Like an uninvited visitor that noticed your passing foot steps behind the door (you can't escape!). Knock knock knocking... Like a snarling stomach ache, persisting, in spite of all the soothing mantras and deep breathing: I see now that I am struggling with what I say vs what I do, when it comes to romantic dealings. The light is blinding and I can't flee or see clear until I write. So I write..
I say I want a diamond, but I settle for zirconia. I say Word Is Bond, but I permit them to be sloshed around, stripped of their essence and validity. I wish for an independent yet fervently loyal counterpart, and I end up somewhat satisfied with being left to my own devices, and wondering if this is my prerogative, or his doing.
My virtue is this: I believe 100% in the value of shared time and good ol' fashion love. I am an empathetic soul with a generous spirit that comes to all with alacrity and curiosity. Being regarded as anything but enthusiastic would be a gross misconception, for if you know me you know I'm usually smiling and enjoying one of life's pleasures; whether it be photographing faces, boogying any chance I get to delicious funk or disco (now Bhangarra!), laughing if it's funny (good thing I make myself laugh, gee whiz) exchanging ideas and niceties, crafting it up(scissors, glue, and potato stamps are serious underrated), or eating eating and eating some more.
My vice is this. I smoke. I swear. I stuff my face. I get grumpy and antisocial when I'm hungry. I'm incorrigibly impatient (especially when starving). I'm unpredictable, and tactless. I demand as much attention as I give. I am selfish in my wants for sensuality and demonstrations. My habit in love is that when I don't get what I want, I bitch to my close friends, but to the party in question I remain smiley and inspirational, when inside I hope he can read my mind and pick up on my subtle aloofness. I pick fights. I relish in argument. I feign coolness but I'm not cool. I want what I want when I want it. I'm capricious and susceptible. But mostly, I lie to myself and pretend all is well- until I stomp to stage left with a dramatic exit... expecting him to be running after me with a "NOOOOOO BEEEEEE! I F%$ked UUUUP"
Bahahahahh!! Yeah right. Not. Going. To. Happen. If it did, I probably would look at him with contempt and call him a pussy under my breath, just audible enough to remain true to my tactless manner. Getting what I want might actually be a turn off. Oh geeesus: Is the age-old platitude of girls liking bad boys true, then? Say it aint so!
Where is the 'juste milieu' ? Is it my problem or his? Writing me a love poem or baking me a sheet cake doesn't always cut the cake, so to speak (although it does help. If you're a writer or a chef call me up, I won't screen you!). I expect value behind statements and actions that resonate with them---And THERE is my issue: I EXPECT!! I knew writing would be my salvation! I knew it!
No attachment to outcome. This is what I need to befriend. It is indeed my problem, and not his. Writing: for your health!