Wednesday, January 30th: FATE ARRIVES! NON-BELIEFS QUESTIONED!
Now, I grew up around a lot of mega-church Christians. Mormons too. In fact, with a total of about 5 black people at TuHS the Mormons were probably the largest minority population at my high school. That is of course next to the Mexicans, but they were always well isolated from the rest of the community, so as to have little bearing on my life.
Their self-righteous prudery wears thin quite quickly -- the zealots that is, not the Mexicans, we all know that they spend most of their time having babies, corrupting the American language, and feeding off of the noble American taxpayer.
Now, to get along with zealots (and avoid the inevitable ballgame, Let's Crowd Around And Makes Sure She Knows She's Going To Hell) it's easy to be nice. They themselves are incredibly nice, very positive and warm, if frustratingly sheltered. The zealots are not particularly free, unless of course your idea of freedom is living in fear of god, and abiding by a strict patriarchy. They are also not particularly sexual, unless of course your idea of sexual is pats of the back and not kissing until you're married.
Needless to say, I was one of about 6 devout atheists (just imagine how the 5 black people felt!).
Then I went to liberal arts school and learned that truth is subjective and you can never know anything because you can never perceive everything (haha, silly liberal arts). Now I'm agnostic. Outside of Everyone's Worth Something, and Don't Be A Bitch, I mostly believe in nothing, let alone fate.
Backtrack three weeks. I'm riding the A train, cranky coming home from work, listening to something inappropriately chirpy and upbeat. An Indian guy sits next to me and asks me a question. The headphones come out, I clarify, reply. The headphones go back in. He pulls out his palm pilot, starts writing something. For once, I'm just staring at the floor, not craning my neck to read around me. That is, until it becomes blatant that he wants me to.
I ignore. I mostly just want to go home, smoke my spliff, eat my fried soba noodles with sesame seeds, and paint with the cat. Creeping his technology right into my tunnel of vision, he was beginning to make me feel rude. On it he had written, 'what is your name?'.
The headphones come out. My policy of giving everyone due time is enforced.
Apparently, he's actually from Guyana, is distinctly not Indian, and studies Math at Baruch. Seemed like a genuinely nice guy, not bad looking, attractive in a not white kind of way. Naturally, I told him I was from Germany and intentionally misspelled my name in his palm pilot so as to neatly avoid ever having to explain myself and why it would never work out (mostly time and compatibility) before I started being a bitch and ignoring his phone calls.
I thought it done. I don't like hurting people, and have a pretty strict policy of only dating people who will break my heart, not vice versa. I like to stand on the moral high ground, it helps me maintain the approval I crave. Plus, as any army strategist will tell you, its much more easily defensible.
Wednesday, January 30, 8:45.
On the 6, I'm ridin' J Lo-style, an Indian man sits next to me, and asks what time it is. Asks me if I ride this train often. Asks me if I'm from Germany. Something begins to seem strangely familiar. I narrow my eyes. Oh no! I'm caught in my own lies! He startles me into having nothing to say but the truth.
Not only was he adorably embarrassed when I didn't get his jokes, he also plays chess, and quotes Albert Einstein and Louis Carroll on his Facebook wall. At least one point in our conversation I had the urge to start flagrantly making-out with him. Probably a very nice and intelligent guy. He probably would have doted on me. He probably would have cooked for me. After a perfectly pleasant conversation I gave him my real name. I was given every reason to believe that fate had begun a story of romance and an honest healthy relationship. To bad I don't believe in fate. Or myths of love and romance.
Besides he was pretty traditional, not particularly dynamic, and I did not get his jokes.
I hope he never contacts me so I don't have to ignore him. I hate having to act like a bitch (why should someone else go thru that mental stress because I happen to be eccentric?). But isn't ignoring him less bitchy than breaking his heart?
Update: "Somdaat Kissoon hopes to see her again... if she is real." Yep, gotta love the Facebook status function.