as bad as i am, i'm proud of the fact that i'm worse than i seem

more tired than i've been in an incredibly long time. i need to schedule my life more sanely. but i needed last night. i needed our enjoyment of each other's company, me in untied robe curled next to him on my bed, he reminiscently abloom. and i needed the arousing aftermath. we both have a lot on our minds.
he called last night and i took a bath and read and fell asleep with face in book and bonded and didn't bother returning his call. we are so ill-connected. i wonder what makes him think of me. what inspires him to call. i have a good soul, he told me. to him, i was good people. his world is so marred with bad, maybe he craves whatever good he saw in me at odd points in his day. maybe he just gets lonely. and, thinking of the days when he would rest his large, beautiful, carefully clad, moderately insecure body on my couch and our minds and souls would magnetize each other until ungodly hours, he calls. i don't know what foggy image fills his head when he remembers our interaction. my image is crisp. but distant.
my images are always crisp. he didn't notice their presence on my table and laughed at himself, commented on the ease with which i would manage an affair. he didn't remember the color of her eyes. everyone i've ever so much as kissed i can paint in detail in my mind. i am such an S and he is such an N, which explains the occasional chasms in our memories. perhaps i should warn him that i am the prosecutor's perfect eye witness. i remember everything. the mindful monk in cskszentmihalyi's story, that's me. oh, that i were buddhist. it might mean something.
it bulged in our comparison of ourselves as social scientists. his style is perfectly anthropological, perfectly interested in cross-culture/cross-subculture comparisons. my style is groping, knowing, feeling the trees, completely disinterested in the forest.
which is why i need to read her book to get myself back on track with mine. he offered to help. lovely him.
we discussed his article last night. the research and its findings, the repetitious studies, have been rehashed for me so often that any report is entirely lackluster for me. to him, it was more interesting. he enjoyed the paradox. perhaps it's the result of too much familiarity with the work, but it lacks profundity for me. i want the extensions. i want more specifics, fewer global findings.
the story i finished over lunch inspires me to write, not because i cared particularly about the content of the piece, but because i know i could write something better, more compelling. because i suspect mine might matter in a way hers really didn't. mine might affect more, because i know exactly what hers needed.
i don't know why i crave images of them in my mind. i don't know why i want to know them when i'm convinced that i probably wouldn't care much for or about either of them were it not for him. something about grasping them suggests a better understanding of him. i can be such an incredible stalker.
she bathes in anxiety and part of me identifies with her. he has no idea how deeply it lurks.