I am officially a two-month-old bimbo. Two months, two crappy and immature friends lost, a few “dates,” a few labels, a few bases, a few ventures into angry “girlfriend mode,” and a little bit of evolution.
Since my venture into bimbosity began, only one thing has really remained the same. That is the expiration date on this deal. In less than two months, circumstance will tear Boyfriend and I apart and, frankly, the thought has never really bothered me. I consider myself emotionally retarded. I don’t really allow myself to get too involved. People tend to find my Dagny Taggart-tastic perspectives unusual, but as soon as I get absorbed into things, I find them less interesting.
When I was younger, I used to wish turmoil and heartbreak upon myself. I wanted so desperately to be inspired from emotional disaster that I often wished myself to be absorbed entirely and nearly destroyed. This was basically because I had run out of songwriting ideas. Anyway, the turmoil has yet to occur, and because I once acknowledged its potential enough to wish for it, it probably will never occur to the degree I had desired. Sometimes I wish I were stupider.
I’m the type of person who can’t organically enjoy a moment because I’m pondering word-choices for when I journal about it later. My entire life is something of an out-of-body experience. Which, I understand, seems genuinely fucked up. Basically, I’m realism over magic.
I kind of want some magic.
