First off I would like to state that the tone of this entry shall be set to George Gershwin’s “Rhapsody In Blue.”
I suppose that this being my first blog entry (I never thought I would type those words) I should state, sans reservations, that for once in my existence I am coming to terms with actually loving myself. It’s pathetically nauseating, but true. It becomes difficult to continue on hating the one person who will constantly be present in your life. Sooner or later, you have to accept that you’re okay; you can deal with being you. I never realized how important it is to have self -love until now, approaching my 21st birthday (I feel like 27). The realization came to pass after many, I wouldn’t say failed relationships because they weren’t relationships to begin with, quasi-failed relationships. It all starts out the same, these devastatingly attractive men, far older than my physical being, wander their way into my little mental microcosm and after a few chance encounters involving me divulging my fatalistic love for music and musicians from the 60’s, and following far too many cigarettes and bottles of lager, the lust takes over. Starting off slowly, the natural kissing and exploration of one another’s body envelops me in ecstasy, then hops aboard the quickly moving train past foreplay town and straight into intercourse city. I give a decent attempt at achieving orgasm but after five minutes of thrusting, my encouragement and optimism dies, giving way to reality, thus encouraging the man to finish. I figure I just won’t reach orgasm from a man until mid-twenties, this I have deduced from many experiences. The sex is fun, don’t mistake my lack of enthusiasm, for, I guess, lack of enthusiasm, but after the wind dies, I am left with a feeling of being a boring lover. I rationalize that they came so they don’t care, but what do I get out of this? I suppose in the most feminine fashion I enjoy feeling like I am connecting with someone so endearing to me, on some other out-of-body level. They won’t care more for me after this, I know, but this is what I get out of sex. For that brief moment after the man has released his virility and is left pulsing inside of you, looking at his countenance expressions of sentiment, love, perhaps even pity, register. This rare moment of masculine sweetness in a way makes the experience entirely worth the lack of achieving orgasm. However, I suppose my willingness to give away what is apparently the most powerful tool I have (next to my rolling pin, of course), is mistaken as unworthiness to be considered relationship material. At least this is what I’m gathering after repeat offences. Part of me cares that I am viewed this way, but most of my conscience doesn’t. I enjoy these people immensely, and from every one of them I have learned something not only about myself, but also about life in general. They have broadened my mind in ways unimaginable, and although I have dealt with potentially having love for these individuals, it is also acceptable to face the harshness of enjoying the company and learning valuable lessons, and not making an enduring connection. It’s not a waste of time. In a way, it’s similar to traveling. Like taking a trip to somewhere unknown and unexplored, and occasionally a place similar to a previous destination, but still new knowledge is formed. I have risked adventuring into strange and frightening lands and friendships, I have risked and been crushed by unrequited admiration, I have risked losing some of myself in the process, but from all of this heartache, perseverance, and occasionally withering spirit, I have become a more stable, balanced, and caring individual. In throwing myself into the unknown, and sometimes being devoured, I have been able to identify with my character more than I ever thought I would. After fatal blows to the heart and mind, the backbone begins to form. The backbone that claims the heart belonging to its own den deserves true love and will not settle for anything less. Occasionally you just need to say, “I deserve someone who gives a shit about me.” To enjoy others company but not expect just treatment. Some people are tools for learning, and some are for truly loving. It is the ability to differentiate the two, along with vast amounts of time spent alone and with Charles Dickens, that I have come to care about the only human I am responsible for. I feel I have grown exponentially because after spending time with people who confound me, exasperate me, and move me and often leave me, I can return to my humble abode, settle in with a glass (or bottle) of wine, and be with myself. Enjoying every moment of it, feeling inward gratitude and appreciation, I can say from one gripping moment to the next, “Ya did good kid, ya did good.”
