Obsessing

I've been away for a while.

And it has to do with my obsessive and addictive personality. People crave it all the time.
Ha! See what I did there?

I've been reading Ariely, learning about deception training and going through my insurance policy. I've been obsessing about lying. The idea of catching the slightest sigh of relieve, jumping at a proof of innocence or the up(down)swing of lips is something I'm quickly discovering to be a passion.

I'm passionate about understanding people, meeting people and figuring out what makes them tick. More often than not it's a coil mechanism that is both self-winding and solar with both digital and analog display.

There's a(several) reason(s) I'd never do South Florida nose candy.

But I digress - the problem is that the problem isn't selective. It's not just for overachieving, playing squash or attempting to stay up for 13 days in a row. Though the latter is more fatal than I initially thought.

I can't stand not being able to get a read on a person. To think that the girl in front of me is happy when instead she's burning up with the desire to sprint down the block and buy a cup of water (pronounced wuter) ice. Or that the casual dribbling of food down her chin is in fact not proof of how comfortable she is with herself but of a nervousness that she can't quite explain to herself.

Maybe what actually bothers me is the incredibly cute and almost to well-placed use of the "shit"*2.

I reason that maybe that was the one acceptable curse word - other than Crucio - at home for her, or maybe it's that she knows that the high pitched inflection she gives it makes it everything but crass - all of it an adorable sass.

The waitress might come over and wave her wand of magically awkward silence as I sit there wondering what's actually happening, letting my mind race as I nervously reach for the water hoping to catch something in your reflection. And I don't know what it is I expect, a wink? a playful jab to the gut? maybe I hope to see you play with your hair? I just need a sign.

And shit just got theological.

But not really, it's the male psyche. People talk about signals, decoding them, sending them. But they're a confusing tapestry - 19th century, battlefield, Napoleon rides in to an awaiting Josie - of misunderstood truths and are equal parts reality and fiction.

I'll keep reading.