my genius at forgetting

What's the difference, do you think, between a hopeless romantic and someone who's utterly divorced himself from reality? I wonder if it is the quality or the quantity of his romantic notions.

If the difference is primarily of quality of dreams, hopes and wishes, then I am guilty of foolishness. And, in terms of my relationship with reality, I'm the prototypical gay divorcee. Call me a fool. I'm comfortable with that label. I got a dunce cap for my last birthday a few months ago. I have more than earned the right to wear it.

The quality of my dreams -- what a rich mound of fertilizer that is! Let me share with you some of my most recent and most stupid dreams:

I would be hired from a recent internship because I'm just too good to pass up.

Guys I met in bars would contact me when they say they will. Because I would be worth it.

Somebody -- anybody -- would want to spend time with me on a weekend.

The hopes I had for a comfortable friendship with an ex would be realized.

I could have good timing -- just for once in my life.

Laugh, laugh. Snicker, snicker. Not gonna happen. Any of it.

I wonder -- is it the quantity of my divergences from real life that make me a dreamer? How many times must I veer off into my own carefully constructed reality before I realize that I am full of complete and utter bull?

On an average day, I probably have a consciousness/reality bifurcation rate of 3 to 5 times per hour. My mind drifts constantly. I must suffer from a new disorder, just recently discovered (by me). I am a victim of RADD (reality attention deficit disorder). I want a scholarship and handy parking from now on.

I guess it all boils down to this: I am almost 30 and I've only been in love twice. And only once were the feelings mutual. I am so certain that I'll find another barrel of good loving right around the corner that practically every guy I can have a decent conversation with is fodder for my idiotic romantic fantasies. And so I dream about them at night. And I dream about them when I'm awake.

When the beau du jour leaves a message on the machine, I save it and listen to it a dozen times. When I get a sweetly penned e-mail, I read it twice a day. I download image files of his picture and set it to my desktop. I am a hopeless, hapless romantic.

The champagne is going to my head. But that's okay. It clarifies things a little bit.... I don't hate myself for being so romantic. I'm just annoyed at myself for not realizing how overly optimistic I've been for most of my life.

It's unbridled optimism.... I guess that just comes from having it so easy and being surrounded by so much love early on. I guess I just assume that I'll always find a similar volume of love in my life.

But I have to wonder -- will I? Am I worthy of so much attention and splendiferous affection? If I am, then when do I get hitched with a really great guy who can offer me as much as I (supposedly) can offer him?

I am full of questions. And full of ignorance about my own nature.

From now on, I will proudly wear my dunce cap. Why? I'm an esoteric Buddhist at heart. And second-guessing oneself is only an acolyte sport. By now, I'm a more seasoned believer. Like some sort of living koan, I will simply be one with my incredible ignorance.

Because of this, my ignorance can be an asset. I will quote Beckett as he laughs off rivals, even amidst in his own destruction:

"My inability to absorb, my genius for forgetting, are more than they reckoned with. Dear incomprehension, it's thanks to you I'll be myself, in the end. Nothing will remain of all the lies they glutted me with."