“And now I finally know what it feels like
To risk everything and still surviveWhen you’re standing on the battlefield
And all the pain is real
That’s when you realizeThat you must have done something right
Cause you never felt so aliveI’m holding out for more than I deserve
I’m hanging on to all your careless wordsMaybe its time I cut the cord
Maybe I stay and take some more
I’ve become the leader of the broken hearts.”— Papa Roach, “Leader Of The Broken Hearts”
I wrote a perfect blog entry in my head in traffic today. But alas, here I am and I got nothin’.
I heard some guys at the office talking yesterday, saying “the commute isn’t so bad” and saying if they go 75 mph the whole way, they can get here in under an hour.
Well, you CAN’T go 75 the whole way because half the trip is a 55 zone and I have the $500 speeding ticket to prove you can’t fuck with that limit.
Plus, don’t you have six thousand things you’d rather be doing with that time? Seeing your friends, exercising, hell — catching up on sleep or TV? My ass was in bed at 9:30 p.m. last night. The drive required more skill and concentration than the (flawless) publishing of six newsletters.
Anyway, I also got to thinking about boys. Because, why not, right? And I realized something big.
If they can’t get me to Paris (or Tuscany. I want Tuscany too) … if they can’t get me to a series of earth-shattering orgasms … then they don’t get me at all.
I fluctuate from time to time, thinking lackluster dates and the forgettable physical encounter that may or may not result from one of them (as let’s face it, dates don’t end in sex but apparently making out with random people in West Palm bars sometimes does) is at least an interesting way to pass the time. And then I go to the other extreme of “I’d rather be alone than wish I were.”
Ergo, Europe and mindblowing sex are my recipe for attraction. Fact.
And I don’t know if that means I’ll be alone forever or if, like always, the only way I’ll get there is if I do it my own damn self …