message in a bottle
this is probably a bad place to say this (this being the internet, which means both eleven year olds pretending they're sixteen and sixty year olds pretending they're twenty might read it), and i do feel like these past two years' lapse in any real meaningful posts goes, but goddamnit, i gotta say it somewhere, so i'll say it here:
despite all the crazy shit going in the world (i.e. earthquakes in china and cyclones in burma and idiots in the white house), and all the wonderful things going on in my life (taking the MUNI above dolores park at sunset, running the Bay to Breakers in an hour eleven minutes with absolutely perfect blood sugar, getting out at 3pm every day so I can run in Glen Park), not a day goes by where I am not somehow consumed by this impossibly frustrating and tantalizing desire to have sex.
i'm not surprised nor embarrassed by my own sexuality; rather, i embrace feeling whatever feeling i get and go with it. what actually worries me is settling for someone or something that isn't quite right simply because estrogen has hijacked the mission control of my body. it's not for lack of self-confidence that i don't meet the right partners; nor is it for lack of trying. honestly i just feel like there's this big roulette wheel of available, interesting people out there and i've got this stack of darts and i just keep missing. i'm not sure i've even got one on the board yet.
i've gotten accustomed to sleeping alone, with my iPod on and my face turned towards the wall. i like being independent and active and impulsive and unexpected. what i miss is having someone to call at the end of the day and tell little stories to. i do that with my best girlfriends and with my mom and roommates, but there is something different about telling stories to someone you're honest to god in love with, someone who has other little stories to tell you, stories you can listen to while walking home from the bus or while running in the park or while lying in bed. stories that become jokes or that become key words in the vocabulary that is collectively you. stories that don't make you define him or him define you, but rather just draw you in so you can see each other a little more closely.
there are people out there that i have shared these stories with, and who have shared these stories with me, but they exist now in mostly college memories and fleeting digital photographs. i want the grown-up version of all this, minus the mortgage and the kids and the bills. i want so much not to want it just as i want to want it all. satisfaction is always just around the corner.
it's a pity that my san francisco journal, the one which should be filled with images of the chrissy field at sunset and descriptions of pupuserias on valencia and festivals in chinatown, is scribbled deep with this agonizingly adolescent refrain: i want someone i haven't yet met.
and there is a part of me, a part of me which has embarrassingly enough grown bigger in this era of Match.com and "plan-your-life-on-Craigslist", that somehow thinks this person might someday stumble across this pathetic little vignette and see himself staring out at me.
it's a note in a bottle, but bottles do float.
despite all the crazy shit going in the world (i.e. earthquakes in china and cyclones in burma and idiots in the white house), and all the wonderful things going on in my life (taking the MUNI above dolores park at sunset, running the Bay to Breakers in an hour eleven minutes with absolutely perfect blood sugar, getting out at 3pm every day so I can run in Glen Park), not a day goes by where I am not somehow consumed by this impossibly frustrating and tantalizing desire to have sex.
i'm not surprised nor embarrassed by my own sexuality; rather, i embrace feeling whatever feeling i get and go with it. what actually worries me is settling for someone or something that isn't quite right simply because estrogen has hijacked the mission control of my body. it's not for lack of self-confidence that i don't meet the right partners; nor is it for lack of trying. honestly i just feel like there's this big roulette wheel of available, interesting people out there and i've got this stack of darts and i just keep missing. i'm not sure i've even got one on the board yet.
i've gotten accustomed to sleeping alone, with my iPod on and my face turned towards the wall. i like being independent and active and impulsive and unexpected. what i miss is having someone to call at the end of the day and tell little stories to. i do that with my best girlfriends and with my mom and roommates, but there is something different about telling stories to someone you're honest to god in love with, someone who has other little stories to tell you, stories you can listen to while walking home from the bus or while running in the park or while lying in bed. stories that become jokes or that become key words in the vocabulary that is collectively you. stories that don't make you define him or him define you, but rather just draw you in so you can see each other a little more closely.
there are people out there that i have shared these stories with, and who have shared these stories with me, but they exist now in mostly college memories and fleeting digital photographs. i want the grown-up version of all this, minus the mortgage and the kids and the bills. i want so much not to want it just as i want to want it all. satisfaction is always just around the corner.
it's a pity that my san francisco journal, the one which should be filled with images of the chrissy field at sunset and descriptions of pupuserias on valencia and festivals in chinatown, is scribbled deep with this agonizingly adolescent refrain: i want someone i haven't yet met.
and there is a part of me, a part of me which has embarrassingly enough grown bigger in this era of Match.com and "plan-your-life-on-Craigslist", that somehow thinks this person might someday stumble across this pathetic little vignette and see himself staring out at me.
it's a note in a bottle, but bottles do float.