about a boy

[Me and My Lists] Part 7: Day One

I’ve liked fifteen guys since the age of twelve.

No, seriously.  Count them.  I do.  I’ve liked fifteen boys: a daisy chain of unrequited loves, poems full of longing, awkward conversations, and tearful admissions, strung together with the wry romanticism of a John Green novel (complete with Vampire Weekend or One Republic soundtrack).  Fifteen initials that I recite like Arya Stark’s “prayer,” only without the murderous intent (most days, at least).  Fifteen hands I’ve imagined holding, pairs of arms I’ve imagined dancing in.

Basically, Fifteen stand-ins for the boys in the following scenes:

autumn-cold-couple-lake-Favim.com-980659 tumblr_mxosi33F1C1skn0r7o5_1280 11831-Cute-Couple tumblr_static_a_couple_by_dueto_variavel a3b1397105b5ed6efd17721f21e814ca asian-like.tumblr couple-cute-hot-kiss-Favim.com-1304072 54879-Mountain-Climbing-Couple tumblr_mgj6u1cWKQ1rlg43so1_500

Source: Google Images, using the search term “Tumblr Couple.”

This is what love looked like to “SSB”-me: an endless loop of photosets rendered in indie-romcom colors, where I took the place of the everyman heroine side-by-side with my manic pixie dream boy.  But, like those everyman heroes before me, the reality was nothing like my expectations, often looking more like this:

tomhansen1

and, eventually, this:
tomhansen2

finally ending with an I’m-fine-but-not-really state of bitter homeostasis.

tomhansen3

Frankly, this was the basis of my SoJ radio persona.

Eventually, I would edge back into rationality, enjoy a brief period of equilibrium.  But it would never last.  One day, someone would come along with the right smirk, or quirk of eyebrow, or nose, or jaw, or fingers-on-lips, hands-running-through-hair…

1

…and it’d start all over again.

After fifteen go-rounds, I’m painfully aware of this pattern.  In fact, I’m more than a little tired of it.  “Bitter homeostasis” has increasingly blurred into equilibrium.  It’s hard not to be cynical when the movie in your mind won’t go the way it’s supposed to: one moment you’ll be choreographing shiny-happy dance numbers and the next you’re belting out sad Paramore or Jessie Ware lyrics, the constant undercurrent of hope feeling less like butterflies and more like a migraine.  I know my “love life” is a running joke–in fact, my bandmates used it as a punchline during our photoshoot when they needed to laugh for the camera–but number fifteen was a whopper and now I’m not sure I find this funny anymore.  I’ve been going through the motions of being bitter, and snarky, and wry, and a little wounded–spouting hugot lines and whining over old pictures–but it’s all feeling more like playacting now.

Lately, I’ve been wanting something different for myself: a little less Tumblr and a little more terrestrial.  If I think hard enough, I can imagine the bare bones: the ghost of an image, the blueprint of a skyscraper.  In fact, a skyscraper is a good way to think about it: instead of the ephemera of celluloid, there’s a sense of permanence, of concrete and steel rebar, of the inevitable pull of gravity.  There are no dance numbers, no Instagram-filter colors.  I don’t hear Mumm-Ra in the background.

What I find myself wanting is something that just is–a workaday sort of love that maybe doesn’t have a song, doesn’t need a poem.  It’s the sort of love that leaves John Green on the shelf, that prompted Juliet to declare her feelings for Romeo

…too rash, too unadvised, too sudden,
Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be
Ere one can say “It lightens.”

I realized–or, if I’m honest, I’ve known for a while–that for the longest time the love I have wanted has been an imagined country as told by those photosets and GIFs and Spotify playlists.  It’s been the kind of love that needs finding, because it’s so elusive, because there’s little evidence it exists at all.  It’s the love you obsess over, the kind you fantasize about, precisely because it is a fantasy.

I’ve been so desperate to find a leading man that I’ve forgotten the truth about movies: they show things the way they look to be, instead of the way they are.  I’m tired of images, of scripting lines of dialogue, of referring to a mental checklist of attributes that somehow sum up to perfect.  Instead of finding the one being a blockbuster event or a flashmob, I’d rather it be as natural as a change of seasons–the slow, inevitable slipping of summer into autumn.  One day, I’ll look up to find the wind has changed, the leaves will have started to turn, and it will both surprise me and not surprise me.

I’d expect it.  Maybe I won’t expect him.  (Maybe there will be no him.)  What there will be, though, is a sense that things make sense.  It won’t be groundbreaking.  It will just be.

Sometimes, I still get to imagining.  I imagine laughing faces in a coffeeshop (it used to look like Starbucks Pearl, but lately due to my transplanting to Makati it’s looking a lot more like Staple and Perk), shoulders touching casually in a group photo, introductions at office parties: “This is my…”  I guess it’s just habit, or the fact that I used to write exclusively love stories: I can’t help but set a scene.  Except now, I know that’s all they are: possibilities versus things that need to happen.  I’m learning to stop reading shades of meaning in coincidences.  After all:

500daysofsummerbizarro

Or: just because he watches Doctor Who, liked a few Instagram photos, and called you pretty that one time, doesn’t mean you’re meant to be.

At the end of every crush, I tell myself that this one is the last.  The last one-sided fling.  The last pair of rose-colored glasses.  Number fifteen was a doozy, a dubious sort of “first” (not in that way, folks), a ‘life event’ in his own right.  Considering the way things played out, I don’t think I can be faulted for hoping for a combo-breaker.  And maybe he really will be the last one, or maybe it will take me a few more tries to drill this lesson into my head.  One thing’s for sure, though: I don’t want a love story anymore.

I just want love.  Plain as day, in whatever form it will take (after all, as one article put it, the happiest place in eternity will have no marriage or sex).  No more unrealistic, indie flick-expectations versus reality.

tom hansen knowing face

Just equilibrium.  Just homeostasis.  Just a day that, without anyone realizing it, turns out to be a sort of day one.

…or basically just a decrease in my tendency to be more than slightly delusional.  Whatever.  I’m obviously taking my sweet time ditching every single one of my “Lists,” but that’s all part of the process of this ‘growing up’ business anyway, or so I’m told.  Anyway, it’s been fun.  Hope you enjoy the GIFs, and if you saw the pattern…well, no stars for you because I’ve made things blatantly obvious, to be honest.  It isn’t the first time Tom Hansen has been my spirit animal, after all.

~aRoamingTsinay~

P.S.: Hope this makes up for no The Friday, Currently last week.  And, seeing as I’ll be coming back from Cebu on the day, there might not be any this week so I’ll see you in the next post…whenever that happens.  Until then

Dr_WhoGif9-vi

200_s

– aRT

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The Friday, Currently 005: I’ll Be All Right (Just Not Tonight)

By some miracle, I have actually managed to do two things I’ve intended to do this week!  They are:

  1. actually publishing a blog post this week that isn’t The Friday, Currently, and
  2. starting this post early enough that it might actually get posted on a Friday.

*confetti* *Finally, Ariel Happened to Me*

Been spending more time journalling–as in, actual, on paper journalling–this past week, so hopefully this currently, unlike it’s predecessors, isn’t as TL;DR.  Have realized that I tend to run to verbose in these blogs, averaging 1,500 words (a.k.a. a standard Dragon U reflection paper) per entry, and while I flatter myself that my prose might be so compelling as to hold your attention that long, given the current statistics on millenial attention spans…je doute.

That being said, I’m going to try (operative word, and do not invoke Yoda) to keep this short, which should be easy since, outside of College Collision getting rained out (which you can read about here) nothing really unusual happened this week.  This is The Friday, Currently, Issue 005, and I am C U R R E N T L Y . . .

R E A D I N G  The Reason for God by Timothy Keller, which, while a well-written and even sassy read (not surprise that they’re calling him this generation’s C.S. Lewis), was probably not the best choice for my 2015 Reading Challenge.  This book is not something you breeze through.  It’s not heavy, per se, but there are so many lines you’re going to want to go over with a highlighter/commit to memory/annotate with all-caps “WHY DIDN’T I THINK OF THAT!” that you really do need to take reading “breaks” from time to time.

Also, an update on A Tree Grows In Brooklyn, which I was reading two weeks ago: still not finished with it yet, but will (wisely) probably go back to it before proceeding further with the mental acrobatics of Keller.

W R I T I N G  as I mentioned, a ton of journal entries, and more calligraphy stuff.  Am attempting to resist the urge to run to SM Aura right now, as Scribe has just texted me telling me that my long-awaited Zig Cocoiro refills are in.  Just when I’m in a self-imposed austerity program.  Drat.

L I S T E N I N G to Sara Bareilles, by forever favorite, on loop.  If there’s any artist that I keep coming back to, it’s her.  Ever since I watched the MTV music video (back when MTV Asia was still being broadcast on Sky Cable) of “Love Song,” I’ve been hooked, snatching up all three of her studio albums, and Spotify-ing the rest.  You know how they say that Taylor Swift has a song for everything?  In my case, Bareilles understands me best, rendering the throes of unrequited love in less-dramatic, more tongue-in-cheek terms with wry, self-aware lyrics.  And when she does power pop, boy does she fill it with power: from the feminist anthem “Fairytale” to the bold and brassy “Brave,” Sara’s songs make you feel like you could take on lions and win.

She’s not extremely well-known in the Philippines (at most, just for her singles), but with the publication of this article from social media’s spoken word poet, Juan Miguel Severo, I’m hoping Sara gets more of the love she deserves.

W A T C H I N G, or about to begin watching, Wayward Pines, recommended to me by my source for all things TV Land-related The Style Reader (a.k.a. Arra Abella).  Also, based on recent developments that I’ve heard/read about regarding what’s happening in Westeros, I think I may be returning to G.o.T. for the sixth season.  Sansa’s character development has once again started moving in the right direction, and as long as Weiss and Benioff BLOODY STAY IN THAT DIRECTION I could see myself following the series again.  Maybe.  Only the finalé will tell, to be honest.  For now, I’m contenting myself with looking forward to Legends of Tomorrow and the debut of my darling Darvill.

F E E L I N G  a bit of panic about how my June is going to go.  As far as things happening, this month’s pretty packed for me, with College Collision being rescheduled, a Stories Told gig at Mow’s Café on the 19th, Hideaway on the 20th, and a whole lot of planning, practicing, and plotting in between.

Actually, maybe running these things over wasn’t the smartest idea–I’m getting more as I go on.  NEVERMIND, BRAIN.  FORGET I SAID ANYTHING.

*faints*

S M E L L I N G  the last remnants of the Elizabeth Arden Green Tea Body Spray I spritzed myself with this morning after my Mini Stop store run.  I don’t fancy smelling of fried chicken all day, no matter how delicious that fried chicken actually is.

W E A R I N G  Muji blue button-up (not button-down; there is apparently a difference), my Old Faithful Topshop black skinnies (looking as battered as ever), and brown leather loafers from Via Venetto.  It’s a lazy-dressing day, as it has been every single day this week.  My hair isn’t even ironed; #IWokeUpLikeThis.

L O V I N G  Criminal, a new podcast I discovered while going through withdrawals from Serial.  Instead of following a single crime’s thread throughout one “season,” Criminal profiles the perpetrators, victims, and witnesses to various crimes, big and small, providing a unique “human interest” angle that usual “detective” podcasts don’t usual put forward.  Also, because Criminal isn’t a serial podcast like, well, Serial, you can start it at any time without being compelled to catch up on everything.

I listen to episodes before I go to sleep, and strangely, end up sleeping pretty well.  Read into that what you will.

W A N T I N G  this day to end, to be honest.  The prospect of facilitating a meeting, even if it is for something I love, tends to fill me with no small degree of stress.  How did I end up organizing an event, again?

(How do I really end up doing anything, really?)

N E E D I N G  to have some chill.

W I S H I N G  my sore/hoarse voice would go away.  Hoping it’s not nodes again, and as I’m not having any difficulty reaching my higher registers (like I did when I actually had nodes) am dismissing that possibility at the moment.  Still, I miss how my voice usually sounds like.  I can make the chainsmoker-vocal work, especially with Elinor (my guitar/girlfriend, for the uninitiated), but I’m getting tired of it.

T H I N K I N G  that maybe sawi does not necessarily have to equal sad.

The title of this blog post comes from one of my favorite songs from Sara Bareilles–this upbeat, doo-wop pop anthem that is, surprisingly, also an unrequited love/break-up song.  It’s titled “Gonna Get Over You,” and unlike the usual sad-love-song that has you wallowing in a cesspool of your pain by the end (Sara also has one of those; it’s called “Gravity.”), the track practically dares you not to get up and dance.  It’s imbibed with sassy one-liners (“I won’t beg to buy a shot at your back door!”) and hilariously self-aware verses (“Goodbye/Should be sayin’ that to you by now, shouldn’t I?/Layin’ down the law that I live by/Oh, maybe next time…”) that sum up exactly how you feel when you’re in unrequited infatuation, half-headdesking and half-pining.

It’s a situation I know all too well, with my sixteen ex-crushes and current, this-is-a-bad-idea-why-are-we-here infatuation with S (yep, him again), who is both annoyingly aware of the fact that I like him and ridiculously clueless as to how to handle it.  (Here’s where I have to give it to C, who I incidentally, also used to like–at least he knew how to address the elephant in the room with minimal douchery.)

(Not that C needs any more compliments, to be honest; I’m pretty sure they’ve all gone to his head.)

(Love you, C.)

(Not in that way.)

Anyway…

There’s a temptation, when dealing with unwanted emotions, to go the Taylor Swift-ian route and imbue every last moment with all the longing and frustration and desolation a post-pubescent heart can hold.  And I’ve done this.  I’ve done this a lot, hence my first ever The Friday, Currently.  But then there comes a time when wallowing in loneliness becomes counter-productive (a girl can write only so many poems) and annoys even myself.  After all, it’s just a boy, in a string of fifteen (if you haven’t been able to tell yet, I keep count) other boys, and I haven’t died.

(Or killed anyone, which is honestly a bigger victory considering the overwhelming temptation to take out the competition.)

(Especially when they start giggling and PG-touching body parts.)

…But I digress.  (Looks like this isn’t a “short” one after all.  Sorry guys!)

There comes a point when sad playlists, bad poems, and imagined violence no longer cut it.  When it no longer makes sense to be sad over someone who, in the words of the Patron Saint of the Sawi, Éponine Thenardier, “…was never mine to lose.”  After all, as she also sings, why regret what cannot be?  Sure, as humans, it’s a natural reaction to be upset over not getting something you want, but also as humans we recognize that the things we want aren’t necessarily the things we need to have…

…and we move on.  Slowly, maybe, but all the same, we do.  And that’s why I love “Gonna Get Over You,” because it says exactly that: “I’ll be all right.  Just not tonight, but someday.”

In the meantime, I’m going to drown out the images of distant flirtation with my doo-wop anthem, sing along to Sara Bareilles at the top of my lungs (when I won’t disturb anyone, anyway), and laugh at, honestly, how silly this whole “heartbroken” business actually is.

That’s it for my fifth Friday, Currently.  If you have any suggestions for stuff I can write about…to be honest I’m running out of ideas, so please please please send them along!

~ARoamingTsinay~

The Sunday Currently was created by Siddathornton. I’ve added/subtracted categories for the sake of the narrative, and also because I’m copying the format of NothingSpaces.com.

The Friday, Currently 002: “Godspeed, Iocasta.”

It should surprise very few of you to know that this issue of The Friday, Currently very nearly did not get written.  In fact, I’d pretty much forgotten about my resolution to blog every week until my best friend Esther of The Disinterested Interpreter told me yesterday that she was “Looking forward to reading this week’s ‘currently.'”

…Welp.

So, thanks to Esther (whose blog you should all be reading), I’ve put on my writing music, connected to the strongest of my pocket WiFi sources, and am now writing the second issue of The Friday, Currently (less-twee subtitle: “What in the world am I doing with my life?”).  Here we go:

C U R R E N T L Y . . .

R E A D I N G  …nothing, actually?  I finished Beautiful Chaos and fully intended to re-read the Jessica Hagedorn-edited Manila Noir anthology so as to tick off “Short Story Collection” from my 2015 Book Challenge list, but my reading has (hopefully temporarily) been postponed in favour of my nigh-narcoleptic need to fall asleep any time (and any place) I can…

…except for at night, in my bed, when and where I should actually be sleeping.  My body never ceases to confuse me.

Anyway, hope to tick Manila Noir off of the checklist by next week’s Friday Currently, but don’t be surprised if I suddenly pick up (and finish) something else, maybe even a book I don’t own yet. (Because who lets an Everest-ian TBR pile stand in the way of raiding Fully Booked?)

W R I T I N G  aside this blog post, a new song, despite the fact that I have a backlog of unfinished songs (which exceeds my backlog of unfinished/potential blog posts only slightly).  The topic for this one is ever-so-slightly twee and may be a tad hipster-ish  (I wouldn’t know.  The idea popped into my head and I ran with it.).  I’m really liking my pre-chorus, but am currently drawing blanks with the chorus.

Also, on Esther’s request, I’ve fleshed out a sort of accidental poem that I “wrote” (actually, said) yesterday.  If my song is slightly twee, this errs more on the side of very:

My mum got married at twenty-four,
but had me at twenty-nine.
In between then, she struggled with
the biological hands of time.

Her husband wasn’t very, err, fertile,
and neither, to be honest, was she.
But, in the end, the Lord gave them a child,
and that “miracle” child was me.

(For the record, I’m pretty sure I usually write better than that.  I think.)

L I S T E N I N G to Sleeping At Last, an artist I discovered using Spotify Radio.  Fell in love with their (his?  I think he’s a solo act now.) song Sun off of the album “Atlas: Space 1,” which in hindsight might be the reason the topic of my potential song is what it is.

W A T C H I N G The Lizzie Borden Chronicles, which my officemate Arra of The Style Reader introduced me to.  As the name suggests, the show does not shy away from gore (that I avoid by fast-forwarding or else by bracing myself using spoilers), but it’s unapologetically campy and I’m a sucker for pseudo-historical dramas (I nearly started watching Mr. Selfridge.) with a bit of bite.

Also, Christina Ricci is my spirit animal.

I’m about four episodes in and while the body count is considerable (though, for someone who’s read A Song of Ice and Fire, far from high), the highbrow camp of the plot keeps the show somewhat “light.”  If you’re a fan of Adult Wednesday Addams (or the adult Wednesday Addams that is Christina Ricci), I’d recommend the show, though prepare yourself for a ton of weird (and that’s coming from me).

T H I N K I N G  (or maybe “worrying” is more appropriate?) about how tomorrow is going to be a really busy day.  Also, having an internal debate on what might be the wiser “irresponsible paycheck-spending” purchase: getting more Uniqlo box tees or Scribe brush pens/calligraphy supplies?

(Of course, the wisest recourse would be to spend nothing at all, but TBH the Kuretake Zig brush pens are winning.)

S M E L L I N G  the mojos I’m attempting to pick through for dinner.  Only, I think I might have asked to have too many cooked. -_-

W E A R I N G  my pajamas.  I’ll leave it up to the readers’ imagination to fill in what those might look like.

L O V I N G  my friend and fellow calligraphy-geek Kat B.‘s Kuretake Zig Brush # 22, which she got at the aforementioned Scribe Writing Essentials branch in Glorietta 5.  I also tried her Wink of Stella and Fudebiyori pens, and they all feel lovely and look fantastic when she uses them (slightly less fantastic when I do, but whatever) and I can imagine myself using them to journal like my journalling idol Pepper and Twine (although maybe without the Midori Hobonichi as that’s slightly above my price point/journaling purposes)…

…until I remember that I can’t even keep up my resolution to write in my journal regularly (hence the existence of The Friday, Currently).

Oh well, a girl can dream (and rationalize her potential next pseudo-impulse purchase).

W A N T I N G  those pens!!  Now that I’ve started thinking about them, I can’t stop.  Drat.  Will see how much longer I can continue mooching off of Kat’s supplies, since I just bought a pack of Faber Castell Brush Pens from National Bookstore Glorietta Vibe and those are pretty good, to be honest (though not as soft).

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A sample of my attempts at brush calligraphy.

N E E D I N G  to get as much sleep as possible, considering I have a photoshoot tomorrow for College Collision, a battle of the bands hosted by UP.  Stories Told, the pop-rock fusion outfit I’m in, has made it to the May 30 finals, and apparently part of being a finalist entails a photoshoot.  The PR involved feels a bit like The Hunger Games, and I’ve yet to figure out if that is a good or a bad thing.

W I S H I N G  that I’d started this earlier.

F E E L I N G  like I could use a “lights out” right now, but I am committed to the cause of The Friday, Currently, so we press on!

W O N D E R I N G  (and yes, I know this is a new one) where the boundary lies between a “quirk” and a full-blown complex?

My sort-of business-partner (not to be confused with my friend Cheeze or my co-intern Ciarán of Lonelygirl’s Brazilian Adventure fame) and I have a sort of smug, playfully-hostile friendship (Think Tenth Doctor and Donna Noble; in fact, one of the other “codenames” I considered for C was “Spaceman.”) that can sometimes devolve into us ranting to (or at) each other about the latest developments in our quest to navigate being twentysomething in all its glorious awkwardness (awkward, perhaps, more on my side than his).  In one of these Facebook “business meetings-slash-bantering sessions,” my propensity to be borderline mother-y towards people I care about–not in the least the people I care about quite a lot (*coughScough*)–came up in conversation.

In response to my tl;dr word-vomit, C replied, “Good luck finding your Oedipus, in that case.”

(Leave it to C, being the unapologetically smart–not to mention downright snarky–bugger that he is, to to find a Classical Greek reference in my crushing “quirk.”)

After invoking my customary reply in cases such as this–some variation of “I hate you.” or “Why are we friends again?”–and accusing him of hitting “way below the toga” (hardy har har), we eventually reverted to business-slash-craft (Given the literary in-joke, it shouldn’t surprise you to learn that C is a writer.) conversation.  But the thought stuck.

“Godspeed, Iocasta.”

If pressed to find a word to describe myself, the word “tender” would be nowhere near the top of the list of candidates (“Manic” probably hits closer to the mark.).  On occasion, though, I find myself almost compelled to be the person who asks if someone would need tea/medicine/a break/sick leave/food, despite the fact that I am often the person who has to be reminded to take any or all of those things.  I expect to be rebuffed, more often than not, but even when I am, the thank-you’s I get for even thinking to act in a manner so stereotypical it sets feminism back fifty years make me feel the warm fuzzies you usually get marathoning cat videos on Youtube.

(Imagine my downright euphoria when a person actually accepts my little offerings or complies with my well-meant nagging.)

Don’t get me wrong: waiting on people hand and foot is not my idea of a good time.  In fact, I can be extremely judgmental towards the apparently defenseless (except babies, small children, and the extremely elderly), finding them unbearable.  My own mother, arguably the woman I love most in the world (I’d ask for a raise in my allowance, Ma, but you’ve stopped giving me one. Hehe.), rarely receives the standard definition of “tender loving care” from her daughter, and she herself will testify that trying to go all “ooey-gooey” on me when I’m sick or sad or in pain usually engenders the same results as trying to pet an angry cat.

(Touch me and die.)

I believe in sucking it up and taking it like a woman/man, but there are times–especially when I really really really really really really like someone–that I can get borderline ooey-gooey.  Sure, my delivery is almost always harsh–“Are you okay?” is frequently followed by some brusque piece of advice such as “Eat, now!”–and occasionally snarky, but, well, err…

Who am I kidding, right?  *sigh*

I’d be the first to admit that when I act like this I can be (I am) extremely overbearing, can (and do) come off as hypocritical or hyper-critical or downright arrogant.  But while I understand the myriad liabilities, I’m realizing that there’s a part of me likes feeling that I can be needed, a part that isn’t necessarily healthy.  After all, few of us are truly so helpless and lacking in common sense that we need to be nagged into living a better life.  Left to their own devices, the people I’ve “helped” would have probably been able to help themselves just fine.  But it feels safe, expressing my love this way–somehow more intimate while being less so, like I’ve gotten my point across while still remaining acceptably subtle.  Because you can’t chalk up a bouquet of flowers or a serenade to “Just because I care,” but with mothering you can.

Maybe I do have the world’s first Iocasta Complex, expressing my “love” as (s)mothering.

(I’d rather call it an Emma Woodhouse complex, if it’s all the same to you.)

People outgrow complexes, though.  I’ve read enough child psychology books to know that most people move on from their Oedipal or Electra stages.  And I guess, regardless if this is truly a complex or simply a weird character quirk (me compensating for something else, as people do), I’ll outgrow this, or find a couple of Knightleys (both platonic and romantic, maybe) to tone it down for me.

(Or this could have just been one massive humblebrag, in spite of my attempts to make it sound otherwise.)

I’m not in the market for an Oedipus (or a Frank Churchill), and I’ve learned enough about life to know that the ordinary trajectory of my kind of behavior–falling for “stray cats” of men and trying to rehabilitate them with the power of luuurve and some none-too-gentle hints–is about as feasible as the fairytale definition of happily ever after.  Whether I like it or not, Iocasta (though maybe not all of Emma) is going to have to go someday.  And so maybe next time, I’ll try a little less tenderness.  Or at least be less meddling about it.  My guess is that, as with everything else in this awkward journey of being a twentysomething and trying to figure myself out, the answer lies in some undiscovered middle ground that I’ll eventually stumble upon.

Until then, though, this has been this week’s Friday, Currently (although technically now it’s Saturday, whoops) and I remain, yours most sincerely,

~ARoamingTsinay~

The Sunday Currently was created by Siddathornton. I’ve added/subtracted categories for the sake of the narrative, and also because I’m copying the format of NothingSpaces.com.