In which I promise you I don't do drugs.

Uh, so this new draft is romantic.
I don't like it at all, but I like it in a way where I'll never admit it, except, you know, just now.

I don't especially know a lot about romance. I suspect I am mostly jaded, but I don't know it for sure. I could just be feeling detached for a few weeks (years).
This is a point that has been pointed at by several people lately; Do boys really matter that much to me anymore?

And it's funny, because the people (you! and others!) in my life will all seem to nod at once in a metaphysical way at each other and agree to ask me similar questions of similar topics all around similar times. This principle already having a name; Murphy's Law, made by some guy named Murphy who was Lawful (good? neutral? evil? The mystery remains, but I'm thinking evil).

Do boys really matter to me anymore.

I think the bigger question is this; Did boys ever really matter to me at all? Did love in itself ever really matter to me at all?

I think they/it did, to both those questions! I think it did matter, at some point.
But all good things must come to an end. Magic doesn't happen until it happens, and forcing or faking it is stupid.
(People build it all the time.)

The other side is thus; quit waiting for magic.
I'm not waiting for anything. That's just it. The fact that people call it waiting when I'm doing nothing of the sort irritates me. I'm not waiting, goddamnit, I'm just not doing anything. I'm not saying yes or no, I'm just moving on without a steady boyfriend or string of one night stands. I am neither extreme.

I think I just don't care enough.

It (the big It) always has been this strange feeling I've never quite fully grasped, or have been given the chance to embrace. Maybe I was given the chance, and I just didn't take it, but either way I've never had it. Sometimes I can stare out a window and look at the light on the trees and the spirit of it will hover just above my eyes. Someone else is there, flooding me with their experience and feelings. Most of the time I don't even feel the person, the feeling just hits sharply and strongly and I get a little wistful. All of a sudden I can understand, for the briefest moment, what warm, surging affection means.

For those few seconds, I'm in a relationship with someone I don't know, but know intimiately.

Crazy talk.

But then it goes away and I'm normal again. And I have pancake flour on my face.

So.
I'm not the cuddly type. Or, correction. I'm mostly only the cuddly type when I'm drunk. I don't like touching people, or being excessively close to them. Hugging was, and always will be, a little weird for me - I'm only just now learning to take it in stride.

Where was I? Play me off, keyboard cat.
No! I remember. Romance.
I have no idea what it is. I assume it's made of candles and nice thoughts, and quaint things that shouldn't be romantic at all but are because humanity thinks romantic irony the most romantic ever. This is due in part to their desire to stand out, and for completely unrelated things to come together as a chaotic (therefore fair and true) spiritual hint that they (or their connection) means something to the universe.

When in reality all the universe wants you to do is fuck.

So being cuddly when you're drunk is okay, I guess. I used to only drink with people I liked and knew, and so I could cuddle on anyone I wanted to without severe reprecussions, but now that's all out the window. I don't know the people I drink with now, but one or two of them are okay. I search the crowd when I first walk in the house and pick which one won't try anything devious or will accept me without too many annoying questions. This equates to me either A. Picking a girl, B. Picking a young kid, or C. Hanging with the outcasts of said party, who are a little ways away from it and not REALLY outcasts, they usually are just out for a smoke and happen to find nice, isolated places to sit.

The problem with A is that people start egging you on to make out with her, the problem with B is that the kid gets way too excited and his boner starts becoming obvious and from there it's all shades of awkward, and C is difficult because the outcasts smoking usually smell like smoke (which I have always disliked), or are too 'detached' and 'cool' to let some random girl lean on them.

And drinking messes with my ability to write honestly, so I've really actually given it up.
(We will see how true I stay to that this Saturday, hohohoho)

I don't know anything, but I am learning all the time.




I wish I was braver and smarter.


And now, an interlude on the interbuttz;