{ the sweetest bee makes the thickest honey. }

Could you give me some pointers on how you could tell I'm not your type? It might really help me accept whatever fallibility or shortcoming it is that I need to come to terms with.
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How To Survive Unbearable Heartbreak: Happiness is not an acceptable substitute for getting what you want
by Sebastian Ischer

Happiness is not an acceptable substitute for getting what you want.

I'm in the subway, on a train, a person who is compressed inside himself. I'm longing for someone to talk to. Listen, I say to some beautiful female companion who is seated across from me, pointed nose and freckles, pony-tailed hair like a pure-bred animal. Excuse me. Do you mind if I try to talk to you? I just wanted to tell you...

- I'm sorry? Did you ask me something?
- Yes, I just wanted to, to introduce myself. My name is...
- You seem very nice. But if you want to talk to me you'll have to be quick. I'm getting off at this stop.
- Okay, thanks. My name is ... Bobby. I'm just sitting across from you and looking at you. You're very beautiful, and I feel like I need to approach you or else just give up on living because I'm a complete and utter coward. And if you gave me a chance, I'm sure you'd realize that I'm totally sincere. I know this is a little creepy, and there's probably a lot of reasons why you shouldn't talk to me. Anyway, I'm sorry I disturbed you.

(other people on the train are staring.)

- It's just that you're so beautiful, and all I can do about it is ignore you. It feels very wrong.
- No, don't apologize. That's very brave of you. Do you talk to girls on the subway often?
- No, just you. I'm usually too afraid to even look. (Pause) Listen, I'm not a very good person, but I would like to be, and I think I'm the kind of person that either does a lot of good, or becomes very evil if he isn't allowed to be good. And attractive women like you are my enemy, because you have the thing that I want: you can make me feel loved. I can't force you to give it to me, though. So I'm asking.
- I don't think I can do anything for you. I'm about to get off the train. But it was nice talking to you. Maybe once you fall in love and someone loves you back, attractive women won't be your enemy anymore.
- Wait, can I have your phone number, or something?
- Sorry, I don't have a pen.

A stop later I get off the train, and see the freckled woman standing in a stairwell.

- Hey. Are you waiting for me?
- No, I got back on the train, in a different car.
- You didn't want to talk to me?
- No, of course not. The air conditioning in that car was broken.
- Oh, I...

Then I'm at her apartment.

- What are you doing here?
- I followed you to your apartment building and came inside. Listen, it's no big situation. I just came to talk to you, because I felt really bad about what happened on the train. When we were talking, in the station, I tried to say something else, but you had already turned and were walking away. I thought about it for a little while, then I started following you, but not too close. The mistake here must lie in the fact that you're too beautiful for me, I thought. I should have picked someone a little less attractive to talk to. And of course, a less attractive person might still be attractive enough for me to fall in love with. That's the evolutionary gamble: how attractive do you require your mate to be so they can get you off but you won't have to feel inadequate around them?
- You shouldn't have followed me to my apartment. That's really creepy.
- I understand. I totally don't mean to be weird, and I'm not going to harm you or upset you in any way. But I really want to figure out what happened. I just wanted to say something because I thought you were beautiful. But I also knew I'd never actually come talk to you, and I felt cowardly and sad because it seemed like these feelings that are so strong only serve to make me miserable.
- I'm sorry, don't be upset. It's just... There's so many people hitting on me I can't really work out what I'm supposed to say every time to keep from hurting someone's feelings. I had a tough day at work, and I didn't want to deal with anything. Plus you're not really my type. I'm just not going to be responsible for other people's evolutionary hang-ups.
- Thanks for being so honest. Could you give me some pointers on how you could tell I'm not your type? It might really help me accept whatever fallibility or shortcoming it is that I need to come to terms with.
- It's not really your face. I guess the overbite makes you look sort of weak-willed, though. Your nose is really big, in contrast with your weak chin. And your posture's bad. You're hunched over like some sort of cripple, or someone who's afraid they're about to get hit. You're not very physically attractive. But don't worry, looks don't matter that much. I've slept with men that were a lot uglier than you, and liked it. Sometimes being ugly helps a guy - if you're successful, or smart or something, but you're ugly, women will think you're mysterious. They'll want to fuck you just to find out if you're hiding something, some sort of inner secret.
- And does fucking reveal anything?
- When you're having sex, you see what a person is really like. With their defenses down, when they're getting what they want.
- So you would have sex with me?
- Yes, under the right circumstances.
- OK, thanks. I'm really glad nothing bad happened just now. I'm going to leave, I guess, and never come back, but if you change your mind and want to talk, or anything, just let me know. Good bye.
- Wait, is that what you came for? What did you want to do?
- Are you testing me somehow?
- I'm not sure.
- Well, then could I have a glass of water.
- Okay.
- I tried to say that in a commanding yet ironic tone, I hope it came across.
- Sure, let me get it for you.
- Ugh. I just need some water for the scratching in my throat. It tastes good.
- Good.

- Can I kiss you? I want to walk over to where you are standing, right next to that little counter-table, and kiss you. I want to move my face in slowly, like this. You look back at me and your eyes are fairly blue. I am moving close, inches really, and then place my hand on the waistband of your jeans. I slip one finger through the belt loop over your left hip. Then I nudge my lips against yours.

- I'm on these new uptake inhibitors that are really confusing my emotional responses.
- Don't feel bad.
- I can't. That's why I feel kind of like bad. It's a sort of vague guilt that goes with feeling okay.

- Looking at yourself in the mirror, you project a certain wistful ugliness.
- I'm teetering between wish-fulfilment and self-immolation.
- Just to be nice to you is hard work. I'm used to crouching inside a bamboo cage in ten inches of filthy, cold mud, emotionally. Even just loving someone, and telling them, is painful and difficult. Even making love, tenderly, and being okay about it, feels undeserved, and improbable.

- I want you inside me. I really, really want you to fuck me.
- That's what I'm doing.
- I want to feel you.
- You should be able to right now.
- Just fuck me. And say it.
- Okay. I'm doing it. There. And there.
- This is the best possible thing that we could be doing right now.

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