Let’s discuss the viscous cycle of romance and/or romantically related incidents and/or encounters of a romantic nature. They completely monopolize your life, cause you to lose all ability to make rational decisions, and determine your mood for at least a week. One good date can put you at the top of Everest just as easily as one bad hook-up can drag you down into a landfill. And every time it happens we swear to ourselves that we will NEVER lose our head like that again, and that we will ALWAYS make better choices to thereby avoid such disasters in the future and maintain stable mental health.
And then two weeks later, we meet a cute guy or get invited to a party and all our resolve takes a running leap and hurls itself out the window while we obsess over what to wear and how we should style our hair. The outcome of that date/party determines the mood for the week and so on and so forth. By the way, did you ever notice that when something bad happens, other horrendous incidents seem to follow? Once you start down the hill of despair, a snowball effect takes over, and you get hit after hit of bad news.
I do not want to sound like I’m complaining here (I am, but am also attempting not to be whiny), however my love life has recently crashed and burned every single solitary time I took a risk and put myself out there (evidently, all I’m good for is a booty call, an activity to which I most certainly DO NOT subscribe). The last three guys didn’t quite work out, and – for now – I am adopting the policy “Three Strikes, You’re Out” and am taking myself out of the game for a while. I don’t want to cry anymore (however, I do think most of the tears have sprouted from the possibility of having to put my dog down and not the immature men – I love him MUCH more than any of the human males who have presented themselves to me in the past few months).
Wow, this is really emo. APOLOGIES! I needed to rant. To turn the mood of this around, as my mother has been saying all my life, there is always good out of bad. The past two particularly shitty days have given birth to a miracle: an inspiration for, not one, but TWO poems. Yes, that’s right, POEMS! I never feel inclined to write poems, and when I do write them it’s always for something, not because I just wanted to. My creative writing focus is always on the fictional short story or novel, never poetry. This is completely different and must be treated as the Second Coming. While in the shower last night feeling embarrassed, depressed, and angry, a phrase suddenly popped into my head. “Hmm,” said I, “not half bad.” Then another, and then another, until I thought to myself “Omigod this is a poem!” The poem arrived like a saving thunderbolt from Zeus on Olympus, dispelling my angst to the far corners of my room. I was ecstatic! Jumping out of the shower and barely taking the time to dry, I charged to my desk and scribbled out the dear little thing on the nearest available paper (which happened to be the back of Carmina Burana – O Fortuna, sorry Carole Ann). I read it over, feeling positively giddy, and then, what is this but ANOTHER one?! Woah.
To conclude, a semi-pleasant forty-two hours when the debacles, hysterics, weeping, poems, and best friends are all averaged together.
Again apologies for the rant. Will post status and goals after today’s literary magazine meeting (IF anyone shows up to this one, hint hint, Stags).