It’s like the Gods created Tall French, thrust her into my lap and said, “Here, motherfucker. Here’s what you’ve been praying for. We also threw in some breasts and an accent.”
“Meh. No thanks.”
There would be no conversation about the future. We wouldn’t have to sit each other down and say, “Let’s quit our jobs and live around the world. Fly by the seat of our pants. Start in Asia, then Argentina, then maybe Berlin, then whatever.” We’re both on that path already, and as much as this is what people say is the dream, it’s impossible to get a woman to do this. I know this because I’ve tried three times with three different women:
“Come with me. We’ll move to a coastal town and I’ll design and write in the mornings while you walk to the market with the dog and pick up whichever meats and vegetables are fresh that day.”
Woman 1: “Uh. That’s so not the kind of life I want. At all.”
Woman 2: “Toronto’s my home base. I need a thing like a home base. I know it’s a silly mental construct, but I want it.”
Woman 3: “Probably not.”
They were hypotheticals, anyway. It was me talking shit, seeing what would happen if I pulled this or that string.
The truth is, I don’t want anything that I already have or already know. I don’t want those carrots that are dangling in front of me, that are within grasp, regardless of how perfect they are. I have no good reason for this other than that I am some sort of psychopath that disdains the things that are already in his possession (or believed to be in his possession).
So I don’t want the Good Girl Local Girl, the Blond Yakuza Receptionist, the Plastic Surgery Assistant. I don’t want the Angular-Faced Japanese, the Nammer, the Indie Actress, the Girl With The Perfect Face. I don’t want the Strawberry Blond With The Killer Body or the Filipino Administrator or the Chinese-Thai Noodle Girl. I don’t want Tall French. I don’t want these top-notch women with their legion of obsessed fans and followers who leave a trail of broken hearts behind them.
I want the unknown. The yet unknown.
I want the actress/singer in LA, the diehard Christian with the bright eyes and acute-triangle smile. I want to picnic with her at Huntington Beach, roll around and laugh on a gingham blanket with a pure-white, fluffy shih-poo tied to tree. I want her head in my lap as she reads a stack of scripts out loud as I pretend to ponder but really just stare at her navel.
I want the model-turned-entrepreneur in Singapore, the half German. I want to stand at the side of the stage of the conferences that she speaks at, telling her story from rags to model-riches to entrepreneurial phenomenon. I want to nurse a double gin on the rocks while holding her purse and when she makes eye contact with me mid-speech, I want to mouth, “You’re doing amazing, honey, everyone loves you,” and she’ll wink and know how to wink well because she had to do it in a luggage commercial before.
I want the Bangkok stockbroker who I only know through her Instagram account. I want to be in her life of cross-fit on weeknights and grad school cramming on weekends. I want to go to Dean & Deluca with her and watch her eat cupcakes while I say, “I don’t eat that shit,” and she’ll dip her finger into the icing and then onto my cheek and say something uncharacteristic-to-her-innocent-looks, like, “I’ll fuck you up, big guy, is that what you want?”
I want the gray-haired fashion blogger in Kuala Lumpur. The mother of twins in Scarborough. The porn star, Kayden Kross. The porn star, Asa Akira. That white girl I (finally) met for a few hours, the day before I left Toronto, the one with those fucking goddamn motherfucking fierce tigress eyes and that drab, drawn-out voice dripping with sarcasm.
That’s what my brain wants. That’s what my brain keeps telling me, that one of these women I haven’t met yet will be The One. It has convinced itself that this is fact, that we are kindred, that I am fated to be with any one of them, perhaps even all of them.
Stupid fucking brain. All I’m doing is shuffling women from the This Is My Dream Girl list to the Oops, I Guess She She Wasn’t column.