A lot of deep thoughts today. I guess this thing is getting to be some osrt of part-time journal or something. I know noboby's are actualy reading or caring about my toys in the attic, but this is less espensive then a psychiatrist and facebook or any french writers website are just dulls cause speaking the french people is dull. Yeah, i'm a french canadian and a got more interest to speak with english people, actualy. The reason, maybe you already know, is french are so pretentious. So sophisticate. Like we got one of the hardest language in occidant, one of the oldest and most authentic, we posesse philosophic mind then... Yeah, then what? Gaulois were weed smoking cowards, if most of your kings didn't screw up after the Dark Age, you would have been ruling most of the world. Machiavel didn't mention a lot about French cause mostly, in war, conquest, in most pratical way, we suck. And today, for exemple, I tried to compare voice conversation in Qc servers (Qc = Quebec) and standard english servers in the game CS Source that my little cousin was playing. The different was, in english servers, people were calm, have fun, saying funny shit to each others, great moments... In QC servers, people were juste swearing, bitching, comparing egos, vocaly snap each others like stupid girls in high school courtyard. Where was the fun? And this is not it, even in french forums, there's not a lot of debate rather then bullshit. This is ennoying. And nobody's really listening. They give useless and repeatitive opinions like chasing deamons that I don't care about. My point is, for these reasons, I don't like to write in facecrap or french forums cause it's just boring and mind-castrating.
Anyway, this is not what I wanted to say, tonight. I got some conversation with the double Tyler-Durden-like fella in my head, repeating the same sort of questions again, doing the why-you-didn't-do-stuff-in-specific-oc casion patern.
One struck my mind when I was reading a Tom Clancy. This was when John Kelly (Clark) didn't try to kiss the nurse who he was her home because the moment wasn't good enough for both of 'em (sorry if my english sounds weirdo). That made me think about a girl I met. She is a very confiuse type. Like ex-gothic-nympho-toxico, sexually abuse by brother and/or dad, now turn into a deep chrestian girl. She is bright. Not like ordinairy sheap. She was born in hell, if you know what I mean, and she hope for redemption. Making her live all and own again. For awhile, since I met her for the first time, I liked her. I guess I still do, in a way. Each time I was wit her, there was something that trouble me, sometime making me mad. I was always wendering, the moment I knocked on her door, if I should do something to... advanse our relationship, or just fuck with her. Everytime, I heard the voice in my head, my big brother's voice: "Do something, idiot! You know she likes you". That was right. She gave me a lot of proof, during the moments we were together, that she felt something. But before then, I knew all about her. Her life, her dreams and mostly... her nightmare. She was in AA groupes, some others for sexual-disorders, something like that. I couldn't tell her anything and most of time, I was saying anything either, but let her talk. Each time, when it was time for me to reach home, it was a friendly goodbye, sometime a little embarassing. Each, the same voice in my mind just called me a fag, or loser. And each time, I got frustrate. Not because I wasn't taking a occasion to make a girlfriend, or just empty my balls. No. I got mad because it was wrong.
I remember one night. A freezy-hellish night. Almost passed midnight. Wind was raging and snow was like nails. She came to my place for watching Elektra, she like super-heros movies. Once again, the same voice. Maybe this time I believe it was it. she complaint about some pain in her back, like she did in the past few weeks. Refusing a massage, I didn't insiste. After the movie, I walk to the bus station; in this cold night. The bus never came. She got nervous. I think I told her take she could sleep in my couch, or even in the bed, I could have take the couch. Probably said no. Anyway, randomly, a taxi cap passed by and I gave her twenty dollars. I remember saying I didn't expect any payback. She froze more then a snowman. Totaly shocked. She said something, but don't remember what. And she fell into my arms, full of gratitude. By the time, I wanted to kiss her. I guess I still want it, in a way. The Double said "THAT'S IT!". But said no. She get headed back home, alone.
I didn't tell the story to my real big brother (even if it's not his business, but there's a point in that). I know what it would say. It wasn't shy, I'm not gay either. No. It was wrong. I still think today that the girl need something, but it wasn't really me. I'm not sure I could have help her to feel better about herself. And not because, by the time, it would have make me feel better, that I have to take opportunities like that because of... of what? Verylity? Being a man? What is being a man, anyway? What does it mean if there is no difference-making at all? Does a man really has to do a difference?