“Lots of snacking does not make a satisfying meal.” Every once in a while I manage to phrase a little pearl of wisdom just right. If only I were as good at paying attention to the good advice I dole out. That pithy little bit came up in the midst of an e-mail exchange in which I was talking about how disappointing it is to live someplace where sex is easy enough to find, but more substantial company is not. In the words of another pundit, “A little experimenting here and there can be fun, but mothafucka! I don’t think it’s fun no mo’.” I agree totally.
I’ll admit that I go through periods of carnal self-indulgence (usually fueled by frustration or boredom), but in the end I’m a big ol’ softie whose primary goal is not short-term adventure. Not only do random hook-ups rarely give me the boost of sexual self-confidence I’m craving, but they tend to undermine the things about myself that I really am confident about, ‘cuz those qualities just don’t matter in that particular game.
Romeo, Romeo, where the fuck art thou?
Hmmm, you’d think it was a year or so ago that the long, slow, excruciatingly painful process of me getting dumped began. Or something. Granted, that was an inevitable result, considering how ill-suited he and I were for each other. We would have realized sooner or later that we’d managed to confuse one another for the idealized, fictionalized memories we had of each other from the first time around. But damn, what a gruesome way for it to have happened.
Can you tell what kind of mood Sparky’s in today?
