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When calls the heart & other bullshit about love

So. You were probably wondering how long it was going to take me to get all Carrie Bradshaw on your asses again (especially when wearing a tutu), and to reflect out loud about (hello rhyme) the mysteries of human interactions. And my complete failures at that. Obviously. I always start out wanting to write a light-hearted, funny and sweet post but I always end up writing the filthiest, most sarcastic and somewhat pensive poetic posts (what is up with that rhyme today). On the other hand, I wouldn’t be me otherwise. I just like my words to burn in the third degree.

I can’t help it. I’m stubborn like that.

This post is definitely one that’s long overdue, with thoughts and words that have been glued to the insides of my brain — and the notes & excerpts on my phone — for far too long. When you’re low-key ready to kill half the male population and go all ‘Beyoncé-Lemonade’ on their ass, you know you’ve been walking around frustrated for too long (insert laughing emoji here, because I kid of course. Or do I). The general hobbies of the above mentioned male population consist mostly out of waiting approximately 9 days, 4 hours and 23 minutes to reply to my absolutely beautifully crafted text messages, postponing and/or rescheduling any dates and waking up one day to suddenly decide to drop off of the face of the earth, only to resurface exactly one month later — please teach me, senpai.

It’s like I keep meeting the human versions of a migraine over and over again (I kid of course. Or do I). Some are still searching very hard to find the fine line between playing hard to get and generally just being a douchebag. And having mild (dating) anxiety — nice to meet you — and not being able to figure out what’s going on in my own head, how the hell am I supposed to guess what’s going on in someone else’s? Exactly. Confusion right there.

So the problem with all this is, I’m no fucking good at any of it. I feel forever lost in translation in the world of digital communication for I haven’t been blessed with a deep understanding of online messaging (I will quadruple text you if the mood strikes), modern dating or a whole lot of patience for that matter. If you must know, I’m as patient as a hungry child waiting for ice cream. I find humans to be walking enigmas, puzzles I can’t seem to put together even if all the pieces are clearly laid out in front of me. Dating for me is basically just a string of “what the fuck did I do wrong again this time?”, bottles of wine trying to investigate that one and wishing common sense was more common.

Thus, “Boy bye” is the phrase I probably use most in life. For the hills are alive with the sound of fuckboys. 97% of my Tinder conversations therefore also consist of just me laughing at my own sarcastic jokes — these manfriends really never get them. Because sometimes I really could not care less about pretending ‘normal’ is a concept my brain can grasp, or about the mindless and shallow conversations for that matter, and I really do have to look under my desk to find a fuck to give. And to be completely honest while we’re at it, 

if a man requires me to have a ‘normal’ brain or would not enjoy me crying during cranberry juice commercials, we could never work. (Someone explain why I’m so hilarious. And someone please make me stop. Or make me win an award. Either will do).

A good friend of mine recently said that I had to play along the game in order to get somewhere other than finding myself writing this kind of hilarious but painfully truthful wisdom. And I hate to admit it, but he’s right: Sometimes I feel like all I do is eat, sleep, fuckboy, repeat (again, the humor). Everything is calculated to appear thoughtless, and it is one of the most exhausting games I’ve ever had to play. I could probably earn my master’s degree with the amount of time it takes to determine whether or not my casual fling actually has feelings for me. Dating has turned into something that isn’t all that fun anymore (and hello, yours truly likes to have fun, lots of it).

It seems ironic, doesn’t it, that sleeping with someone is less risky than admitting we actually like that person, but that’s the experience for most of this generation. Sleeping with someone eventually leads to kissing, and god forbid, before you know it you actually have to start talking to them. Love is a losing game, and I ultimately seem to be losing all the time.

Unreliability is the culprit here and has become the norm lately, as everyone suddenly has a profound fear of planning anything consistent. It has become normal for people to “slide into the DM’s” — as all the cool kids would say — asking for a last-minute rendezvous. Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely and completely love the old showing-up-at-my-doorstep-at-1AM-to-surprise-me (preferably with my favorite food, please take note) and being all spontaneous and impulsive and ‘fuck it’; by all means, kidnap me to Paris in about 15 minutes while you’re at it. But love is more than just a notification on your phone, if anything but. And it’s about damn time this generation starts realizing that. Because I’ve come to the point where ‘Netflix & leave me alone’ is becoming a viable option in my dating life and I’m so not here for it.

So here’s my idea: let’s all stop being little fucks. And let’s all start dreaming a little more.

 

Because before you start to think that I’ve become bitter and straight-up salty, allow me to explain and to reassure you that I’m anything but. I am probably the most hopeful and caring person out there, because I can’t bear the thought of someone feeling less than they deserve on my behalf. And usually looking like an idiot while I’m at it. Why? Because I could write about souls and love and roses and you would think it’s all just a bunch of shit. Heck, all my friends think it’s a bunch of shit and they subsequently never fail to laugh at me for my apparently very idealistic vision of looking at the world. But what good is the future if we aren’t allowed to dream of it? So if that means I’ll be laughed at, then fuck yes, I’ll write about it anyway — poetry about to hit you like a motherfucker.

To write such flashes of delight, I often sit by my bedroom window and as the cold air flows through, I look at the world with wonder. How the world unfolds beneath me into a beautiful mess, how galaxies above me collide into a marvelous symphony. Just as I believe in the beauty of the universe, I believe in miracles at first sight. In faith even, sometimes, if I’m really feeling extra *intergalactic* and space-y — no spacecake involved though, if that’s what you were thinking, I know you were.

You see, the difference between us is that you like hunting but you don’t know what you’re hunting because you don’t want to actually catch anything, you just like the thrill, the adrenaline rush, the things that don’t last. And what sadder word than “almost”? We’re addicted to maybe’s. But I want a full-blown “fuck yes”.

I like the things that can only be found once you stand still, once you stop running, once you stop being afraid and start being soft. I admit, I myself am still learning to stop apologizing for my wild and absolute foolishness. But then again, is it really so bad for wanting someone to stay? 

I have a word that I live by, and I apply it to every part of life, to my friends and family, to my whole being: Meraki, a modern Greek word derived from the Turkish ‘Merak’, which means to do something with passion, with absolute devotion, with undivided attention, with all your heart. And I wouldn’t want to live any other way.

I am forever on the edge of desire. Of passion I can’t tone down to a seemingly normal human level. Of excitement that reaches far beyond the far ends of this world. Of caring too much about literally every human being alive. Though, my impatience always ruins the magic of an undiscovered yet promising love that my heart will now never know. And how sad that heart feels for having to miss that. I’m nostalgic for nights yet to be had, for voices yet to be heard and for heartbreaks yet to arrive. And oh, believe me, they will arrive. But they will make you feel, finally. Alive. Brilliantly alive. Since we die these little deaths together every time, so we can handle the big one on our own. 

We often don’t realize that taking a chance means dreaming a life. That we are young gods with the world in our back pockets and our hearts in our hands, if we want to. Timing is bullshit in that the right people are timeless, if we want to. So darling, it is worth the risk, be daring. “If not now, when?” Don’t miss out on something that could be great, just because it could also be difficult. The bravest thing you can do is to be unafraid to feel, to love without condition without ever knowing it will be returned. In the race to care the least, I hope you always lose. Like an idiot, just like me (can I self-high-five now?).

By now, you are probably laughing at me as well (again, the humor) and thinking this is all a bunch of shit.

On the other hand, I wouldn’t be me otherwise. I can’t help it. I’m stubborn like that.

 

 

*Sidenote (fyi, not related to the phrase ‘sidechick’): I had to stop writing a couple of times because I laughed at my own sarcastic jokes more than I’d like to admit (I’m funny, sue me); I really don’t take life all that serious, reading this with a huge pinch of salt is therefore a must.

** Excuse all the cursing.

*** “Let all that you do be done in love.” — 1 Corinthians 16:14


WEARING: Tutu Shop skirt  —  H&M t-shirt  —  Steve Madden shoes  —  Moschino bag  —  H&M sunglasses  — Fitbit watch


@christinesmeyers