Fiction #6: You Cannot Love in Pieces.

I keep telling you this: you can’t love in pieces. You can’t love in pieces because people are made whole. They’re not made in halves, or quarters. You cannot pick the parts to like or discard the parts you hate. You cannot love four pieces of me and then loathe the rest.

You don’t believe that, however. You think we are made of gaping holes and detachable parts. So, I gave you my heart and told you: here, take this piece of me. Keep it safe and treat it kindly because the good Lord knows I’m careless, fickle, and self-destructive, and maybe if you hold on to it, there would be at least one part of me out there that’s whole, alive, and unhurt.

I could be a whole universe if I try. You love in pieces, however, so it wouldn’t matter how many parts of myself I give you. You will never be able to love me whole.

Fiction #5: Heartbreak

It ended like it almost always does. There was a boy, and there was a girl, and though they loved each other well, they both knew they were going nowhere. So, they said goodbye. He made her cry. She swore to pretend he never happened.

There are moments during the day, however, when she’d stop and remember the strength of his fingers, the lightness of his smiles, the tightness of his jawbone while he tries to rein in his anger, and then she’d sigh. She knows just what it is she feels at the moment, she knows it intimately and only too well. It is sorrow trying to forget its own name.

Two Girls

There were two girls that weekend. There was the girl who could carry her drink and then there was the girl who couldn’t.

So now you know. I haven’t been blogging because I’d had too much to drink one weekend. I passed out and didn’t come to until two weeks after. =)

Fiction #4: Questions. Answers.

I asked you why you love me, and you couldn’t quite make up your mind whether you love me because you want me or you want me because you love me. I laughed at your answer because really, it’s such a guy answer. Who argues with a guy’s logic, particularly if it’s the logic of a guy you love?

It’s simple for me, really. This is why I love you. I love you because you make me laugh, because you’re not afraid of me, because you hold my hand, because you let me stare at you, because when you kiss me, you make me feel my soul could fly. I love you because when we talk, I feel like I’m treading half-forgotten waters, half-remembered daydreams. Most of all, I love you because making love to you is always a beautiful, beautiful thing.

I love you because you’re both tough and soft at the same time. You treat me like a child, but you make me feel I’m the most beautiful woman in the world when you look at me.

That is why I love you. Love, lust, passion, desire, hate, indifference - who says they’re different? They’re all part of the circle. There are moments you make me feel so mad I want to punch you, and moments when you make me feel so loved and happy I feel I’d burst if I can’t tell anyone how I feel about you.

That, silly boy, is why I love you.

Wanted: Straight, Intelligent Men

The problem with having a crush on an intelligent guy is that he’d most likely turn out to be gay. That, or married, or living with a mom who thinks her hijo is as precious as any of the Chocolate Hills, and that any woman - beautiful or otherwise - who would dare go on a date with him is evil incarnate.

I don’t know if the problem is as universal as I’d like to believe it is. There seems to be a dearth of intelligent men who are not gay. I have nothing against gays. In fact, I’ve truckloads of gay friends and I love them to bits and pieces. The thing is, there is no hope of ever having a relationship with any of them. True, we’d make the best shopping buddies and we could go shopping for hours on end. But come bedtime, what would we do? Compare genitals and affirm each other’s love for men?

I despair; you have no idea how badly. My daughter is three years old. If there’s a scarcity of straight, single, goodlooking, intelligent men in 2007, there’d probably be a drought of just such specimen by the time she’s old enough to date.

Where, oh, where have all the men gone?