THERE ARE LINES, BETWEEN WHICH READ YOU MUST

The other day I read her something I had written years ago.  And I realize now that I shouldn't have done so. I thought it was nice.  She reacted with that bitter thing that I hate.
The piece recommended that she not deal so much with crazy obsessive white people.

http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2009/07/chinatown-sex-dungeons.html

I know she doesn't see things from my point of view.
Now perhaps more than ever.
She and I are at times not on the same page, we really don't understand each other.
That explains how the relationship came to an end.


Sure, there's an immense overlap.
Things we have in common, and an ability to finish each other's sentences.

But what it really boils down to is that I spent several years adapting to her, and she's been fairly oblivious to any interpretive differences.
It's not a language problem.  Both of us speak, read, and write English as our native tongue.  Nor is it cultural, although I know much more about Chinese things than she does (and far more about Jewish things than her boyfriend).

It is, if anything, textual.
She's unable to hear shades of grey.
I'm purely incapable of thinking any other way.

My exclamations, my sadness, my happiness, or even my humour - unless I spell it out explicitly, she doesn't know that it's there.  Blank without a factual explication.
That extreme degree of literality isn't what I do.
I am perhaps only mildly Asperger-ish.
For her, it's her biggest handicap.
Aspergers up the wazoo.

Other than that, she's brilliant.
Ethical, considerate.
And funny.


It's just incredibly wounding that most things I've ever written are pointless to her.
I think I write half-way decently.

No, she doesn't read my blog.
Never has.


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