really bad at doing, hence the need for patience. I almost gave up over the perception that she didn't care. Over time she became more responsive, then texted me first once or twice, then called me when she had a bad day. The impetus for this post began when I texted her six times over nine days with no response. Then she apologized for her unresponsiveness and said she'd worked 70 hours last week. Then I asked about a situation at work she'd told me about a month prior, and she didn't know what I was talking about, so instead of texting me back, she called me and talked for nearly four hours.

At the start of our conversation, she got a text from another guy friend who said he would bring over some salmon. She said that was because he'd figured out that food was the way to her heart, and she said she would be too tired when he got off work at 10:30, so she said she told him that she had food and not to bother. Then she stayed on the phone with me until she fell asleep around 12:20 (local time) and I hung up. With condolences to the other guy, I was thrilled and honored that she chose me over him. How much to read into that, I don't know. She's well aware that I'm thoroughly smitten with her too. For one thing, I told her in February that I'm thoroughly smitten with her. For a couple of other things, I sent her a long heartfelt text while twice as high as usual and a poem about how I see her as a star shining through the darkness of the world. She has neither reciprocated nor rebuffed my affections. When I warned her that a love poem might be in the works, she said, "Haha nothing kind you say would ever scare me away. I’m not worried about it." This poem metaphorically expressed that she's one of the things - not the only thing, which would be unhealthy, but absolutely one of the things that makes my life worthwhile despite having to spend it in a country run by fascist twats. She liked it.

During this conversation, she alluded to some of the reasons she's a childless cat lady despite being so beautiful that strangers compliment her every day, which supported my hypothesis that she acts romantically neutral toward me because men suck. Of course that made me want to virtue signal all over the dang place. "I'm not like them, Mary. I respect women so much. Misogyny is easily in the top three reasons I left Mormonism. I push back against misogyny when I see it on social media, and women thank me while men accuse me of trying to get laid. They're all like, 'Hope she sees this bro,' but I know you won't because you don't use social media. I admire how strong and independent and outspoken you are. After you told me that you told your mom that you hated how the church had taught you to be submissive and she said, 'But Mary, you've never been submissive,' I got high and reflected on that and thought, I love that." But I don't think that would be as effective as taking the time to prove myself with my actions. Again, patience. She already trusts me a lot. She's told me things that I'm pretty sure she doesn't tell just anybody, and I'm not going to tell you what they are because I'm trustworthy.

​​Mary left Mormonism long before I did. Not coincidentally, she had a more negative experience in it than I did and has more negative feelings toward it than I do. Being taught as a teenager that she was responsible for what men would do to her if she showed too much skin had a lasting impact. (Any Mormon who says their church never taught that is either lying or too young to remember.) Years ago, I invited her to tell me why she'd left, which she did, at great length, while I responded without judgment or pushback. I did genuinely care about her, but I also thought I was planting a seed to help her return someday. I'd been plagued by my own doubts, but I couldn't relate to her mindset at all when she said, "I never had as much faith that the church was true as I have had that the church is not true." Surprise!

So during this more recent conversation, she told me she had a friend who recently wanted to convert. The friend felt really good from taking the sacrament and really loved by the congregation. Mary told her that's how cults get you. They had an argument. Mary told the friend to ask the missionaries how many wives Joseph Smith had and how old the youngest was, and apparently she did, and apparently she became enraged and that was the end of that. Mary lives in the same state as my parents, so I hope they read this and know that their church isn't growing in the developed world anymore because people can see that it was founded by a sexual predator. Anyway, she asked for my thoughts, and I tried to be nuanced and stuff. Anyone who considers converting to Mormonism deserves informed consent, and you'll never get that from the missionaries (who almost certainly don't have it themselves). But I'd try to not be argumentative about it or overtly tell them they shouldn't convert. That's a personal decision. I'm not sure I would have handled the situation exactly like she did, but it seems to have worked out fine.

Marvellous multitalented Mary sent me two of her artworks and a poem she wrote. Then she played guitar and piano and sang for me. Her voice was so beautiful that it should have been on the radio 10+ years ago before every mainstream female singer sounded the same. Granted, love is deaf. Years ago my roommate's wife sang to wake him up, and it sounded awful, but I realized that it probably sounded beautiful to him because he loved her, and I incorporated that idea into my novel Crusaders of the Chrono-Crystal. She convinced me to sing "Blackbird" along with her. I didn't sing very loud because I was embarrassed of my voice and wanted to hear hers. I thought there was nowhere in the world I'd rather be, but I realized I'd rather be in her apartment than mine. I thought that would be the highlight of the night. I was wrong.

When Mary calls me, she talks a lot. That's mostly fine. I don't talk a lot, and I love to hear anything she has to say. Sometimes I do want to say something and have a hard time getting it in, though. She seemed aware of that and occasionally remembered to pause and solicit my opinions. After at least three and a half hours, she asked me to tell her about what I'm doing with my life. I mentioned that I taught freshman English during graduate school and planned to continue on that career path, but it hasn't worked out since then, and I'm glad about that now because I don't have to deal with essays written by ChatGPT or all the bullshit from the fascist twats at both the state and federal levels who are gutting humanities programs, killing diversity initiatives, erasing queer people from public life, and forbidding universities from teaching accurate history or critical thinking. Mary interrupted to say that I must have seen some really good essays, and she reflected on a freshman English teacher who had a long-lasting influence on her, and she went on a rant about native English speakers who use poor grammar. Maybe I shouldn't have found that hot, but I did. I sent her "Word Crimes" by "Weird Al" Yankovic. She watched it, and I heard her laugh every few seconds, a sound every bit as lovely as her singing. I often make her laugh. She thinks I'm witty. She said so.

She asked if I could guess the one Weird Al song she had memorized. I half-jokingly guessed "Yoda." Close. It was "The Saga Begins." She sang half of it, then asked me to help her with the words, then asked me to just sing it with her. Of all the experiences I might have imagined sharing with her, this was not one. This was the highlight of the night. Dear God, I can still hardly believe it. I didn't know she knew anything about Weird Al or Star Wars. She said her brother used to play that CD on repeat. She asked me about my siblings, but while I described them, she fell asleep. I listened to her breathing for a minute to make sure she was okay because she may or may not have been drunk and high this whole time, and then I worked up the courage to say "I love you" before I hung up. So yeah, I hope this goes somewhere, specifically where I want it to go. Despite the agonizing wait, I feel that my patience is amply rewarded at times, and never more so than by this experience. I never would have had it if I'd given up. She's worth suffering for - but I hope she won't make me do that too much.

This was written by ChatGPT, a fact about which I was fully transparent. She asked if it expressed what I wanted to say, and when I said kind of and reiterated how I felt about her, she responded with the smile-with-hearts-swirling-around-it emoji. It's so good that it almost discouraged me from writing her one myself, which I eventually did, but I gave it to her yesterday, after the conversation I describe in this post took place.

​A Star in My Darkness
​
In a world weighed down by shadowed skies,
Where sorrow lingers, where silence cries,
You rise—a star, unwavering, bright,
A beacon of warmth in the coldest night.

Your kindness, a whisper soft and deep,
Turns restless storms into peaceful sleep.
Your thoughts, like rivers, steady and true,
Carve paths of light where none once grew.

No sculptor’s hand, no artist’s dream,
Could craft the beauty in you I’ve seen--
Your eyes, twin sparks that set me free,
Your lips, a song sung just for me.

Your hair, a cascade, golden or dark,
Glows like fire or midnight’s spark.
And oh, your legs—graceful, strong--
Each step you take feels like a song.

When the world feels heavy, cruel, and bare,
I find my refuge in your care.
You are the light that makes me see,
The love that breathes new life in me.

This is the one I wrote myself, with ChatGPT serving only an advisory role, which I didn't mention in the post for the reason that I just explained (see Appendix B). It's okay, I guess. She wrote back, "Holy shot that was so sweet and so well written" and followed up with, "Shit lol" 

Starstruck

My world is a pale blue dot within a pale blue dot
In an outer spiral arm of an outer spiral arm,
Swallowed by darkness that presses in as a tangible thing, a living thing, a thing more real than the mere absence of light,
Clawing,
Grasping,
Striving to eat me alive, om nom nom –
But it won’t
As long as I seek out the pinpricks of light, the celestial bodies that guide me to hope and the goodness that remains even here, even now.
I have a few, but my favorite is you.
The prettiest, brightest, and warmest is you.
I want to fall into your orbit and stay there for as long as the universe remains –
Complete surrender;
Always falling, never crashing (I hope).
I’m compelled to worship, like the ancient peoples who sacrificed to the sun because she gave them warm feelings, made their day, and lit up their world like nobody else.
That’s what you do to me, Mary –
Not because I think you’re perfect, according to the ideas of perfection that we impose on nature as if it ever asked for our opinions –
Or because I’m foolish enough to credit you with actual supernatural powers –
(After all, I haven’t stared long enough to go blind) –
But because you shine so brightly, daily and nightly,
Even when you can’t see it because no satellite is close enough to reflect you,
And even when you vanish behind the clouds for agonizing lengths of time,
My faith in your light remains.
 
(Interpolation: I don’t want to torture this metaphor past its breaking point, so let me take a break at this point to just say that I like your smile, your eyes, your hair, your facial structure, and the rest of you.)
 
Yes, even a star is “imperfect”
With her dark spots,
Her flares,
Her storms,
And her tendency to burn spacers who drift too close.
But maybe this controlled chaos is exactly what the universe needs her to be so she can shine,
So she can twinkle from a distance and only inspire more awe as one draws nearer to her power.
To see a star more closely is only to respect,
To admire,
And to love her even more –
And I would rather be burned by your touch than eaten by the darkness.
 
What is it you want, Mary? What do you want? You want the moon? Just say the word and I'll throw a lasso around it and pull it down. Hey. That's a pretty good idea. I'll give you the moon, Mary. (That’s a cultural reference, not plagiarism.)