I can talk with great eloquence, if little comprehension, on a lot of subjects, sex life of the firefly, sub Sahara economies, humanity and her delights or sores. And if I have no idea of what I am talking about, I’ll give it a guess or maybe pretend I know what I’m talking about, (which will in effect convince that person, as well as myself, that I do know what I’m talking about.) Truth never raring her lovely troublesome head.
The only thing, with absolute consistency that I haven’t been able to, are not able to, and will not be able to talk about with fluidly is ‘the talk’ itself. I’m marginally sane with the break up talk, as I rehearse the hell out of it before hand, (and often consume large amounts of alcohol) but still I end up blaming the weather in Istanbul on my decision which I think will somehow make it easier on them (NB: it doesn’t.) The real problem lies in the ”yes, I like you”, or more horrific still “yes, I love you” talk, I become a jibbering, jabbering, stuttering, blushing, twitching fool. I become like Wily Coyote who has just been blasted with 100 volts of electricity, my hair flies out at right angles, limbs shoot out, my tongue lolls and my voice alternates between that of a lobotomy patients and a mosquito cracked up on pseudoephedrine.
Typical conversation as follows
Man: So what would you like in the future?
Bella: My future? Or another person? (boooya!) Um. So. Like that chick on the Bold and The Beautiful. She had such a funny hair do…you know with all that hairspray…hairspray. Yeah. So anyway she was talking about the future. And.You know what. Guess what! She was supposed to be telepathic… Yeah. (pause of pneumonic plague proportions) So. Right. Have you ever had telepathic thoughts then?’
Not even a smooth change of subject, a hurtling out of control brakeless lorry with a drunk driver kind of subject change. And it gets worse.
I blush like an alien mothership’s backside as it pulses with crude energy. Then I stutter. And blurt. Like beer pipes with too much gas. Intermissions of hot air then gushes of inappropriate slush. Then the piece de resistance: I dribble.
Man: ‘No, I mean our future, together.’
Um. (clear throat, straighten wrist watch, cock neck, widen eyes briefly and clear throat again) I think that, you know, in the end, you know, like I think it’s all good to think things, you know, but like, who knows what to think right. But anyway, I think we should just, yeah, you know. It’s all-. What we gotta do, you know, is, but look, it’s okay to not talk about it, I completely understand. Would you like a cookie?
What I need is for the man to treat my like I’m five.
‘You-likkie-likkie-me?’
‘y(stutter) e (blush) s (shake). Yes’ or n (burning hot) o (stutter) No’
‘Do-you-want-to-be-with-me?’
‘y(stutter) e (blush) s (shake) Yes.’ Or ‘n (burning hot) o (stutter) No’
Why isn’t life that simple? And I don’t even know why I become so idiotic. Usually I’m a pretty self aware person. I know why I over consume chocolate or embarrass people when I dance. But I don’t for the life of me know why I become like this. There is a part of me that can be rational:
‘Yes, I love you and I think that you are the love of my life and I’d like to have beautiful kids with you in a year, but on the condition that you don’t wear your socks to bed.’ Or something equally as concise. But no luck. I can’t even blink correctly during ‘the talk’ I brush away their concerns that I am having some sort of seizure, go into the bathroom and come out with a new subject change that I think nobody can see through ‘So do you like ovaries. I do. I think they’re neat, how are your ovaries. Oh. Right. You don’t have any. That’s okay. I don’t mind. That. Perfect really. Considering you are a man. So um another cookie?’
