There's Something About Mary

I hate dating more than I like women. While most people want a romantic partner and proactively look for someone to fill that role, I only consider it worth the effort if and when I happen to find someone whom I want to be with all the time. The last time I found someone like that, over five years ago, she gave me the literal worst day of my life,

​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.

Appendix A: The Long Heartfelt Text I Sent Her While Twice as High as Usual

I like to talk about being high because I want to break down the taboo against it. I don't encourage anyone to do drugs because that's a very personal decision to be made with caution, but I wish everyone could feel the way I felt when I decided to see what would happen if I took two Kush Kubes instead of one because two of them were stuck together. This text provides some insight into how they alter my consciousness but don't remove my agency or change my personality. She thought it was hilarious.

I'm high right now, so I have enough self-awareness to know that I'm saying weird things, but also enough chutzpah to think I can get away with it. It's fun to let myself loose, and I know I won't say anything really inappropriate because I respect you so much. And yes, I don't mind virtue signaling a little. I debated whether it would be weird to put a wink emoji there, and I decided to err on the side of caution.

I'm under the assumption that you'll find this funny and be chill about it. You've done similar things when you were drunk, surely? I don't say that to make you feel bad, just to make sure you don't judge. Again, not that I think you will. Circular logic there.

Anyway, my whole purpose in writing this was to tell you that I was just appreciating how chill you were about me brazenly (foolishly?) baring my heart, but then I was like, "Well, duh. She must be used to it. She would probably think it was weird if I wasn't super attracted to her. Not that she would judge, of course. She's chill about that stuff."

But with that knowledge, I hope I haven't lost my credibility as an objective witness. I value you so much as a friend because you're just as beautiful on the inside. Everything I've ever said about you is true. I cannot lie in this mental state. (And I like big butts, but that's another story.) ((That's a cultural reference, not an inappropriate comment.)) So yeah, you're great. And I had no ulterior motive of trying to date you because I assumed I'd have a better chance of lassoing the moon. (Another cultural reference.)

I chose my words carefully to avoid admitting that yes, kind of always having a semi-crush on you did factor a little into me wanting to stay in touch. I'm only human. And I just admitted it anyway in the hope that you would find it amusing even though you're used to it.

I'm glad you get so many well-deserved compliments, but the downside is that you'll probably never be able to feel how much I mean it when I tell you how very, very beautiful you are, Mary.

Hopefully I put in enough comic relief to take the edge off what could otherwise be some intense comments. For how weird I know these comments are, you wouldn't believe how much thought I put into them. Being high is great. I'm not responsible for my actions right now. Anyhoo

Appendix B: The First Poem I Sent Her

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.

Appendix C: The Second Poem I Sent Her

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.)