I am constantly left feeling like the saboteur of my own happiness.
Undermining my very own joie de vivre for the sake of "not lowering my standards".
I'm well aware of the fact that said standards have saved me from a slew of endeavors that I'm certain I would've deeply regretted, whether it be the morning after, or 4 months and an empty feeling in my chest later.
Sometimes I wish I would simply succumb to the ubiquitous hookup culture, the mindless slam of another body onto yours, no inhibitions or hesitation, no overthinking--in fact, no thinking whatsoever/at all.
And then my logical mind comes out to play, a gentle tug at my slightly tickled curiosity, telling it to sit down and hold its composure. I thank it, shake off the feeling and invite the thought to step aside and not come back. The thought waves yet another goodbye, promising me it will be the last time it will come around, but winking knowingly--its fingers crossed behind its back.
The truth is that I was never one for kissing unknown boys in unknown places, I wanted to go with the flow but needed to know a time and place three business days in advance, spontaneity is not a warmly welcomed guest in this home-- I've got my father to thank for it, his clear cut limitations around the four walls of my room certainly set the pace for the way I'd handle myself in the face of the world's extended hands creeping from the dark corners of dimly lit places with unfamiliar faces.
I have always been one for irony, though. Not only irony, but also absurdity bordering on the edge of cynicism masqueraded as satire. Plenty of "do it as a joke" feats would happen. A first kiss is not something that should fall under that umbrella though. I knew better than that, but perhaps peer pressure prodded past my logical thinking brain, and dug its claws into my shoulder, rushing me to "grow up", resulting in yet another anticlimactic experience. What should have been fireworks, or at least a sweetly awkward exchange, once again turned out to present itself as an embarrassment, a shame-inducing, guilt ridden exploration with a side of anxiety provoking head rush, and a lot of sweat, not to mention mosquito bites. I didn't love him, nor did I have a legitimate interest in what could possibly drive his existence, I didn't think we would fall in love (still I longed to be proved wrong) nor did I feel a connection growing as a pit in my belly.
So, why is it that I still fell to my knees, on the streets of Paris, upon learning that my first kiss was the talk of the town? I saw no intimacy in the moment we shared, felt no spark at the crashing of our lips, had no desire to form a relationship with this... boy who happened to be a vulture, masqueraded as a conventionally attractive yet over confident bordering on cocky jerk, who for one reason or another deemed me fit to become the next victim to his perfectly plotted crime.
To be completely frank, the kiss that followed and the boy attached to the lips that partook in it felt like karma for having missed the mark on my first go around; a kiss so fatal that it flipped my life upside down, left me open mouthed with my head hanging from a bed unmade, it was the catalyst of a wooden balcony's breakage. The kiss, it was earth shattering, in that we were playing real life Romeo and Juliet, and everyone knew that our innocent friendship had crossed bounds before either of us realized it. This kiss began and ended with belly laughter, was preceded by tears and followed by more kisses, and empty promises laced with peaches only that the pits were the last remnants left behind for me to cut my tongue with–bleeding and raw, is the state I found myself in, following that kiss.
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