Well, so much for that.

Yeah, the dating thing didn't really end that well. At least I didn't cry when he told me he wasn't really interested. And I didn't get mean either! So, I guess I win the moral victory. Or something.

Right now, I'm concentrating on reading biographies of women who could have any man in the world that they wanted but were still miserable (right now, Ava Gardner). I think that's the way for me to go right now; it'll stop the self-pity fest that I've been on the verge of for the last week or so. It's funny, though, I still rerun everything I did with him -- the emails and the dates themselves -- in my head, as if I could have done something differently. It doesn't matter, and it's ultimately not doing me any good to do it, because if someone isn't interested in you romantically, they're not interested and there's pretty much nothing you can do, short of changing your pheromones, that's going to make a difference. Or that's what I tell myself. It has the added advantage of possibly being true.

I did get a visit from the William James in my head in a dream last week, who offered me a hankie and patted me on the shoulder as I cried. It was nice of him to take the time to try to make me feel better, and I'm always surprised when one of America's great geniuses pays me a visit in my dream world. (Better him right now than the Graham Greene in my mind!)

Love stinks, yeah yeah, etc.