I can’t get this female, idolized version of me out of my head.
I mean, it’s not so much that she’s in there like the way a hermit crab refuses to come out of its shell and draws deeper in the closer you get to it. She’s not in there like that.
And in fact, now that I think about it, I’m not sure she’s stuck in there at all or that I even want to get her unstuck for that matter.
No, this female version of me is in my head the way a hot anchor is on a giant television screen in some city, where everybody looks up above the street to watch the news,
only she comes and goes like a picture with poor reception you have to smack the side of a few times in order to make stay put.
It’s not so much that I want her out of my head. It’s that she’s not in the Me show as much as I’d like her to be, and, occasionally, okay maybe more than that, I permit myself the fantastic and romantic delusion that she’ll somehow crawl out of my mind and say to me how happy she finally is to have found me so I can experience an ecstatic kind of belonging.