Fun

It seems like, since I’m in college now, I’ve totally forgotten how to have fun. I’ll admit, I’m not alone, and I’m fairly certain the majority populous, that spends their free time face-deep in a red Solo cup filled with enough spirits to clean the rust off a ’52 bumper are also not doing a very good job at having fun, despite what they might tell you. But that really doesn’t make me feel any better, in the long run. Gone are the days of high-school, when extra-curricular activities and social engagements filled my free time with fun, laughter, and community. Now, I find myself laying on the bed in my dorm room, languishing about how long it will be until the next break, somehow experiencing total amnesia about what “break” actually means, either a summer of work, or a week or two, spent lounging on my bed, cursing the fact that I’m no longer at school with all my friends. Apparently, I’ve got a bad case of “Grass is always greener,” syndrome, and I don’t know when it happened.

I remember in high school, and even somewhat before, I really based my life off of perceived markers in time, and wanting to make it to that next, if you’ll excuse the video game metaphor, “save point.” Usually, these were things like school breaks, major holidays, or even just the next time I was going to hang out with friends. It was all about the race to the next rest, the countdown of days, and the thought of being able to take things “one day at a time.” I’ll admit, this often found me wishing days away in order to make exciting things like school concerts or Christmas come faster than they were, but overall, life always seemed a little bit less stressful when I could break it down into manageable chunks.

In college, time always seems a lot bigger. For one thing, the talk is always about “the rest of my life,” and my “plans for the future.” For the majority of high school, my future concerns were mainly “what’s happening this weekend?” and even when it came time to decide on a college, I was deciding on the next chapter in my life, but not its conclusion. Everything seems so fatalistic in the college setting, so very “enjoy the time you have, because once you’re out of here, it’s ‘marriage, kids, retirement, death!’” I harbor know delusions about this being the truth, and I do truly look forward to everything that I have coming in terms of my future experiences. I just don’t necessarily have a desire to be trying to grasp the implications of what “might be,” while I’m busy trying to get my homework in on time, and remembering to bring my safety goggles to my next anatomy lab, so I don’t squirt sheep brain juice in my eye. It’s not that I can’t handle thoughts of the future, or even want to ignore them. I just find dealing with them difficult among a myriad of other stresses.

As well, at least in my experience, college time is a lot different than real world time. In high school, everything got taken day by day: This assignment will get worked on tomorrow, and then on this day we’re going to do this thing, and you have to be here for this event on this night. Here, the days really seem to blend together sometimes. Class structure is much more nebulous, individually, and each day of the week has its own unique set of classes, so it suddenly takes 5 days to complete a learning cycle, instead of one.

Part of the problem might also be the fact that I live at school, so the work and play times really end up rolling into each other. I absolutely loathe the days that find me with only a few classes, but spaced in such a way that I’ll spend an hour in class, then an hour out, then another hour in, then an hour and a half out, so on, and so forth. It’s impossible for my brain to get into a comfortable relaxation mode for that small time that I have, with the thought of another work period looming on the horizon. In high school, I got up, went to school, had school, and then, when I was done, I was done. Now, I feel like my higher orders of thought don’t trust me, and it’s much harder to shut off and unwind at the end of the day, with some sort of lingering fear that another class is only a few minutes from starting.

I think another major issue, again, at least on a personal front, is the lack of extracurricular activity. In high school, I did basically everything I could manage. Football, pep band, jazz band, spring play, show choir, NHS, SADD, and counted myself as part of a number of other events, projects, and groups, both formal and informal. These were all guided, structured activities that gave me clear goals, and rewarded me for their completion. They were a good way to break up the school work, and helped me turn off my brain, or at least find a way to switch its modes, so that I didn’t constantly feel like I was in ”go” mode. Sure, I was tired and stressed a lot of the time, but the reward of an audience cheering after my trumpet solo, or the roar of the crowd when the team scored a touch-down left me with a major sense of accomplishment.

In college, the extra-curricular is non-existent, although, they do a fairly good job of hiding that from you until you go looking for them. Instead, in the place of these educational side-kicks are new activities, akin to their high school counterparts, and yet differing in major and important fashions. For example, no longer are things like sports or music considered another part of my life experience. Now, if I, say, wanted to play football, the basis of my existence for the period of football season, and a major guideline in the off-season, has to be football. Sure, there isn’t anyone on the team that isn’t attending school for some sort of academic reason, at least in theory. But it seems to me that the football team is there for kids whose main goal in life is “play football,” with their secondary goals and their back-up dreams being comprised of things like “middle management,” or “fitness guru,” which is what their major is actually supposedly guiding them towards.

I find the same with music. In high school, my band was a fun community of kids who wanted to make music together and have fun, made up of a minority of rising star talent who were dedicated to the craft, and a majority of hard-working students who just liked to play music because they enjoyed it. Now, the band is an impenetrable fortress of talent and expertise, surrounded by a moat that, instead of being filled with water, is a dark and horrible time sink that requires you spend more hours practicing or rehearsing than you dedicate to sleeping, eating, or studying. Even the pep band, which is as close as the campus comes to an “extra-curricular” group, is really mostly music majors, with a peppering of other kids who, like me, likely remember the joy of playing in the pep band in high school, and wish to see it continue. I’m sure many enjoy the experience, but on a personal level, it really just sounds like a place for me to play 2^nd banana to a preforming arts major while I try really hard to reach that same high I got being a part of the high school band, only to find myself in a place where I’m trying to find someone else to take my place game night after game night because I “really don’t feel like it.” The best I can hope for is being an “amateur musician,” which means applying my mediocre level of talent to the minimum amount of practice time I have available, worrying all the while about how long I can go before my next door neighbors call down an RA to ask me to “please quiet down.”

Of course, these activities aren’t the only ones offered on campus. There are plenty of “service organizations” (read “resume builders”) I could be a part of, and spend countless hours of my time raising money for some external cause that someone else has deemed deserved of extra money, for no more reward than a pat on the back and a new assignment when the job is done. There’s no doubting groups like these do good works, and ultimately, I suppose you could consider it a personal failing of mine that participating in bake sales and bottle drives doesn’t leave me feeling fulfilled. In the end though, I’ve looked, and I didn’t find anything that really made me think “Wow, that’s a cause I wanna work towards.”

The only thing I’m “officially” involved in right now, outside of the academic work, is the Bioengineer’s Club. A fine mess if ever there was one. Born out of the ashes of the now defunct “Biomaterials club (I know what you’re thinking… How could that club ever go down? Sounds like a fun time!) I have found, being the President of this prestigious organization, that the best idea anyone ever had with clubs in high school was having adults in charge. I love my friends, and fellow club-members, and I will admit that I am just as much to blame as any of them for the following complaint I have, but we are terrible at getting anything done.

Never mind the fact that there really isn’t a model to exactly what a Bioengineering Club should be doing with its time, but it took us 6 months to open a bank account and decide on a constitution. While I found myself excited about the possibilities of the new club at first, and proud to be a part of it, I find that now, our weekly meeting consist, basically, of us sitting around and questioning each other about why nothing is getting done. Every week it’s the same things, we all come in and ask what’s happened, and when we figure out why nothing has, we all go, “Well, that’s dumb!” Then, we all make half-hearted claims about all the things we’re willing volunteer our time for, delegate out nebulous tasks like “Plan for fundraising,” and “Make a website,” and then get up and leave, each person secretly admitting to him or herself the unlikelihood of anything being accomplished.

All in all, I find lately that my “fun time,” is mostly full of either the mindless playing of video games, in desperate search of a fulfilling goal to accomplish, or laying in my bed and staring at the ceiling, wishing I had “something to do,” even though there’s likely a pile of homework laying at the foot of my bed, just waiting to be accomplished. I guess in the end, the real problem is as I stated in my post about being “Big.” I’m best motivated by clear concrete goals, and well-considered, highly anticipated rewards. In high school, there were clear amounts of time I had to make it through, and big concerts, shows, play dates, real dates, and holidays to break up my time, and reward me for my efforts. Now, my whole life lays stretched before me, simply a black mass of existence, no promises or goals to be had, and nearly all of the daily effort and work I do simply gets boiled down into a number between 1 and 100, the less a reward, and more just an acknowledgement of “Yes, the past semester happened, and you were there for it. Congrats.”

Expression

I’ve always been a big talker. I fondly remember one afternoon in one of my engineering-centric courses, where the topic of the day was personality types. A visiting lecturer on Meyers-Briggs personality types was discussing the difference between introverts and extroverts, and queried the class “Does anyone know anyone who is ‘extroverted’?” I had chosen a seat at the front of the class on this day, and I remember turning around to find a sea of people gesturing quite vehemently in my direction. And their judgment of my nature was quite accurate.

However, just because I’m a talker, and I like to socialize, doesn’t mean I have been or currently am particularly comfortable with expressing myself. Part of this is likely due to a shyness that it might surprise some to know I possess, and other parts are likely due to the fact that why I’m feeling the way I’m feeling is often as much a mystery to me as it is to anyone else.

When I was younger, I tended towards 2 main methods of dealing with and expressing my emotions: video games, and temper tantrums. I certainly wasn’t the only kid he was grumpy, moody, and sometimes a brat, and neither do I believe I was the worst, but the fact remains that, most often, when I was upset, I tended towards lots of loud and unhappy noises until whatever was bothering me either went away, or was fixed by someone who desired my silence. That was the goal, anyway. As for video games, I tended to play those as a sort of way to express my creativity. I loved the thrill of controlling and changing the actions of my little on-screen characters. It gave me something to emotionally invest in that I knew I had control over, which was always pleasant.

As time passed, I mellowed in terms of my moodiness, and my expressions tended to come in less… Obnoxious forms. I have a notebook that I started writing just before my freshman year of high school, and carried through basically up to the present, filled with poetry, half-finished songs, and letters to people in my life, written, but never sent, when I was upset, or angry, or depressed. Some of the entries seem silly, reminding me of pointless fights, and silly moments from my “younger days” while others bring back fond memories, funny moments, and even the occasional bit of sadness for days past.

Still though, this one little book has never really done it for me in terms of being able to get out everything I keep inside. In high school, one thing that really helped with that was my participation in music. I loved being a part of the band community when I was in high school, and playing the trumpet was a great way to let all the emotions I had inside flow out through brass tubing and valves. Not to mention the various pep band games I got to perform at, where screaming at the top of my lungs was not only allowed, but encouraged. Nothing better to cure a little teen angst than screaming at the top of your lungs when someone on your basketball team sinks a couple free-throws in a row.

Lately, however, I’ve lost touch with music as a medium. I still love to listen to it, and that does a certain amount towards pumping me up, or winding me down, depending on the occasion. But I really miss just getting to play around and have some fun. I know that, being in college, there are a number of opportunities technically available to me, but I tend to find the required time commitment, or the bar for the level of skill are outside of what I can provide. Really, I just miss getting to play around, the satisfaction when you play something and it sounds really cool, and the camaraderie of coming together with other musicians to make some kick-ass music.

These days, I find my best method for expressing myself is through writing. I’m in the process of writing a draft for a comic book, I “dungeon master,” for a gaming group at school, which is a process that involves a lot of creative writing and story building, and now, I’m a blogger. And it feels good. I really like being able to lay out my feelings and views on the world, to get out my opinions  and to know that people are listening, whether they react positively or negatively, both of which I’ve seen.

I think today, in our modern world, having your own opinion is very much frowned upon. This is, of course, a difficult topic for anyone to deal with, because it’s complex. Where is the line drawn between opinion and fact? As a man of science, I know some cases are fairly clear cut, and yet are taken in the public eye to be opinion. Other things that people seem to perceive as fact and canon for our world can be found to be very much subjective, if only a small peek behind the curtain is taken. And I believe, because of this complication, many people wish to avoid these conversations entirely.

For me, that’s a bad thing. Whether or not you like or agree is totally separate from the fact that the preceding sentence, the blog post as a whole, and all the ones that have come before it make me feel better to write them.  I gain a better understanding of myself as a person when I get the opinions out on paper, and I can see them in front of me, and I become an even better person when I can discuss them with people, when I can interact with others, get their side of the story, and see the world in a different way than I ever could on my own.

So I say, lets express ourselves. My friends are fond of taking me to task for how much I like to “argue.” What they sometimes are unwilling to believe is that, for me, an argument, and a discussion are two totally separate things. If you wanna yell and scream and call me stupid and fat and ugly, and break me down as a person, that’s an argument, to be sure. But if there’s a logical discussion to be had that can give us both a perspective that we hadn’t seen before, why is it so bad to take time between talk about the weather, and actually try to discover something about ourselves. I don’t think we should be afraid to talk about religion or politics or any of the hard topics. Because we should be able to define ourselves outside of our favorite fast-food restaurant, our favorite NASCAR driver, and the person we pray to when we scratch lottery tickets (That’s McDonalds, Jeff Gordon, and Joe Peschi, for me.)

Dad

Dad is sort of a loaded word for me. To be honest, I sometimes have a hard time with what it means, who I’m referring to when I say it. You see, somewhere around the time I was in 2^nd or 3^rd grade, my parents got divorced. I, along with my younger sister, were left in the primary care of my mother, while our father, who was, at the time, just dealing with the amputation of his right arm, due to a degenerative nerve disease, lived his own life. At first, we saw him regularly, as he lived only a mile or so from where my mother, sister, and I were staying. Occasionally, my sister and I would spend an afternoon after school with him, or something of the like, especially if our mother was working late. However, about a year after the divorce, he moved away from us, and we began to see him less and less.

At first, it was about once a month. He had moved back to the area where his extended family lived, in New Hampshire, so we would make the trip up the interstate, visit for a weekend, and then return home. Then, after another year or so, he met another woman, with whom he got married, and together, they moved to Florida. After that, my sister and I only got to see him about once a year, usually for a week or two during the summer.

I remember those days in sort of a haze. Our lives went on as well, our mother also remarried, and we ended up moving into the house we currently live now. I remember being very adverse to the move. I was uncomfortable with the idea of moving away from the town I was used to being in, and certainly very uncomfortable with the idea of my family dynamic changing. I was very skeptical about the relationship with both of my step-parents at first, but especially my step-dad, because he was the one who I lived with.

Being as young as I was, I was fiercely loyal to my biological father. I remember being upset with my mother every time I heard her saying something negative about him, and ultimately, I think my goal was really just to try and convince her that he wasn’t so bad, in a vain sort of attempt to go back to the life I had known before. Luckily, however, my mother was a forgiving and understanding woman, and the man she had newly married was much the same. In time, I developed a relationship with my step-father, but I was still very skeptical about him being able to “replace” my “real dad.” That is, however, until one summer visit with my “real dad” changed the way I had to look at things.

This was the last trip I ever made to spend an extended period of time with my “real dad.” I was a lot older than I had been, and I was either just getting ready to, or had just started high school. Whatever age I was, I was very quizzical, very active, and, apparently, difficult to manage. I hadn’t been enjoying the trip, for some reason I couldn’t quite figure out. I had never enjoyed being away from home anyway, but still, my father seemed very cross with me, just generally upset about the way I was acting for some reason. This came to a head one day, when my sister and I were playing by the pool.

As we were finishing up, and drying off, I, being the antagonistic big brother that I was, playfully swatted at my sister with my towel.  She protested, loudly, but seemed fairly-well undamaged by the experience. However, no sooner had I begun to giggle at my mischief than a hand was wrapped around my upper arm. It was my step-mother, thrown into a righteous fury by the apparent danger my sister faced from my towel-swing, including, as I understand it, loss of an eye. I was dragged, quite bewilderedly, to the room where Jordan and I were staying, and was told that I was to stay there until dinner, with no entertainment. As she bent down to take away the book I had been reading, she announced that, as well, as soon as my father returned home from work, he would be informed of my transgression, and would likely beat me.

To be fair, my relationship with my step-mother had always been strained, even more-so than the one with me step-father. I had always been confused about the relationship with my dad, but never once had I questioned my loyalty to my mother, who had always cared for me, had always been there when I needed her. As far as I was concerned, this woman was nothing more than an applicant for a job that had already been filled. But still, this was unforgivable. The “towel incident” occurred a little after lunch time, and we weren't due to eat dinner until nearly 6-o’clock.  Surely, my father would rush home to my rescue, to explain the situation, how sometimes siblings play with each other.

I don’t remember much about the rest of that afternoon, aside from being sad, lonely, and the most homesick I had ever been. However, I do remember the look on my father’s face when he came home. There was none of the forgiveness, the understanding, and the support that I believed I would receive. Instead simply a stern look, and lecture about how I needed to behave, and be careful with my sister.  I don’t remember being asked for my side of the story, or even for a chance to apologize. I was simply told the behavior would not be tolerated. For that moment, it didn’t seem that I was his son. More like his employee. I was to be told how to act, and if my behavior became a nuisance, I would simply be disposed of.

The next day, I called my mother. No one else was in the house at the time, I think maybe because, between my sister and step-mother, my father had been convinced that what the family needed were some new pet turtles (I’m sure I was invited, but I’m also fairly certainly the looks of disappointment were few when I declined) I told my mother the trip was going alright, and really was just happy to hear her voice, but, before I hung up the phone, a synapse fired in my brain, that caused me to ask what I thought was a stupid question.

“Mom, does Dad love (my sister) more than me?” In my head, I heard my mother’s voice admonishing me for how stupid a question it was. “Of course not, silly, you know that’s not true!” I expected her to say. Instead, what I got was simple silence. And I’ve never heard anything more upsetting in my life.

After I came back, I did a little soul-searching, and with the help of my mother, and grandparents, who knew my father better than I did, I came to realize some things. First, and most importantly, for both a young me and for you, the reader, to know, is that, growing up, my father had a strained relationship with his father. After a troubled childhood, he moved out of his house when he was only 15, and made his way in the world as a basically self-sufficient adult before he had graduated high school.  Secondly, was that the idea of my father loving my sister more than me was inaccurate, in truth. What it amounts to it, as I understand it now, is that my father really just didn’t know how to deal with me. He wasn’t lacking in affection for me, he was just unsure and uncomfortable about showing it to me. He didn’t want me to be “soft.”

Since that trip, however, my relationship with my biological father has been strained. While I love him, and respect him for who he is, there are things that he does sometimes that still leave me frustrated. Things like his lack of financial support or simply his absence during my years growing up. There’s a part of me that really wants to resent him for all the things that he did wrong as a father. But I can’t, for a number of reasons. For starters, I was raised in a household where hating is something that’s frowned upon, and forgiveness is passed around nearly as frequently as love. As a mature, 20-year old adult man now, I see that the things that happened to my father were never intentional, and never done in anger, or resentment. There were just a lot for mistakes that were made, and there is no human who deserves to be punished for the capacity to make mistakes, which is a trait we all share. As well, I really believe my father is sorry for not being around when I was growing up. I think he’s sorry that he doesn’t have more to offer me now, and that, if he knew how, he would make up for everything that wasn’t perfect.  

But, I think the most important thing for me, in being able to forgive my father for leaving an empty place in my life, is the man who got the opportunity to fill it, and took full advantage. Because, really, after coming home from that trip, I realized that my “dad” had been around the whole time. This was the man who would later teach me how to change the oil in my car, who would come to my football games and cheer me on, who would tell me all about the ups and downs of “women,” and who would be and still is an amazing father to me, my sister, and my step-sister, as well as a loving and caring husband to my mother. He's a reat man, who I look up to, both as a parent, a role model, and a friend.

So, that just leaves the question of now. When I’m talking to my friends, and I say “My dad this...” or “My Dad that…” who am I talking about? What do I mean? This is a question I still struggle with. On the one hand, the man responsible for my existence on this planet is, if the definition of the word is to be believed, certainly deserving of the title. On the other hand, however, is the man who was there to raise me, who saw the important parts of my life first hand, and who certainly had a big hand in me being the man I am today. So that means I have two dads then? I still ask myself that question. I still wonder if there’s room in my life for two people who are “Dad,” and what it takes to earn that title from me. I may never find a satisfactory answer. But one thing is for certain...

Every so often, in those times after that fateful trip, there would be talk in the family about my ability to “break the cycle,” when it came time for me to be a dad. In those days, I was always nervous whenever someone brought it up, because I was never sure if I could be a “dad.” And yet, growing up in the way that I did, with the family I did, with love and care and support and understanding, I’m not afraid anymore. It may not (read: will not) be today, and it may not be tomorrow, but someday, I’m going to grow up and be the best Dad I can be. When the day comes, and I become the one who bears the title, I will do so with pride, and, no matter what happens, I will do everything in my power to make sure that “Dad,” is a name that I deserve. I may not be perfect, but thankfully I had the chance to learn that I don’t have to be.

(One thing I do believe deserves special mention is this: I would like to take the time to thank my biological father for inspiring me to write this blog in the first place, by writing his own. His, started in February of this year, centers around his life with RSD, a debilitating nerve disease that has always affected his life in a serious manner, but has recently forced him to stop working, and has begun to have an even more major effect on his life. I have linked to this blog, as well as a description of the disease, below, and, while I encourage you to read the blog, please be warned. This disease has had a profoundly negative effect on my father’s life, and his posts are very reflective of that:

The blog: http://myrsdlife.wordpress.com/

RSD, Or Complex Regional Pain syndrome: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Complex_regional_pain_syndrome

Cuddling

I’m a sex guy (Quick note: If this seems like news to you, coming from a hormonally hyperactive college age male, I’d like to be the first to inform you that lots of fish live in the water, and that the sky is, indeed, blue.) A touchy subject if ever there was one, intimate relations with other human beings is a subject any novice blogger should fear to tread. Thankfully, I’m no… You know what, just trust me.

The reason this subject, or more aptly, the subject of relationships in general, currently weighs heavy on my mind is likely creditable to the fact that I have recently ended my longest, most successful one to date. Almost 10 months, which, compared to the length of some of the relationships my peers (and indeed my youngers) engage in these days, is arguably rather short. But for me, it outdoes my 2^nd best attempt nearly three times over. And, in all reality, the reason for it ending could very much be attributed to sex, or in this case, lack thereof.

To be honest, my ex and I were actually quite compatible when it came to the small things. Similar sense of humor, same general interests, we were (and still are) in the same major, so we certainly got to spend a lot of time together. She was a little more in to going outside and going for walks and the like than I was, but to be fair, I was in dire need of a little exercise most of the time anyway, so overall, things went rather well with the day-to-day.  Where the issues arose were the times when we were alone together.

We very much disagreed on nearly everything when it came to being intimate. She, being raised in a very religious house-hold, was adamant that waiting until marriage was the only option, for anything. And, being that I’m an avowed atheist who has enjoyed the carnal pleasures before, and wishes to do so again, this did not sit well with me. However, before you think me utterly shallow, and selfish (I’d like to tell you that I could care little for what you think of me or my opinions, but being that I’m posting them on the internet in the hopes that you will peruse and react to them, that would be quite silly) allow me to state that this was not the biggest issue for me.  

They say the key to a good relationship is the ability to compromise. Unfortunately, in this department, there was none to be had. She believed not only that we shouldn’t engage in straight up sex, but really, nothing of the sort. Beyond that, she had a problem with being in anything less than a full set of clothing around me, and had a problem with the idea of sleeping next to me. And this is where the real issue for me arose. Because, on a few occasions, I did manage to convince her to spend the night in my bed, and though there was no sexy time to be had, I can honestly say that those were the best nights of sleep I’ve ever gotten.

The intimacy of being next to another human in the sleep state was something I’d never had a chance to experience before, and I was hooked after the first night. I was so comfortable and contended, the perfect balance between the security of having another soul so close, and the purpose of having my arms wrapped around someone I cared for, as if to say “No harm will ever come to you, so long as I am here.” That was what I was really into.

I found out after a few more nights together that maybe her religious opinions were not the only things holding her back from sleeping next to me. One morning, she inadvertently blurted to that I was very restless during the night, and that she had a very difficult time sleeping with me there.  As I look back on it now, I guess I really can’t blame her if that is the case. We could have debated all we liked about the wishes of gods and men, and which outweighed the other, but when it comes down to it, I can’t blame her for wanting to get a good night’s sleep. But then, can I really be blamed for wanting the same thing?

It’s inaccurate to say these were the only problem with the relationship. Are opinions actually differed in a number of other ways, and eventually, we both decided, much to our mutual disappointment, that we just couldn't make things work. This was the logical side of me acting, taking in information, and coming to a decision based on logic. Unfortunately, it is not the only side that has a say. I find myself now, nearly 2 months after the relationships end, having random flashes of “the good old days,” the moments in the relationship that told me how much I loved and cared for her. Logically, I know that these moments are true, and that I did and still do care for her, but that these moments do not accurately reflect the overall relationship. Disappointingly, the emotionally side of me doesn’t seem to care.

Life has not been terrible since this relationship ended, but I won’t say I don’t miss at least part of it. There were ups, and downs, to be certain, and her recent, major increase in contact and time spent with one of our mutual friends tells me that maybe I’m not as special as I’d like to think I am. But on the other hand, it really is a bugger to be sitting in my dorm room, doing homework, and to look over to my roommates side, where he and his girlfriend are watching television, she wrapped lovingly in his arms, both smiling as though they’d won the lottery a hundred times over.  

I find myself taken, in moments like these, or lately, just as I'm going to bed, by sudden urges to contact her, to try to ignite some lost spark, that I might cling to its sickly glow like it were the sun. One last dinner, one last talk, just one more chance! I haven’t, and doubt I will, but still, it intrigues me the power that my desire to love and be loved has over me. I’m really an addict, when it comes down to it, in that I crave that sort of personal connection more than I crave anything else (yes, even sex… and cake.)

In the end, I really am hopeful for the future. I doubt if I’ll ever totally forget my feelings for this previous young woman, but I also believe that in time, the thoughts of “what if?” will fade, replaced by simple memories and acceptance. I also believe that I can do better, and that I will, in time. As they say, there are millions of fish in the sea, and though I hope to try dating a few more humans first, who knows? As an addict, I’m likely to do anything in pursuit of that intimate connection, that loving bond, a good cuddle, and a good night’s sleep.