Remember when I used to write? I do. I haven't even opened my portfolio since July. I wish I could still articulate thoughts and make valid points as I once could. Hell, I wish I could even read my litmags without getting bored halfway through. I still buy them, because I apparently love to spend money on shelf decorations, but I just admire the covers and never get around to reading and thinking.
I worked for four years--just as an undergrad, not counting all the high school prep work--to get a degree that would mean nothing to me. If I could do it all over again I would. In a heartbeat. But I can't, can I? It is gone forever, and I'm going to sit here and just accept it. There's nothing left to do but move on.
I used to be attracted to intellectual men. I still like the look: glasses, sweater with a button-up underneath, slim jeans or chinos, and a beard to top it off. That look is everywhere today, luckily for me and my hormones. But after dating some of these smarties, I've realized they're all kinda assholes. Sure, they're great as friends. I love to be an asshole around my English friends because we can all laugh it off. But I'm not sleeping with them. I don't have to listen to them wax poetic after they hit the pillow still in that orgasmic state and I'm not only unsatisfied but I'm growing more pissed off by the moment. But I've dated a few dummies too, including one who had his own initial tattooed on his back (I'm guessing for identification purposes?). The sad thing is, I've finally met a man who is smart without being condescending, wants me to be happy and fulfilled both with and without him, and who can hold his own in wit and charm, and yet, he's too far away and married to his job. I stick with him because I'm afraid no one better will ever come along. It's been almost six months and there's been nothing physical (no time) and we're limited to high-energy, high-libido conversations (why bother with anything else). If I had met someone else who met both of these qualities in the past six months, I would have told him goodbye and moved on.
But I haven't. And that's what bothers me. I am twenty-two and completely incapable of meeting people.
Maybe this is the source of my English-related emptiness. No one wants to hear about a sexually frustrated twentysomething who can't seem to get it together long enough for even a kiss and a grope. Last year at this time there were more men and more emotions. I can't fake that stuff, and I can't make up men to fill that void, as much as I would love to. I ache for new scenery just to make new friends and have those possibilities open to me again. For right now, I am stuck in this environmental purgatory, neither good nor bad, just white noise to my life until stimulation comes along. I am so antsy and on edge because I don't like it. I am far too manic for limbo, and my life refuses to move as fast as I desire.
Also, I go to bed early now because there's no reason to stay up. That's the definition of adulthood. When I was young, I would stay up until 4 talking to Andrew and think it was the most fun in the world. The last time I saw 4 am was when I had a stomach virus last January.
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