Friday, November 19, 2010
I think I owe you guys an explanation. Apparently I complain a lot on my blog. Some disgruntled boy seems to think so since he took so much offense to my simply pointing out (in jest of course) that white boys are over. Oh well, basically, this blog IS a place to complain. If you don't complain, there's basically nothing to write about. I find usually the best things to laugh about are the situations that get your panties in a twist. If you're happy, clappy, then you aren't wry or sarky or all that interesting to read.Simple, really.
So I've been neglecting my blog....And the only way I can explain it is, I guess is well, I don't have anything left to complain about....
A Letter to the Imaginary On Finding The Perfect Man....
I guess there never is a last letter that you write to the someone you've been pegging all your hopes, dreams and whatnots to since you could remember. So this isn't the last of course but it is a departure of sorts. I am writing to you, not to beg you or to lament the absence of you but rather, I write because I want to tell you how glad I am that you, for the time-being, do not need to exist.
So what happened you ask? You see when I used to write to you, I lived in the fantasy that you may one day materialise into a real life boy. Someone whole and perfect and everything I had made you up to be. I needed to believe that you would save me from whatever it was that I was running from. I needed to believe that you would be there waiting for me. You just had to find me.
But then one day while I was wallowing in self-pity at having come up short of finding anyone that lived up to you...out of nowhere, I found him.
I found him, just like I thought I would between the black and white. He was standing, quite predictably on the ocean's edge. In him I have found someone who simply makes me want very much to be a better version of myself. In his very existence I have found an immense relief. He is real. He lives and breathes. He has a name. He even has a dog. His voice is his own. He even dreams...big gorgeous dreams of wonderful tangible things. Our worlds, although so very far apart, collide in some places. That very fact, that we collide even on the thinnest string of fate, rejoices me. This is a cliche of the most basic sort but since him, from here on out, I will never be the same. Since him, a part of me will always be whole.
And so I guess, I will have no longer have a need for a figment of my imagination to fill in that gap.