An Ode to My Little Brother, One of My Favourite People

As a child, my little brother was an absolute cracker. When I use the word cracker I don't mean he was a sweet, energetic, but ultimately loveable child, although he was quite capable of being all of those things when he wanted to be. When I say he was a cracker, I mean he was explosive, unpredictable, and liable to take off half your face if you pressed the wrong button.

As a result of this, my brother and I had a very turbulent relationship. I was a relatively calm, thoughtful child. I fancied myself a small adult, speaking in big words, pretending to be able to read at the age of three (I was really great at memorising text from books that had been read to me, and also at telling a story by looking at the pictures), and asking for 'cups of tea' (read: warm milky drinks with the faintest hint of tea) whenever possible. I was, in short, a rather annoyingly precocious child.

As a prime example of the utter divide between us, I will explain how we each dealt with getting into trouble. My brother had a penchant for getting me into trouble even when I was completely innocent (don't get me wrong, I could be a naughty child with the best of them, I was just better at not getting caught). His favourite technique was to slap himself incredibly hard on the leg so that a red mark would come up and then to start screaming loudly, almost as if he had been murdered. When my mother would run into the room to find out what on earth was making my brother sound like a dying cat, she would usually find us on opposite sides of the room, with him hollering something about me having hit him and pointing to the nasty red welt on his leg as evidence of this fact. In spite of all of my rather logical arguments, 'I am on the other side of the room, it would have been impossible for me to hit him and then get back here in the few seconds it took you to get into the room,' my mother always believed him. I can't say I blame her, we had some epic physical battles at times, I'm surprised my mother didn't open the doors to our neighbours and charge admission for the child version of Fight Club. So the fact that she thought I was capable of causing such pain and distress to him was not a shock. We would both inevitably get punished in this situation though, because mum was also aware of the fact that S was a rather theatrical child capable of hurting himself to get an advantage. So she hedged her bets.

Our punishment was always 'go to your rooms, sit on your beds, don't touch any of your belongings, think about what you have done, and when you are ready to apologise come and tell me what you are apologising for.' I followed these instructions to the letter. I would sit in my room quietly for around ten minutes (a suitable amount of time to build up enough fake remorse to appear genuine), then emerge to prostrate myself before my mother and beg her forgiveness. I would be quickly forgiven and could then go back to eating peanut butter sandwiches and playing with the enormous collection of My Little Pony's that I had amassed. 

S, on the other hand, never quite grasped that this sneaky (and, quite frankly, a little creepy) way of dealing with the shitty situation of being in trouble was the way to go. His response to being sent to his room to 'think about what he had done?' To throw the biggest tantrum you could ever possibly imagine. Think of the worst tantrum you have ever seen a child throw in public. Got it? Multiply that by ten. S would throw every single book, toy, small furniture item in his room to the other side of his room, and then back again. He would rage and scream and yell. All at the tender age of three. He was born with a deep seated rage that seemed insatiable. My room was right next door, so whilst I was concocting the quickest way to escape the clutches of my room, I would listen with some amusement to the mayhem going on through the rather thin wall. As you can imagine, S spent a lot of time in his room as a child.

In spite of this clear difference between our personalities, and our tendency to have epic physical battles in which I almost always won (I did have almost four years on him, and believe that if necessary I could still take him now), we loved each other in the way that only brothers and sisters can. He actually adored me, and would do just about everything I asked of him when he wasn't being wilful and slightly psychotic. And I also adored him, even if I didn't show it particularly well. 

I will admit that part of my initial reluctance to love him sprang from the fact that he chose to be born a boy. I had had my heart set on a sister. I remember going to the hospital on the day he was born and standing in the gift shop with dad. Dad was buying mum flowers and he told me to pick a teddy bear for my new brother. I pouted and inspected the range of bears. I decided that the best option was to pick the least girly looking bear that I liked, so that I could steal it from him the second he got home. I chose a small, chocolate brown teddy with a bright red ribbon tied into a smart bow around his neck. He was perfect. I don't remember the first time I saw S in the hospital, but I do remember when he came home. I politely asked mum to return him to the hospital, as I had requested a sister, and this was clearly not what had been ordered. This caused my parents no end of delighted hilarity, but I still didn't really understand why they were laughing, or why this small, red, mangled screaming thing was not being traded in for a chubby, laughing, girl-baby clad in a pink dress with ribbons in her hair. It was not a great start. 


But, in time, things changed between S and I. I think that this was probably because our parents were so caught up in themselves at times that we formed an alliance that only children of divorce can really understand. And I raised him. Sure, my mum and dad and grandparents fed, bathed, and dressed him. But when you meet my brother, you can see that he is all me. We each have elements of our parents' personalities, but we have these other traits that cannot be explained by looking to anyone in our family. I cultivated him from a young age to be a smarter, less impulsive, and, shockingly enough, milder version of myself. Given his absolute insanity as a child, you would be very shocked to meet him now. He is a ridiculously intelligent (one of those annoying people who is good at just about everything academically without really trying), quiet, mild-mannered young man. I, on the other hand, am prone to rages, can be incredibly wilful when I want to be, and enjoy throwing minor tantrums when I don't get my own way. It seems we have swapped roles as adults. 


The point of this post is something that was probably not obvious from the outset. The thing is, my brother came out to me a few years ago, and to the rest of my family at the end of last year. And at the best friend's wedding last week, the celebrant indicated that the best friend and her husband wanted to make it clear that they believed everyone should have the right to be married. And this made me cry a little bit. Because my brother, the one constant in my life, and one of the most impressive people that I know, deserves all of the rights that I have, and then some. And one day really soon, I hope that I'm crying at his wedding and telling all of the embarrassing stories I've relayed here at the reception. 


To my brother!


B. J. Barnes

Super Sneaky Crushes

I am currently suffering from what I like to refer to as a super sneaky crush. It's on a guy at work. Yes, yes, I know, I should avoid work men like the plague after my last disaster, but this isn't a particularly huge crush, and I highly doubt it will go anywhere, mainly because I don't care to pursue it in the same way I did with Mr. A. This guy first came to my attention because my work girls pointed him out one day as being one of the few lookers on our floor (there are, for the record, only two). I agreed that he was cute, but he was a bit too short for my liking and all of my situational lust was being expended on the Greek god in our midst.

The girls kept talking about him, and I kept shrugging my shoulders in indifference. I saw him very rarely, and couldn't seem to get past the fact that he was only just my height. Then, one day last week, BAM! I looked at him and thought 'WOW! How did I not notice just how CUTE you are?!' Since then I have been the complete opposite of indifferent. I notice him all the time now, and we've been having little conversations whenever we do see each other. It's still just a situational thing, in my opinion, and thus something I'm unlikely to pursue, but yeah, it's definitely there now. 

The point of this post is not to talk in any depth about my silly little work crush, but more on the phenomenon of the super sneaky crush and how it has affected me in the past. Casting my mind back, I'm sure that I had a few of these in high school, going from not even noticing that a guy was alive to suddenly being obsessed to the point where I was scrawling our names together in the back of my school books. But they're largely uninteresting stories, and I guess a fairly common occurrence for teenage girls.

The only time that it has really happened to me as an adult was with a friend from university. The first time I met Chinchilla I thought he was a bit of a doll. We went up against each other in a faux debating situation for our degree and were both suited up. Chinchilla is a man who looks pretty amazing in a suit. He is tall, dark, and handsome in a rather Spanish way (which makes sense, as he is half Spanish). We got along fairly well too, bouncing witticisms off each other like they were going out of fashion. So I noticed him, admired him, and made a note to myself to keep an eye on that one. 

By this time though, I was in the throes of a pretty significant obsession with the Original Bluck (mentioned in an earlier post as I had the rather surreal experience of seeing him in Dublin whilst I was living there and promptly ran in the opposite direction). Chinchilla and the Original Bluck were friends. I basically lived in the library for much of my degree just to escape my home life, and the OB and Chinchilla were constantly there too. As such, we formed an unlikely little trio and became friends (in spite of my massive crush on the OB). When the OB wasn't with us Chinchilla and I would talk about everything and anything, and I made it pretty clear that I was interested in the OB (I thought that maybe Chinchilla could get me in there somehow). Chinchilla and I were in the deep end of the platonic pool by now, and I had almost forgotten how good he looked in a suit. 


I'm not really sure how it happened, but one day I was in the library with the OB and Chinchilla, and I looked over at Chinchilla and felt like a truck had just rammed straight into my heart. 'WOW! Why is it that I'm just friends with this guy again? Why am I so relentlessly pursuing this other douche when I could be with this pretty awesome, politically motivated, smart (did I mention looks great in a suit?) guy?' It was the sneakiest of sneaky crushes. I kept quiet about it though, maybe it was just misplaced feelings, I told myself that it was really still the OB that I wanted and that my weird rush of feelings towards Chinchilla was nothing more than a way of trying to distract myself from the disaster that was my non-existent relationship with the OB. 


But the feelings didn't go away. They got worse. And I finally confided in the best friend. She looked at me quizzically, but then agreed that he was someone worth crushing on. And from that point on, there was no stopping the emotions from growing. 


The funny thing is, I'm pretty sure that at almost exactly the same time as I first really noticed him, he noticed me too. Things didn't exactly get awkward between us, but the dynamic definitely changed. About a month after my revelation the annual ball held for those studying our degree occurred. I went along with the best friend and her then boyfriend, and showed up realising that Chinchilla was wearing a tie that was almost the same shade of blue as my dress. We said hi, but then spent the rest of the evening away from each other. But every time I glanced in his direction, even when he was on the other side of the room, he was looking straight back at me with an intensity that it was difficult to ignore. 


At the end of the night, the best friend and her boyfriend got into a rather epic fight and both left the venue, leaving me somewhat stranded as I was staying at their place. I saw Chinchilla sitting by himself at a table on the other side of the room. He motioned me over. And from then, everything just fell into place. He kissed me, and it felt right in a way that kissing the OB had never done. We left the ball and went to the ever so classy fast food chain known for its golden arches. There we were in our finery, me with his suit jacket draped across my shoulders to ward off the chill of the night, ordering the most disgusting of fast food. We then took a leisurely stroll back to the pretty little park that was adjacent to the Town Hall where the ball had been held, and sat on a park bench together. He told me he felt really, really happy, and that he had known that this would happen somehow. It really was a pretty magical night. 


We started seeing each other in earnest and the relationship ended only a few months later. I'm still not really sure why. Maybe it was because he was planning an overseas trip at the end of the year and wanted to be single for that. Maybe it was because I was a bit too honest and told him that I liked him a bit too much and he interpreted that as my way of saying I loved him. I'm not sure if I did love him, but what I felt was unusually strong. It was one of the most intense relationships I had ever had, physically at least. We didn't spend a whole lot of time together, but there was a spark between us that erupted into the most delicious of flames whenever we were alone together.



It's all a bit moot now, because early the next year when he arrived back from his overseas trip I had been dating the King of Emotional Fuckwittery for three months. I ran into Chinchilla in one of the local night clubs in our dreary little city and he seemed genuinely excited to see me, until I told him that I was there with my boyfriend. A friend later told me that he complained that I had 'bragged' about having a boyfriend, which I was annoyed by. He asked me who I was there with, I told him the truth, I was there with my boyfriend. I almost muttered this under my breath, because seeing Chinchilla again brought up a whole range of emotions that I was not comfortable dealing with, I was definitely not bragging. 


A few months after that Chinchilla started dating an awful girl. But every time we saw each other it was like a weird electricity was in the room. I couldn't stop staring at him, and he couldn't stop staring at me. And this was often in spite of the fact that our respective partners were in the room as well. I complained bitterly about his girlfriend's barely concealed hatred of me to the KOEF and he told me that the reason I hated her was because I was jealous. I would yell at him when he suggested this and say that I clearly wasn't jealous because I was going out with him and not Chinchilla. But he was right, for once. I was jealous, and I was angry that he would date someone so clearly awful. He seemed beaten down and that made me angry for him.


Our friendship was never the same again, of course, and I do regret losing it. But at the same time, I'm glad that I acted on my super sneaky crush, because it was a brilliant two months. We ran into each other randomly on the train in Sydney a few years later and had a cordial conversation. I was single (although still entangled with the KOEF), and he was still with her. This fact stood as an invisible wall between us. He's living in Spain now, almost certainly no longer with the dragon girl, and up until a few years ago I was still very much in an uncertain state of longing for him. This has dissipated now, and when I do think of him it is with a smile and not a feeling of what could have been.


I guess that this little story just goes to show the power of the super sneaky crush. One day you barely notice the person, the next you're on a collision course of longing that can go on for years. This is not going to happen with my situational crush right now, but a word to the wise- don't underestimate those sneaky little crushes, they might just break your heart.


Crush-a-riffic, 


B. J. Barnes

NO! Just NO!

Dear Random, Neurotic, Co-Dependent Mother (not my mother, another one),

You are causing my best friend to fly into fits of rage, which are completely justified, in the lead up to her wedding. This time should be one of the most exciting periods of her life. Sure, she should be a little stressed, but about fun things like invitations and shoes, cakes and wedding songs, not about idiots like you. 

You are really good friends with her future husband. As such, she has to invite you to the wedding and associated festivities. You, however, have made it clear that you will not be attending the wedding unless your child (not a very young baby who needs to be near their mother for breast feeding purposes) also attends. And you have been bombarding my best friend with questions about how her wedding can best fit around your child's needs. She shouldn't have to deal with this ridiculousness. I understand that children at weddings is a somewhat contentious issue. But my feeling is that if someone doesn't want to have children (particularly small toddlers who can easily be crushed underfoot when in a room full of merrily drunken people) at their wedding, that is a choice they are entitled to make and you should respect that. You have no right to throw a tantrum and state that your attendance is conditional upon your toddler being an invited guest. You are lucky that my best friend is not as blunt and stubborn as I am. This is a situation in which I would be pulling rank and telling my fiance that under no circumstances is that child stepping foot in the wedding venue (this is probably why I don't have a boyfriend or husband, but I don't care, it's the principle of the thing). My response to your ridiculous request would have been 'I'm sorry to hear that you won't be attending our wedding. Be sure to check out the photographs online.'

This entire situation is more than enough to send me into a blind rage, but you have really outdone yourself in terms of absolute selfishness in the latest instalment. You have demanded to bring your child, that's right, YOUR CHILD, to the HEN'S PARTY! THE HEN'S PARTY!!!!! What on earth is wrong with you??? Honestly? Is your brain not fully formed? Do you not understand what happens at these type of events, and comprehend why the thought of bringing a child to one just absolutely beggars belief? Here is a short, by no means comprehensive, list of reasons why a hen's party is not a child-friendly zone:

• People get drunk at these events. Really drunk. Uproariously drunk. And so they should. It is a party celebrating the (fictional, but whatever) final hurrah of the bride. It is a chance to let go and have fun;
• Just going off the hen's parties that I have attended, there are usually at least one or two penis novelties involved. This might not happen at my best friend's festivities, but the point is, it usually does, and why on earth would you want to expose your child to this?;
• People get loose at these occasions, they swear, they talk about sex, they're usually not worrying about whether their stiletto heels are going to sink into the tender flesh of a child as they scurry about underfoot;
• Hen's parties are not kitchen teas. Kitchen teas could be child-friendly. But that is because they are also grandparent and mother-in-law friendly. This is not a kitchen tea. It is a hen's, and it will most probably get messy; and
• The final reason is not even a reason. It's a statement, not even, just a word. NO! NO! NO! NO! Just NO! Emphatically NO! How do you not understand that it is wrong to even suggest such a thing? ARGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Again, count yourself INCREDIBLY lucky that you are not dealing with me in regards to this. You are dealing with my best friend's sister, who is also my friend, and she is a LOT nicer than I am. She tactfully wrote back to your email which stated, didn't ask, mind you, that you would be bringing your child along with you to the party, and told you that whilst she would really like for you to come, it was, OF COURSE, not a child-friendly event. She even suggested that you get in touch with some of the other mothers, most of whom have children much younger than yours, and try to organise a shared babysitter for the evening. Your response? A few passive aggressive lines that commenced with 'We are very sorry that we will not be attending. We were looking forward to it.' We? Who is this 'we'? Could it be that your eighteen month year old daughter was really, REALLY looking forward to attending a drunken, debaucherous hen's party? Had she purchased a new frock and heels for the occasion? ARE YOU ON FUCKING CRACK?????? How divorced from reality can one person possibly be?

Just so you know, I don't do passive aggression. So if you step one foot out of line at the wedding, which I know you are still attending because your particular brand of emotional terrorism has worked on my best friend's fiance, expect to be dealing with me. I will not be holding back on my opinions, they will be freely shared with you. Hopefully if someone actually calls you on your disgustingly selfish behaviour, you might actually have cause to reflect on your actions. But probably not. Selfish arseholes like you rarely realise that their actions might be causing other people anxiety. 

Enraged,

B. J. Barnes

Where Did B. J. Barnes Come From?

For those of you not in the know, B. J. Barnes is not my real name (I really wish it was, it's a really cool name). So this is a short one to let you know where this little moniker comes from

A few years ago, there was a young woman (but really a girl) who had just finished university and also a long term relationship with a boy she had thought for a long time that she would end up with. Her best friend had just relocated to Melbourne, and she too had moved away from the town she had grown up in in order to fulfil her dreams in the big smoke. Everything was changing. Big times. 

New Year's Eve was rolling around, and a plan was hatched. The girl would go to Melbourne for the very first time. Fun would be had.

A week long bender ensued, and on one of the evenings the girl met a delightful, and rather dishy, young English man. Big blue eyes, messy light brown hair, gorgeous posh accent. Kisses were stolen in stylish Melbourne bars and numbers were exchanged. 

A few days later the girl was back in Sydney, and the English boy happened to be there at the same time. He came out to her home in the beautiful boondocks of Sydney. The situation was kind of awkward, and hardly earth shattering. It didn't result in any great revelation, and it took her another two years to finally move on from the King of Emotional Fuckwittery.

But the one, rather brilliant thing that did come of this ill-advised fling was the germ of an idea, and a pen name. You see, that boy's name was B. J. Barnes, and that girl asked permission to use this should she ever be a great (or even lack lustre) writer. And that is where it all began.

Every story needs a beginning,

B. J. Barnes

What Should Have Happened

So, since the whole Mr. A thing ground to a really disappointing halt, I've been dealing with the uncomfortable realisation that I still have it super bad for The Writer. I've kind of known it for awhile. Even before I leapt in and started pursuing Mr. A I was asking myself whether or not I was ready to be with anybody else. I pushed aside those thoughts and threw myself headlong into the chase, because I figured that was the best way to move forward, and I do really love a good chase. 

But I am still thinking about him. And it still hurts to do so. Which is really quite odd. I mean, I understand the concept of getting over someone, and how long that can take. But I haven't really been this hung up on someone that I never had any sort of physical relationship with. I've had the unrequited pining thing before, but that's been for ex boyfriends, people that I've actually had physical and emotional connections with. What I feel for The Writer is a much more insidious, all encompassing thing. And it makes me feel truly, truly awful. 

I realised the other night what I had really needed to happen, back when I was still in Dublin, in order to be able to move forward from this whole heartsick mess. I really should have just slept with The Writer, in spite of his girlfriend, because one of two things would have come of it:

1. It would have been really lacklustre, as most initial sexual encounters are. And awkward, and awful, and absolutely mortifying. And he probably would have pulled what I like to call his 'concentration face,' which would be enough to turn anyone off sex with him. This would probably have been enough to make me move on from the delusion that he was The One; or
2. It would have been crazy, mindblowing sex because of the intellectual and emotional connection we shared, and I probably would have cried a little bit.

Either way, it would have been done. The one thing I do know for sure is that if he had slept with me I would have felt incredible guilt. And distaste for him as a person. Because I couldn't stay in love with a guy who was so easily able to shake off the sanctity of a relationship for one night with a girl that he flirts with at work. Even if he felt the same pull to me. I would have judged him. And myself. Because that's how I work. And that would have been the perfect cure to this pain. In the short term it would have hurt more, but in the long term I could have chalked it up as 'well, would you really want to be with a guy like that anyway?' The answer is a definitive no. And my own guilt over my part in the proceedings would have been enough to keep my mind away from it.

Instead, I'm left with the fact that he seems to be a really good guy. A wanker when it comes to books and his affectations, sure. A borderline hipster who wears really unattractive knitted jumpers with weird patterns on them. A guy whose goofy comments and self-righteousness made me roll my eyes with some regularity. Someone who drives me to the point of absolute madness, and who is quite happy for me to drive him there too until we're both sniping at each other and blowing up tiny landmines of abuse. In spite of all of these annoyances, he's still a good, moral guy. 

And this is what kills me. If he'd just slept with me, or even kissed me, I could have formed a snap opinion of him and his views on all things relationship related. Instead, I can see that he truly values love, and his girlfriend, and everything that goes along with that. He is fiercely loyal, and wiling to do what it takes to make something work, and considerate, and, well, just bloody perfect in that respect. And until he screws that up, I continue to wait it out, in some sort of sick way. Hoping that one day he'll suddenly wake up and think 'YES! The way is clear!' and pack up his bags and never look back. But he won't, because he's a fucking stand up guy with morals and standards and a heart. In short, he is very much like me.

Intellectually, and I know that I've said this before, I know it could never work between us. We'd kill each other. It would be a crazy, passionate ride, but it would burn like an incredibly bright star that was falling rapidly and inevitably to a disastrous end. 

I finished reading the final book of The Hunger Games trilogy recently, and in the last part the protagonist, when referring to why she was not suited to her best friend, states that 'I have plenty of fire myself... What I need is the dandelion in the spring.' And I identified with this (I'm secretly a sixteen year old girl), because I have far too much fire to be with someone as equally flammable as him. I need someone calm and quiet and relaxed. Someone who is willing to stand up to me if I'm being an idiot, but who is not too easily provoked. And that's not The Writer. Not at all. 


And yet, here I am.


Next time this happens to me, I'm just bloody well sleeping with the guy. 


B. J. Barnes

What I Need is a Beard (or Daddy Issues, Depending on How You Want to Read This One))

My relationship with my father is not a great one. There is resentment on both sides, but mine is tempered somewhat by the fact that I do genuinely love him. Dad has always looked at me like I'm a bit of an alien. He just doesn't understand me at all. This is probably because he doesn't know me at all, because he has never really taken the time to take a look that is anything other than superficial. 

From what I can gather, he thinks that I am argumentative (which I can be, if I really believe in something), headstrong (also, yes, but not necessarily in a bad way), snobbish (I concede that I can be, but not in the way that he thinks I am), and altogether mystifying.

When I told him I was moving to Dublin, his first reaction was to ask why. I told him that I wanted to travel, to see the world, that I had fallen in love with the place and wanted to live there. He looked at me as if I had two heads and informed me that really, what I should be doing, was leaving all my travelling and adventure until I was older, like his age, the way he had done. He had never left Australia, bar a brief honeymoon with my stepmum to Hawaii, up until a few years ago. The fact that he couldn't get his head around the idea that someone might be able to feel a connection to a place, that someone my age might want to live overseas before settling down into the minutiae of life in general, caused me to judge him, again. Judgement is something I cast on my father all too regularly, and it makes me feel like an awful person, but I can't fathom someone being that narrow minded and self-absorbed.


Compare this to my stepdad's reaction, which was to do everything he could to encourage my dream. He had left Ireland when he was the same age as me, and had never looked back. He understood my wander lust, and understood why I needed to do it. He didn't even think to question it, because he knew that it was simply unavoidable.

My dad has been asking me since I was about twenty five years old why I don't have a boyfriend (this commenced about a year after I ended a two year relationship with the King of Emotional Fuckwittery, apparently being single for a year is akin to a death sentence). He seems to take some sort of pleasure in telling me that unless I settle down soon noone will have me, that I will be too set in my ways and unable to attract anyone. 

I would be able to accept this, based upon the fact that my dad has never left the small town he grew up in, a place where it is highly unusual to be single at my age. I could also acknowledge that he probably says these things to me because he worries that I will be alone and sad, and that he hates being alone and doesn't want me to suffer the same fate. I could accept these things and allow his constant barbs about me 'needing to find a man' and snorts of derision whenever I mention the possibility that one day I might be married with kids, if it were not for the fact that he is the last person on earth who should be giving anyone relationship advice, ever!

My mum and dad got married far too young, as is customary in my home town. And they should never have been married. They share none of the same values. The only similarity I can see between the two of them is that they are both ridiculous dreamers, whose dreams are completely unrealistic and unattainable. Even if their dreams had been attainable, they never would have got there together, because they are both incapable of moving forward, and have no skills with which to achieve their goals, or identify elements that are somewhat unrealistic and act accordingly. I say this from a distance, and with the benefit of hindsight, but their marriage was a disaster and the thinly veiled contempt that they still seem to harbour for each other twenty five years on is evidence of this. 

My dad's second marriage was to a fabulous woman who had four sons. She was the sole reason my brother and I resumed regular contact with our father, and she basically took us on as her own children. She has faults, as everyone does, but she is a good mother and she loved my father with everything that she had. But my dad is incredibly hard to live with, and I know this from living with him for the final two years of my university degree, a time I spent largely holed up in the university library or at my emotionally incompetent boyfriend's home, just to escape the overwhelming sense of being stifled in my own home. My stepmum implored my dad to take steps to save their marriage, to attend counselling with her, to talk about the fact that she felt trapped and sad. He refused. He claimed that he 'couldn't change,' and implied that she shouldn't need him to, that she had known what she was getting herself into. This enraged me, but my rage was pointless. My stepmum left just before I finished my degree, leaving me alone with the mess. I don't blame her for this. Their relationship is still in an odd state of flux even now, five years on, but I find it best not to think about it. 

Based upon his disastrous attempts at being in adult relationships, I feel resentment every time my dad judges me for not being in a relationship, and so very rarely discuss anything of this nature with him. I feel angry that he can't look at all of my other achievements in life, even just the fact that I am generally a nice, well-liked person, and just feel some sense of pride. The fact that he is so fixated on this one area of my life, and that he feels that I am not worthy unless I find a boyfriend, can leave me feeling slightly worthless. The negative voice I mentioned in my last post about Mr. A? When it occurs, it generally takes the form of my dad telling me that I am hopeless and can't possibly succeed in keeping a man. And sometimes I feel like it's a bit of a self-fulfilling prophecy.

It took me a long time to accept that I can be happy and have a wonderful life without a boyfriend, and everytime I see my dad I am sent straight back into that negative place where not having a boyfriend is viewed as some sort of indictment on me as an individual. Not as an indication that maybe I have just made certain choices in life that have led me to this place, and an acknowledgment that there is more to life than marriage and babies. 

My dad makes me feel like Charlotte Lucas in Pride & Prejudice, a dried up spinster who should settle for any old creep who throws their lechery in my direction. But I refuse to settle. There, I've said it. I'll only marry a man who I love, who I am attracted to, who I engage with on an intellectual and emotional level, and, above all, one who shares my values. I will never marry a Collins just for the sake of appearances. I would rather die alone and be feasted upon by my menagerie of pets for a few days before being discovered.


What I think I need, to combat this issue with my father, is a beard, but one for a heterosexual woman. A man that I can take back to my home town whenever I am compelled to visit there out of duty. A handsome, intelligent man who can hold his own against my father and behave like he is utterly, and endlessly in love with me. I would even take the ruse so far as to pretend that we were actually married (elopement, of course, to avoid the mess of actually having to have a fake wedding), and bring along gorgeous children who were purportedly ours. Of course, a real boyfriend would be ideal, but this seems like an unlikely prospect, and I probably wouldn't want to introduce a real boyfriend to my father too soon, it might scare him off if he realised what a crackpot family I come from.

So, if anyone out there knows a nice man who would be willing to participate in this entirely platonic endeavour to get my father off my back, please send them my way. Because I don't know how much more of this negative talk and derision I can take before I explode and go on a major feminist rant to a man who has not the slightest clue about the point of feminism or female empowerment more generally.

Wondering who it is that I actually take after,

B. J. Barnes

How Not to End a (Very) Short Fling

I started writing this a few weeks ago, immediately after the fact. But I couldn't finish it, and I'm glad that I couldn't, because it would have been a mess. Now that I've had a little bit of time, I think I can strike the right balance between seeing this for what it is, yet another weird dating disaster story, and writing like a true woman scorned (which I'm really not, it was far too short a disaster for me to feel really bitter.) In case you haven't already guessed, this will be the last chapter in the incredibly brief novella that was my fling with Mr. A. I'll write this down, and then I'll let it go, with any luck.

After the first date, things progressed quickly. Time passed in a haze of ice cream dates, manic butterflies in my stomach, and finally, FINALLY, a physical connection. It seemed to be travelling well. He seemed to like me too. He remembered things that I liked, he arranged a thoughtful, amazing date that tapped into aspects of my personality that he appeared to have identified. I was smitten. And, in spite of the little voice that is always with me telling me that I can never hold down a relationship and that this was bound to fail, I felt confident. I ignored that voice, telling myself that I needed to stop being so pessimistic. I listened to my friends, who told me that everything sounded so positive, and that they had good feelings about it all.

I had to go home to Sydney for a rather significant birthday that my darling little sister was celebrating, and I had let him know that I would be free early in the week after my return. He suggested a drink, and I gladly agreed. The little voice was somewhat quelled.

I arrived back in the afternoon before the planned drinks date, and ran around my house like an absolute mad thing, tidying everything up because it was pretty likely he would come home with me (as usual), unpacking my suitcase, and making myself look gorgeous (I'm pretty sure I succeeded in this last one, I got eyed off by a very handsome man on my way in to get dumped. I should have blown off Mr. A and struck up a conversation with that guy instead).

I got to the bar and he was already there. He didn't notice me walking up, he was reading (swoon), so I sat right by him, kissed him and was generally very enthusiastic about seeing him (mainly because I was really excited to see him). I went to grab a drink and then we had a conversation about our respective weekends. He suggested we go to get dinner and I readily agreed. We walked around the city, trying to find a restaurant, he held my hand, put his arm around me, acted just like he always did (pessimistic voice completely gone, new happy voice shouting at old voice telling it to disappear forever). We had dinner, chatted, he asked about personal family things, I held back slightly (still wary of over-sharing), but answered as honestly as I could without getting all dark on everything. 

After dinner we went to a nice little quintessential Melbourne bar. I was completely relaxed, as you can imagine, everything seemed to be as it always was.Then he dropped the bomb. 'I'm really sorry, I can't do this anymore.' 

I thought that I had misheard. He had, after all, been holding my hand and acting perfectly normal. We'd just had a dinner date for fuck's sake!


'I'm sorry, what?'


'I can't do this anymore, see you, I mean.'


I went from being comfortably sprawled in my chair to sitting straight up, hands on knees, almost rocking slightly. Why? WHY? WHY?


He offered a few excuses, intimacy issues, an instinct that it was wrong, the fact that he felt we were at cross-purposes (this one really threw me, I'd never really thought about my purpose in this. Sure, I had thought that maybe he might eventually be my boyfriend, but I had accepted it was early days, and hadn't made any plans. I'm not sure what his purposes were, but whatever they were, my undefined ones were at odds with them.) He told me that he didn't dislike me, that he found me 'oddly interesting,' and that due to his intimacy issues and his inability to hold down a relationship beyond three months, I could console myself with the fact that it probably wasn't me.


I told him that this was a shit situation, as I liked him, and had done so for a long time. I might have also mentioned the fact that I felt that this was a little unfair, and that whilst I acknowledged that there was some awkwardness between us, thought this was a by product of the fact that we were both kind of awkward people, and had expected that it would pass as time went by. 


I left after this and walked in absolute shock to the best friend's place, where I cried. I cried for half an hour in absolute rage. I was in the midst of a self-blaming attack, what had I done wrong, why couldn't I keep men, what is WRONG with me? The best friend tried her best to comfort me.

My self-blame passed, and then I was filled with rage. An overwhelming, hateful rage. How dare he! He broke up with me! Then I just felt sad and crabby for a week. 


I guess the overwhelming feeling I'm left with, a few weeks on, is disappointment. Disappointment that things didn't work out, because I did really like him and genuinely enjoyed his company. Disappointment that he didn't just take my alternative offer of friendship at the outset. Because I never acted in a way that was anything other than how I am. He knew the kind of person I was before diving in, and I feel like if he had doubts about our compatability even then (which I imagine he did), he should have just indicated that he would rather be friends. And I would have been fine with that. This wasn't a great love, akin to the way I felt about The Writer. The crush would have passed, and we would have been able to get along quite well in a platonic way, in my opinion. But now, he's fucked that, because I don't want to be friends with someone who could behave in the absolutely appalling way he did. I'm also disappointed in myself, for once again picking the wrong guy. But I'm not going to beat myself up over it, one of these days I have to get something right, the odds are kind of in my favour, surely I'm very close to having used up all my bad luck. And it would be much worse if I wasn't open to giving people a chance, because I might miss out on some awesome opportunities.


So, the point of this post was to close off this shitty little chapter of my much bigger, happier story, but also to offer the following advice to people who want to end a relationship in the very early stages. Don't do the following things on the night you plan to dump someone:

• Show any affection towards the person you're planning on dumping;
• Go on a dinner date with the person you're planning on dumping; and
• Generally act the way you always do, thus setting the person you're planning on dumping at ease.

Instead, do the following things:

• There is nothing wrong with ending a fling over the phone. My younger self would have disagreed with this advice, but there was absolutely no need for me to see him that evening. I could have been at home in my pyjamas eating chocolate;
• If you insist on seeing the person you're planning on dumping (and, again, totally no need for this after a handful of dates), do the dumping quickly, like ripping off a band aid. It's better for everyone. Don't drag this shit out, it just makes it even more perplexing; and 
• Accept that the person you're planning on dumping is probably going to be shocked and a bit angry with you. Allow yourself to be the bad person in this scenario (especially if this person offered you the choice to just be friends only weeks prior to this ultimate act of awkwardness).

I am feeling much better now, I feel like I've dodged an atomic bomb of sorts, and am glad I didn't get any more invested. It's sort of raised some uncomfortable questions about my residual feelings towards The Writer, but that's for another time. 

At some serious cross-purposes,

B. J. Barnes

For Me, Art is All About a Feeling

I am an English major. In my fun degree, that is. If money was no object I would happily study the liberal arts for the rest of my life, maybe do a spot of volunteer work in my more serious profession for a bit of a lark and to feel like I was 'contributing' to society. The point is, if there's anyone that can rip a piece of art limb from limb, expertly dissecting its themes, plot structure, and underlying message and wrapping that up in a neat, succinct bundle of words called an essay, it's me.

Don't get me wrong, I rather enjoy the fact that when I watch a movie or (relatively, for me at least, lover of all things trashtastic) high brow television program, or read a book, or listen to music even, I can identify central themes, and devices that have been used to promote said themes. This enjoyment probably comes from the fact that, at heart, I'm a bit of an artsy wanker who enjoys being able to point something out knowingly. Or reference it at a later stage in conversation when trying to impress an equally artsy, wankery man. Or just amongst my friends, who would probably look at me and call me a wanker, or join in, because they too are wankers. 

Anyway, all this talk of artsy wankery has got me a little off topic. The point is, I appreciate the fact that I am able to see the technical side of art. But, at the same time, I think that the technical side of art is not the part that really matters at the end of the day. Clive James summed it up really well in his absolutely epic collection of essays called Cultural Amnesia (if you have a spare year of your life and the ability to sit still and read very dense language about incredibly interesting subject matter, but also the humility to recognise that Mr. James is a genius, and that you will never be as brilliant as he, and that is why much of the book will go completely over your head and all you can hope for is that some of the brilliance will rub off onto you in the guise of a remembered fact or quote then, by all means, read this book):

'Art proves its value by still mattering to people who have been deprived of every other freedom: indeed instead of mattering less, it matters more.'

Couldn't have said it better myself. Don't ask me for a page reference for this beautiful little snippet, I have no such details.

My point in using that quote is to illustrate the main thrust of my argument (spoken like a true English major, albeit one whose referencing skills clearly need a brush up), which is that whilst the technicality of art is no doubt important, what really matters, at the end of the day, is the way that art makes you FEEL. I am sure that the people of whom Mr. James speaks do not appreciate art purely because of all its technical glory. They are appreciating art in a time in their lives which is difficult or downright horrific because of the joy that it brings to them. Listening to music simply because it is uplifting. Watching film because of the beautiful shots used to tell a wonderful story. Reading a book because of its ability to transport you to another place and time through language. A beautiful piece of art brings you hope for a better life in a way that nothing else can. The fact that humanity is able to create such beauty is, to me at least, indicative of the fact that we are capable of compassion and kindness and, ultimately, love. People will keep doing horrible things to each other, of this there can be no doubt, but as long as we have art there will be hope for better things to come. That is what true art means to me. 

I once argued at school that the dissection of poetry line by line was a pointless exercise, because I highly doubted that poets sat there and thought through every tiny technical aspect of a poem before writing it. I was probably wrong about this, poets probably are very technical beings who consider all of those issues as they write, but I like to think of poets as passionately artistic beings who are unfettered by convention or technicality. I hated poetry for a long time, possibly because of the times in school and university that I was forced to break down what for me was essentially a work of art into tiny, seemingly insignificant chunks of information about meter. But I've come around to it the older I become. And that is because I no longer go into reading a poem thinking about the meter or the theme. I go into reading a poem purely for enjoyment, for the thrill that beautiful language can evoke in me.

The beautiful use of the English language is my opiate, creating a euphoria in me that is almost unparalleled by anything else. I'm getting a bit quote happy in this post, but it is about art and literature, so it seems only right. Nick Hornby (one of my all time favourite authors, possibly because he writes with such precision about the kind of under-achieving, over-thinking, largely directionless men that I find myself attracted to time and again. Possibly also because I am the female version of said men. Definitely because he writes well), in his lovely ode to literature, The Polysyllabic Spree, spewed forth the following controversial gem:

'Books are, let's face it, better than everything else. If we played cultural Fantasy Boxing League, and made books go fifteen rounds in the ring against the best that any other art form had to offer, then books would win pretty much every time.'

I tend to agree with him, because I am a book nerd. But I also love music, and film and painting and sculpture. Books simply win, for me, because language is the way in which I find those things like love and hope, that are essential to humanity, are most beautifully conveyed. 

When I think about books that I have read, films that I have seen, pieces of art that I have observed, music that I have listened to, I primarily remember the way that they made me feel. Like the feeling of absolute amazement and joy that washed over me at the conclusion of Yann Martel's Life of Pi, the soft, languorous, but still thrilling warmth that arose in me as a result of Sophia Coppola's use of pastel colours and dreamy shots in Marie Antoinette, the brooding melancholy that seeped into my very soul whilst reading Wuthering Heights, the love and sensual energy that I could feel emanating from Picasso's painting of his wife, Olga in the Armchair, the way that Tim Burton made me feel like I was falling in love at first sight the moment that his hero in Big Fish first spies his wife at a circus and time, literally, stands still, even the way that the little references to things that are going to be of future importance to Ted's overall story in How I Met Your Mother make me feel slightly giddy. So if you ask me to tell you about the story of Pride & Prejudice, I'm likely to reference the playfulness of Lizzie, and Darcy's aristocratic stuffiness, rather than go into intricate detail about the ins and outs of the plot itself. If you ask me to describe the Smashing Pumpkins' music, I'll give you a genre, but then proceed to describe how I think that Billy Corgan's music is somewhat misunderstood, that he is not writing angsty, depressing songs, that he is actually writing love songs with angsty undertones, and how if you actually listen to some of the songs you can feel uplifted.

In short, I'm not the person to talk to if you want a technical breakdown of something, or if you want to discuss plot devices or themes. I'm all about the feeling. If you want to talk about that, I'm your woman. 

Yours in artsy wankery,

B. J. Barnes

It's Too Late to Apologise and, For That, I Am Truly Sorry

Mr. A is not the first 'nice' guy I've dated. They have been few and far between, but I have chalked up at least, hmmm, three. 

This post is about one in particular, probably the first truly nice guy I dated, and the horrible way I ended it all (probably yet another karmic reason why my dating life is generally such a disaster).


I met The Nice Guy at a bar in Sydney. I was there for after work drinks on a Friday night. It was full of the yuppie set (wow, who would have thought that a blog in 2012 would bring back the term yuppie? Not me!) I saw a gorgeous man dancing very well on the floor, we started talking, he told me his name was Mink (not really, I just misheard him, but he seemed like the type of guy who could be called Mink, he was just THAT good looking). Mink wasn't The Nice Guy (although he was also incredibly nice). I found out really quickly that Mink was, tragically, married. This was a pretty devastating blow, I love a good looking man who can dance and who also seems kind of nice, a triple threat I like to call them. 


In swoops The Nice Guy. He was besties with Mink. And I guess that after watching my inevitable rejection, he decided that maybe he could be a suitable replacement for Mink. He was also quite nice looking (not in Mink's league, but pleasant), and he really should have been my type, he ticked all the boxes. He was tall, had messy black hair, big, nice eyes, and a very sweet smile. He was also really well dressed. He asked for my number, and I handed it over. I wasn't overly excited, but I wasn't going to say no to a box ticker (that sounds kind of dirty!).


The Nice Guy made all the right moves after this. He texted, he emailed throughout the day when we were both working, he was an absolute sweetheart. And, yet, the passion wasn't there. Maybe if I saw him again!


We went on a date, he travelled to near where I lived to go on this date. It was nice, we got along. He was polite, handsome, and well put-together. Also an excellent kisser! Perfect boyfriend material. But, still, not feeling it.


I kept giving him chances, because he seemed like the right thing to do at the time. We hung out a lot more, a couple of times at my house. We never went all the way (so high school), mainly because he was kind of nervous. He would shake a little bit whenever we kissed each other. If I'd wanted to take it further I definitely could have, but something was holding me back. A very tall, dark, and handsome something. But I'll get to that in a second. 


The doubts were there over minor things. Ah, the things you can be picky about when you're young (I talk like I'm forty. I'm not). He liked fantasy novels. I judged him for this. Deeply. I just really, really don't like fantasy novels, unless they're Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter, or Game of Thrones. I am a book snob, there I've admitted it, it feels like such a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. His family were really into the theatre. Which is fine, but made me (quite wrongly) question his sexuality (he was neat, and liked the theatre, it was inevitable that I would come to the wrong conclusion). He had a car that I didn't like, this little sporty thing that reminded me of my mother. A guy's car should never remind you of your mother. It's just wrong. 


I was kind of mean to him which, in hindsight, was just the kind of person I was. I'm still a little bit like this, but I've managed to identify it as an issue and can usually control my meanness these days. I teased him about his taste in books, and his car. I teased him mercilessly about his car. I was AWFUL. I don't know why the guy kept going out with me, it must have been exhausting to be around me. 


The biggest problem though, when it comes down to it, was the six foot five hulk of a man that I was still crazily in love with. The King of Emotional Fuckwittery. He deserves a post of his own, probably more than one, so I won't go into it too much. Suffice to say, when I met The Nice Guy, The King and I were officially split up. Unofficially, we were still sleeping with each other. All the time. I was like an addict, couldn't stop going back for one more hit. I didn't think I still loved him, but I did. In a crazy, unhinged kind of way that frightens me a little now. 


The Nice Guy didn't really stand a chance. I didn't sleep with The King whilst I was dating The Nice Guy, just to be clear. Well, not consistently. We were barely talking for that month, mainly because I had decided that I 'needed to move on.' I had a belated housewarming party planned. The Nice Guy was invited along with one of his friends. I was happy enough for him to meet my friends, I knew they would love him, he was quite perfect. 


The night before my party, I got a phone call from The King. At midnight. He had locked himself out of his place. Could he come to mine? It was raining. I felt bad. I said yes. I was wearing my gigantic pyjamas, there was no way he would want to sleep with me. I had, obviously, conveniently forgotten the fact that we had dated for two years, and that he had seen me in my gigantic pyjamas on many, many occasions and still slept with me. The plan of no sleeping together didn't go well. And then, for some ridiculous reason, we decided the next day that it would be a really good idea to go to see the Sex in the City movie. That's right! A fucking date! With my ex. It was one of the most retarded situations I have ever been in.


I invited him to my party, because I felt obliged to. I knew he wouldn't come, but there was an off chance. I called The Nice Guy in a state of complete anxiety. He answered and I was on speaker phone in his tiny sports car, and his brother was sitting next to him. He asked me to say hello to his brother. I did so. Then I asked if he could call me back later when his brother wasn't there. When he did, all of the words gushed out of me like a really awful stream. I told him that my ex had turned up on my doorstep the night before, that I was so confused, and that I didn't think he should come to my party, and that maybe we just shouldn't see each other any more. He was, predictably, ridiculously lovely and supportive of this decision. He said all the right things. Because that was the type of guy he was, outstanding and sensitive in just about every way.


The party went ahead, sans any of the men in my life, and I decided that it was all over between me and The Nice Guy, and that The King was still, unfortunately, the one for me.


On Monday I got to work, and had a long email from The Nice Guy. He basically told me that he understood what I was going through, that he had tried to be friends with his ex, that it didn't work. He told me he wanted to still be friends and, hopefully, in the future, when I had sorted out my feelings, something more. I didn't respond. I made that decision, and there's a part of me that wishes I hadn't. 


Here's the thing, The Nice Guy would have been perfect if I had met him at the right time in my life. Like now, for example. If I had met The Nice Guy right now, I would have had no hesitation in dating him, possibly even settling down with him. Because he really was amazingly nice. But it took moving to another country, and meeting The Writer to show me the value of a genuinely good guy. And by that point, it was all a bit too late for me and The Nice Guy.


So, I would like to apologise, even though it is sorely late. I'm sorry to The Nice Guy, and to all the other nice guys out there who have met girls like me at times in their lives when they're really not ready for a nice guy. I know that one day you'll all meet lovely girls, and marry them, and have perfectly nice lives. I hope that The Nice Guy has met someone lovely, because he really does deserve it after dating the likes of me. 


Deeply apologetic,


B. J. Barnes
 

A Letter to Men That I Date (But Mostly to Mr. A. Ok, Just to Mr. A) P. S. This is One of Those Letters That People Never Send

Dear Mr. A, 

I know we're literally only just getting to know each other. But there are a few things about me that you should probably know, because I really don't want you to get the wrong impression. 

• I am probably not as 'cool' as some of your ex-girlfriends. I am actually a pretty big nerd;
• In a related point, I'm not very 'indie.' I do love a lot of indie music, but my personality is too all over the place to settle into the indie mould. You seem a little bit indie. I might be wrong about that, because you also seem a bit nerdy. I guess we'll just have to see;
• I don't like all the same television shows as you. You seem to like fantasy/sci-fi stuff that's written really well. I sometimes like stuff like this. But mostly I just like trashy stuff, like Gossip Girl, or How I Met Your Mother. This is something you will have to learn to live with if you decide to date me in any ongoing sort of way; 
• I sometimes like really terrible pop music. Really terrible. So terrible that you will judge me for it. But I'm probably not going to hide this obsession from you, like some dirty porn stash, because it's kind of exhausting to have to pretend to be only into cool, alternative, indie, rock music;
• I am really quite bookish. I read all the time. I try to read a lot of literature, but I sometimes slip and read stuff that's pretty badly written, because it's fun for a change;
• I guess that my love of books and music are really a reflection on the type of person I am. As a child I used books to escape from all the rubbish going on in my parents' lives, and as a teenager I used music. As an adult I use both to escape from the fact that my life hasn't really ended up where I thought it would, and to combat the unnerving anxiety that I sometimes feel. So, sometimes, I'll probably be obsessed with a new band, or a book that I just can't put down, and you'll just have to accept that this is who I am;
• I can be a bit flippant sometimes, and I think that that makes me come across as not as smart as I actually am. I am actually fairly intelligent, and know lots of different, random things. I'm just not an expert at any one thing, I'm more of an all-rounder. If I make an odd comment, chances are I'm not being all that serious, and haven't really thought it through. As I get older I get better at avoiding this, but I can't always control it;
• You are incredibly intelligent. Certainly the most intelligent man I have ever been on a date with. And it makes me a little uneasy, because I get intimidated when you talk about certain things that I really should know about but don't. I've taken to nodding and smiling when you say this stuff. I'll also admit to googling certain words or topics you've discussed afterwards in an effort to feel slightly less stupid next time I see you. The fact that you're smarter than I am, combined with my sometimes flippant behaviour, makes me nervous;
• I am a romantic. A hopeless one. I sometimes believe in fate, and silly concepts like 'The One.' I'm not saying that I think you're 'The One,' or that it was fate that we met. But I feel like everything will work out exactly the way it's meant to for everyone eventually. And I struggle to find a reason why I feel that way, because I've really seen no evidence of this being the case;
• In addition to being a romantic, I'm also an escapist. As I mentioned before, I use books and music to escape everything, all the time. I ran away to another country for a year just to escape the realities of day to day life. And it was the best thing I ever did. But this doesn't mean I'm flighty, it just means I'm open;
• Did I mention that I'm also a hardcore pragmatist/realist? Confused? Yeah. Me too. Because you really shouldn't be able to be a romantic escapist at the same time as being a pragmatic realist. But I am. And I hold onto romantic concepts even though I realise that there's no proof of them. I'm not religious, but love, I guess, is what I have faith in. But I doubt myself every other day because of my realist tendencies;
• If you can't quite put your finger on who I am, join the club. I change every other day. I have so many different interests, so many thoughts, and so many different opinions of myself, that I can totally understand why ex-boyfriends have described me as inscrutable. The King of Emotional Fuckwittery was my best friend for around three years, but he once told me he had no idea who I was, or what I was thinking. He could never read me. And I kind of liked it that way. I hold big parts of myself back, not necessarily intentionally. But I hope that you'll give me a chance to be who I am, even if that person is a bit all over the shop. And if you ever want to know what I'm thinking, just ask, I promise I'll try to explain it to you. 

I guess the overall point of this is to say, well, I like you. And I hope that you might like me too. And I hope that I'll have an opportunity to get to know you better, because you seem a little bit different too. I like that about you. 

B. J. Barnes