My brain wanders off sometimes. The last two days, it has done more than wander off... it has bolted away the second my back is turned, like me as a small child. I'll sit down to read a book and find myself ten minutes later, just staring at the bottom of the page, having discovered that my brain has slipped out the back door when I wasn't looking. To what dangerous locales does it run on its little adventures? These last 48 hours, it has gone venturing towards two abandoned neighborhoods: Love and Comic Con. One of these is significantly easier to address than the other, so let's begin with Comic Con.
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Is there a Doctor in the house?
I sincerely apologize for the above joke. The writer has been sacked. |
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I'm back there, somewhere, dressed as the Ninth Doctor. Also, somewhere, are my two friends, dressed as Four and Five. However, the group that separates us from each other is comprised entirely of strangers. Strangers. But there we are, arms around each other, posing for hundreds of photos over the course of about an hour, acting like the oldest of friends. Why? Because a TV show means enough to all of us that we'd spend time and money to create costumes and trek out to San Diego for a weekend, just to hang with people as crazy as us. I did a whole post on this a few months back and I don't mean to harp on the same thing over and over, but that is my favorite picture from the whole weekend. (My second favorite can be found
here which is a link to CNN's GeekOut blog, wherein there is a picture of me and Amanda winning the Adam Incognito contest.) The reason a picture of me with a bunch of strangers wins over me with a Ring Wraith Mythbuster is very simple:
meeting real people is more important than meeting celebrities. Yes, it's extremely cool to have those few moments with a famous person whose work I admire and respect, or at least enjoy. But then it's over and that person goes on to the next fan in line. We aren't friends and we aren't going to go out for drinks later. Meeting me is just part of their job description. However, when you meet regular people at Comic Con, it's different. You might go to the bar down the street or exchange phone numbers or become friends on Facebook. People who go to Comic Con can and will form lasting connections to strangers, all because we have these random things in common. Comic books, TV shows, anime, D&D, whatever. Things that seem silly to the rest of the world, but mean the world to us. Comic Con brings us all to one place, says, "Hey, you know that thing you love? Well, here's 50,000 other people who feel the same way." and then gives us all a big group hug. It's a really beautiful thing and I hope I always feel the same way about it.
So that's the easy one. That leaves my other current distraction: the tedious issue of feelings. As much as I'd like to be an emotionless automaton, I have found myself the most unfortunate owner of romantic feelings lately. Since this situation never works out in my favor, I am attempting to handle it with an appropriate level of caution.
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| For use in case of love or nuclear fallout |
My ego got a little bit ahead of my weight loss and started throwing feelings at people who, for the time being, remain well out of my league. And now, despite the fact that my brain recognizes that these feelings are entirely irrational, my heart is stubbornly set on this person with whom I have exactly no chance. I'm not writing all this to elicit a chorus of compliments or because I'm feeling down about myself. For the record, I think I'm a pretty swell dame with a few physically attractive traits. But I do recognize when someone can do better than me. And this is one of those cases. But feelings won't go away just because I know that they're illogical.
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| Don't even pretend you didn't think of him when you read the word "illogical." |
I keep thinking of Schrodinger's Cat. The cat can be thought of as simultaneously alive and dead, until you open the box and find out for sure. Statistically, there's a 50/50 shot of either outcome. But, from a rational standpoint, let's face it... you put a cat in a box with some radioactive poisoning contraption, you've more than likely got yourself a dead cat. Also, the neighbors have called the cops because torturing animals and possession of radioactive materials are both activities generally frowned upon in polite society.
Criminal mischief charges notwithstanding, I trust you grasp the metaphor I'm going for here. I'm pretty certain I know and my sane, rational side is content to leave the box closed. Unfortunately, the part of me currently addled with feelings keeps drowning out its rational counterpart with Brad Pitt from Seven.
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| WHAT'S IN THE BOX? |
I guess I'm hoping that writing this here will get it out of my head, because it's been bouncing around in there like a hyperactive kid in one of those inflatable castles and it's incredibly distracting. But I know, when it comes to situations such as this, love and logic will always be fighting with each other. I just wish one of them would shut the hell up and let me read sometimes.
