There is a kind of man I tend to date. This man is considered undatable by the more reasonable public. He is considered difficult. He is the sort of man who, when you say his name, those who have met him say, “Oh, him.” He is known by everyone in broad strokes and intimately by no one. He seldom has many close friends. He is eccentric or ornery or sad. He is a loner but he also has a big mouth. He does not like many people. He does not let people get close. If you date this kind of man, and meet a friend or relative of his, without fail they will say, “We’re just so glad X finally found someone!” and there will be an edge of disbelief or perhaps relief in their voice.

If this man is in a band, and he often is, he is most likely the lead guitarist. If he is not in a band, he is still, spiritually, the lead guitarist.

The average person, when encountering such a man, will think, Oh, boy, and keep a distance. They will not have figured this man out, per se, but the fact of the man seeming mysterious, seeming to have something up with him, is not a thing that is intriguing to them. They do not feel the need to find out what is up. They have a suspicion that, whatever is up, it will not bring them joy or peace to know about it. And for this reason, they go no further.

To reappropriate language from Dr. Pratt of the DRC, these men are “disasters in environments that are too dangerous for human beings to go into by themselves.”

And yet I always go. Why?