Midnight snapshot:
Currently staring at the split ends in my hair. The dryer is running. Mallory is staring intently out the rear window even though it’s dark. My face is freshly washed and moisturized, though it still breaks out constantly no matter what I do.
Fucking shrug emoji.
I‘m looking back with some swirling combination of horror and disgust at men I’ve become attached to. Obviously there are exceptions. I do this a lot. I don’t want to repeat patterns.
But let’s backtrack:
I don’t attract many men. (Fucking ouch?!) Or maybe I’m oblivious. Even when I was rail thin I wasn‘t approached often. Then again, my track record of leaving the house isn’t great and my intensity might be scary? I have no idea. I have a woman’s brain. I can also be pretty mangled in my bonding attempts.
I can’t decide if I care about men or not. I can’t pretend that having a partner doesn’t appeal to me on some level. I spent 5 years coupled. It wasn’t one thing. It had high and low points. We did love each other even though it wasn’t always healthy.
Being loved back has never solved any problem I’ve had. It’s noise and a buffer in the best way, but on some level that’s all it is. “We are one.” People talk about that in their wedding vows. It’s not true or even necessary.
It might be one love - but it’s split between two heads... that’ll always mean two worlds.
When I weigh the pros and cons of dating, it comes out 50/50. It’s not anything to live or die for. I’m sure it‘ll ultimately depend on meeting the right person who isn’t too sour. A gamble. A cheap scratch off lottery ticket. Matching fruits. Two bananas = You’ve won a 5$ love on a ticket you paid 3 dollars for. And that’s if you’re lucky.
I want support and love. I already have big loves, albeit obligatory ones. These people either made me or we shaped each other by being plopped into the same genetic or circumstantial fish tank.
It’s what I deserve. I dole it out imperfectly, but I’m well more often than I am sick.
I can wax on about these things all day but I would just be saying more of the same things. It’s less interesting than a 6 year old’s princess fashion show (and that’s not me knocking those by the way.)
Do you feel me?
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