Ebb and flow of things often misunderstood.

There are a few strange thoughts that I have allowed not only to wander through my mind, here causing me a shudder, here evoking a smile, but that I will also transpose into literary for you to read a muse over in your own way.

It is a great deal of energy to love someone so fervently; to memorize one's face, their ways, the feel of their hair, even the unpleasant- and then to be called upon to forget them entirely. I have to remind myself everyday that this is the right thing. And that I will be happier after all is said and done. But oh- to smell him, to fell him lay beside me- thoughts that haunt me now were once so welcome, so warm. But as Jane said, God's law was not made for us when we are sane.

D.H. Lawrence's Sons and Lovers is a difficult read. It's a thick book with much cockney dialogue and vague references to foreign Northern england culture, circa 188-. But the characters are deep, believable, and relatable. Walter Morel represents a past prominant, dominant man in my life- crude, ill-educated, and a forceful drunk who knew nothing but physical labor and how to be a rotten father. Mrs. Morel is a quiet, forbearing but independant woman who should have run when given the chance. Paul is Mr. Hamster through and through, glued to his mother's side and wary of everything. This book is exploring many of the feelings I know and hate. Maybe it's true and broken nature lends to the difficulty of the read... Maybe I am just a lazy reader.

I long to be excited again. About anything. I have this silly thought that maybe excitement is for the young and stupid. But I don't think so now. I think I will see it again. I think I will feel a tug on my heart everytime he calls my name, or touches my shoulder, or asks me if I am happy. I think he will be again, despite myself. Or maybe he will never reappear, that ellusive Cupid. But maybe I will learn a new form of excitement. Some women are blessed with children out of broken marriages, while others have the expanse of time, culture, and opportunity laying before them. I should be excited about opportunity, right? But, then again, opportunity is no sounding board. Opportunity won't kiss you on the forehead, or hold you hand at the doctors, or smile when you come in the door. Did he ever do those things anyways?

Crystal Light is an indulgance I am forcing myself to afford. (Hey, I didn't promise depth here, you just assumed)

WARNING: My thoughts do progress from here and may not be particularly suitable A) for people who know me really well, or B) for children


Sex... Sex is a privilege. I haven't talked about sex in a long time because I was too proud to admit that I am a slave to a sexual appetite, that I am a sexual being with sexual receptors in my brain. I have disregarded the fact that I am an animal, with instincts to procreate and enjoy the act. But I have to admit, it's been weighing on me lately. Not just the sex I'm missing out on, but the horrible sexual choices I made. I have long since denied my mistakes in judgement, and I have found them staring back at me everytime I open my closet to view each new skeleton I throw in. I was never promiscuous, but my partner was. I knew it from the start, but I was too blind, too stupid and too unawares to do anything about it.

I thought I would get over it, overlook it, or just simply "move on." But I can't. Or my heart refuses to. In either case, Sex ruins everything. I did things the "right way," save one mistake that I have paid for in an amazing way.

Sex is one of those things- Sex is like driving a car... One day, there you are, rockin' out to Billie Joel, abiding by the speed limit, wearing your safety belt and sunglasses when BAM! Some Teeny Bopper named Mitzy slams her 1997 Black Manual Corrola into your 2006 Luxery, leather interior all wheel drive fully automatic with a moon roof and child safety locks BMW. And she has no insurance.

What I mean is, you can go along your whole life protected and safe. Then you get married and think, great, here's a safe and secure way to procreate and enjoy sex. So you do. Until you realize that you perfect partner who shares this God-given right to fulfilment IS NOT using protection. When he has sex. With other women. Women who are not you. Women who may or may not be dirty. Women who may or may not be attractive. Women who may or may not know that he has a loving and doting wife who- aside from one horrible exception- saved herself for him and would do ANYTHING to make him happy. Women who have no right procreating with your husband.

And there you are. Alone, Sexless, and Unprotected. All because of Mitzy. Who, in this case is not a teeny bopper who stole her brothers car to go buy illegal cigarettes and listen to Justin Timberlake on his Sirius satelite radio... Oh no. The person in that 1997 Black Manual Corrolla is the one person in all the world you trust more than life. The one person who turns you out. The one person who you feel sexy around in any capacity. The one person you have sexual relations with.

And here I am, alone. Sexless. Unprotected. Bitter. Hurt. So bitter and hurt, in fact that it is ruining every chance I have to meet normal, caring men who like to talk over coffee and indulge me when I talk about really boring things like the countryside, recreational hair cuts, and the best thing out of BBCA, Coupling. So bitter and hurt, that I think every man is gay or a serial killer or both. So bitter an hurt that I think 'Maybe that's all I ever deserved.'

Maybe blondes do have all the fun. Maybe the nice guy doesn't finish last, just the fat nice guy. Maybe the pretty girl ends up with the guy. Maybe that's all I'm worth.

I think I'm a weenie. I think I should stop being afraid to walk to my car at night in a well lit and populated parking lot. I think I should be able to overcome my fear of answering the telephone. I think that when a cute guy hits on me at a bar, I should be more receptive and ignore the instincts that he is a trained assasin sent here to kidnap me.

I should have the courage to tell people "I beg your pardon, but my whereabouts are my business alone. If you should chance to know something about where or with whom I travel, what I do on my days off, or where I go to school, kindly keep it to yourself."

I should also have to courage to tell people, in a nice way that my marital status is not something I would like to be grilled on, or scolded for, or looked at with concern and told "Atleast you didn't have any children. Think of how your actions would have ruined them" Nor would I like people to allow their children to ask me whether or not I am still married and when the divorce will be final and whether or not I get allimony. There are so many things wrong with that, mainly that the preceeding information IS ALL TRUE.

I should have more than dreams to sustain me.

I'm just never going to have the relationship with Oranges that I think they want. They will always be for me a great juice and a horrible texture. Kind of like that guy that you love but that can't kiss you like you want to be kissed or dance just right.

When you have shoes in boxes that you are afraid to break out because you don't want people to think you have a problem, it's time to reevaluate your lifestyle. Or just the people you hang out with.

Wow, what a catharsis.