I heard the song you left on my voicemail this morning. And even though I couldn't actually understand any of the words you were singing, I took it to mean you were sad about our break up. You’re right. I handled it badly, and I’m sorry. Let me try to explain.
I know that on paper we’re great. That all signs point to yes, but just because you and I were thrown together by eHarmony’s online compatibility survey is no reason to stay together.
A relationship is more than just answers to some standardized test. It’s about chemistry (and no, not a chemistry test. I know how you like to have fun with words).
Believe me, Gina-belle, this wasn’t easy for me. I wanted it to work. Everywhere I went, people told me I’m supposed to love you. That I should really give you a chance. That you are so unique and, like, totally amazing. And I tried. Honestly, I have, but ... well, I don't know. I must be missing something.
Like the night you invited me over and made dinner. I think it was some kind of traditional Russian borscht, but you did something wacky to it, right? Like, you added Nathan’s hot dogs. All cut up. It was so idiosyncratic and zany and you just didn’t care, did you? Just Regina being Regina. But the thing is, I had a few bites and despite all your free-spirited flourishes, it tasted strangely familiar. Like something I’d eaten many, many times before. Just not as good. Do you understand?
Look, it's not like I hate you or anything. I understand your appeal. We just don't click. Where are the laughs? Sure goofy outfits and funny faces are amusing for a little while, but that stuff gets old.
And yes, those voices of yours. Sometimes high and squeaky. Sometimes thick and Slavic. I mean, yeah, that's kind of amusing, I guess. But I need a girl with a harder edge. Someone who can hold their own when we're out with my writer friends. Remember election night? I was live-blogging over at Comedy Central. It was a blast. And what did you do? Did you laugh at my post mocking CNN’s coverage? No. You just wore your cute little dress from the Fidelity video and pouted all night. And when everyone kept asking you if you were having fun, all you did was point at me and sing in that airy little head voice: “It breaks my har, har-he-har, har-he-har har-he, heart.” I guess that’s kind of funny. In a way. I don’t know. Look, I just can't settle down with that despite those sensational stockings and heels, which, let's be honest, were what attracted me to you in the first place.
And before you ask, let me just answer: No, there is no other woman. Sad as it is to admit, I haven't found anyone better than you. I mean, you have some nice attributes: You can play piano, you write your own stuff and, as far as I can tell, you have no intention of ever recording with Timbaland. But is that enough? Is that where we're at in 2009. Just because you're not this or this or this, do I have to fall head over heels? Well, I'm sorry, Reggie, this blogger still believes in a little something called love. Also, you look a lot like my grandma, who took a bullet to the leg while fleeing Russia during the communist revolution.
I don't know. Maybe it's me? Maybe I can't love. Maybe as a young man I gave my heart too fully to a wise older woman named Kate Bush. We spent a summer in Paris and she made all the quirky songstresses who followed seem like mere poseurs and/or East Village waitresses hawking their wares at an Avenue A open mic night. That could be true, but I have to believe there's still hope. That some day, some way, I'll find my companion.
Goodbye Regikins. I wish you every success.
P.S. Do you mind if I still keep you as my Facebook friend? (I would like to have some way of contacting you to digg my columns.) Thanks a bunch!
Find out more about G-Stone at Kafka Lives In Maine.