Most days, I’m content.

I have my cozy apartment in the city full of books and tchotchkes and memories and flair and plants (and plants and plants), I have a good job where I’m surrounded by kind, talented people which pays for the toys I can’t live without. I have an abundance of friends to shower my affection on, who ensure I have no shortage of laughter in my life or events on my schedule. I have my running and hiking and walking and driving (and sometimes cycling) to clear my mind and reset my compass and above it all – I have my health.

I’m strong, I’m independent, I’m to the point. I have a firm enough grip on reality to make plenty of folks uncomfortable and I can’t think of a subject I’ll dance around. I don’t like to wait and chances are: I won’t. Time is precious, I rarely demonstrate patience.

It’s ironic how many of the individuals who actually know me find themselves uncomfortable looking at this site and reading about who I am beneath the banter and wit. Who would be content to never realize the *other* me exists. Tough shit, kids, because I do and I’m ruthlessly flawed.

I’m a romantic, and tucked deep in my little world, next to all the familiar emotional surges you knew in your youth at the hint of love along side your first crush pitter-patter is this:

The Fantasy

I read that post (or something similar) when I need to believe in a beautiful truth that can conquer the monsters under my bed just by being. I read it when I need to believe in someone who knows your soft spots and doesn’t exploit them, someone who is worthy of your trust and doesn’t have to convince you of it because you know in your heart they’re inherently good. For however brief a time, I allow myself to feel the waves of optimism and give a teary smirk as I think about what my list looks like and I revel in the childish openheartedness that allows me to believe the criteria scribbled in ink on a yellow tablet could be met. Bah, who cares.

In the end, I go back to focusing on myself because he just doesn’t exist.