on relationships and being a sexual deviant

I have a feeling that I'm not really all there, right now.Inside my head, I mean. Because I just got home from a lovely night out with a lovely lady of my acquaintance, whom I wined and dined, and took out for coffee afterwards, and I know that I won't call her again. Ever.

She was too nice.

Gah. Its sad, and weird, and I feel like a sexual deviate, but nice doesn't work for me.

I don't want a healthy relationship, I mean, look at Thonk. Flabby, happy, and content! He's with his dream girl, and she's beautiful, and nice, and everything is perfect. He has every reason to be flabby, happy, and content.

Gawd, I never want to be content. I want a girl who bickers, and moans, and complains. I want fights in the middle of the night, shouting matches in public, ankle-kicking, ear-biting arguments. Fire. I don't want a girl made of hearts and flowers, I want one with hobnail boots and army pants. I want trouble.

What I need, however, is another story. I need a girl who'll push me, and shove me, and kick me, to be someone I have only seen glimpses of. He's not exactly better than who I am right now, but he's certainly more grown up, and slightly more level-headed. Calmer, maybe. Not quite so angry, possibly. More, productive, definitely.

And maybe thats all I need, what everyone needs, really. Some girl who'll kick-start our systems, and give us a reason to go through another day. And go about making us breakfast, while she's at it.

And that is a small truth.

on love, and all that nonsense

"To love "very much" is to love poorly: one loves - that is all - it cannot be modified or completed without being nullified. It is a short word, but it contains all: it means the body, the soul, the life, the entire being. We feel it as we feel the warmth of the blood, we breathe it as we breathe the air, we carry it in ourselves as we carry our thoughts. Nothing more exists for us.

It is not a word: it is an inexpressible state indicated by four letters . . .."

Guy DeMaupassant


I want romance; nonsensical musings in the middle of the night, talking over coffee for hours over the state of the world and how it all went to hell, waking up to weird emotions, denial and all its connotations, feelings and all that unpleasantness, the paradox of indifference and passion.

I want peace of mind when I see her walking down the street, I want to feel my pulse quicken when our eyes meet, promises given and fulfilled, a language without words.

I want a girl I can give flowers to, and give candy to, and shout out my love for her from the rooftops, and I know that it's corny, and stupid, and true.

It's a freaking summer epidemic, the deadly kind. You know what it's like; emotional baggage hard-wired into the human brain, which causes you to do stupid, unspeakable things. Like flirt, and dress up, and socialize.

Thank God that feeling passes easily enough.

Its not easy being single in a city filled with lovers, let me tell you. Especially in this City, where you can fall in love (or a close approximation of it) just crossing the street.

Gah. . .

I know what brought this on, damned middle of the night SMS'es from people I'd rather never hear from again.

I am not a hopeless romantic, I'm just hopeless.

And that is a small truth.