“I’ve got too many answers to find”

I’ve got too many questions in my mind
I’ve got too many answers to find
Can I give up all I’ve imagined?
Am I imagical enough for this to happen?

Because I like you, I like you, I like you
And like can lead to like like and like like can lead to love
As sure as the stars above, I’d really like to kiss (fuck) you.

Exhibit A: Twitter's a culture, right?
Exhibit A: Twitter’s a culture, right?

I got Twitter-married this weekend. Not only did I get Twitter-married, but I got Twitter-married to erotica author and editor, Alison Tyler. Now, I’m probably making a bigger deal out of this than I should, but just let me have this one, okay? Be honest, this is as close as I’m going to get to the real thing. And that’s a thought that is both depressing and…well, it’s just depressing. Because I’m a thirty-year-old whose biggest relationship accomplishment is…what? Obviously, I don’t count a Twitter-marriage (because I’m not mentally sane, but I’m not Catcher-in-the-Rye-toting insane).

Exhibit B: What's more fake than Fifty Shades of Grey?
Exhibit B: What’s more fake than Fifty Shades of Grey?

As a child, I dreamed about adulthood. A romantic out of the womb, a socially awkward kid who grew into a socially awkward adult who uses phrase like “out of womb.” Chuck Klosterman said it best in his book, Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs: “I want fake love.” I want the sort of love that we’re conditioned to believe in through RomComs and Sitcoms. And not only fake love, but I want a fake life. I want the sort of life you get when you flip on the TV and see how easy it is to move from high school to college to career. Fuck it, let’s thrown in the entire Americana imaginary life–give me a house with a perfect lawn and a white picket fence with the perfect couple smiling and waving as their perfect kids go off to school so they can go back into the house and break out the BDSM gear. Is it too much to ask for the sexy librarian with the whips and rope?

When I was younger, I used to state that I’d have little life crisis to prevent a mid-life crisis in the future. I surpass them all, as well as, my quarter-life crisis which was pretty anticlimactic as I can’t recall what happen.

Truth is, even though I say I want the girl-the-next-door, or the sexy librarian, or MayKay, or English professor, or the philosopher, or the kinky erotica writer, or the Catholic, or the one I fought for and lost on several occasions, what I want is just someone to love me. And to love someone because they love me and because it’s right and because it doesn’t matter how many times I stumble. Because if I have to fight for a person to love me on a year-to-year, month-to-month, day-to-day basis, is it really worth it? No one’s ever had to fight for me. I either loved them or I didn’t. Simple as that.


“I’m not around to miss your smile”


Fight Like Apes
Exhibit A: MayKay (Photo credit: Neil Dorgan)

There’s something beautiful about a cranapple blend. There’s something miraculous in a new book. There’s something superbly sexy about Alison Tyler. There’s something comforting about having friends who stuck around throughout all my drama and asshole-ish-ness. There’s something heart-stoppingly awesome when he gets excited by my present. There’s something peaceful in MayKay‘s voice. And there’s something wonderful in the feeling that I get whenever…well, I’ll save that for a later post.

Sometimes, I just want to lay down all my demons and find something better to do with myself. Sometimes, I want to express myself to the fullest possible way. Sometimes, I want to just run into the Gulf and let the waves sweep me to wherever. Sometimes, I want to get lost in her book. Sometimes, I just want to wrap myself up in a blanket and just watch the sea swallow the sun and all the earth around it. Sometimes, I wish I could mean it when I say I’m over it.

I want to transcribe the stories I traced into your skin when I loved you. I want to sing out loud, even if I cannot carry a tune to save my life. I want to undo what I put you through, all those years ago, and make it right. I want to tell you how I feel before you’re gone from my life. I want to sit with you in some cafe in France and bitch about people who go to France.

Exhibit B: More on this in the next post.
Exhibit B: More on this in the next post.