I deleted my two audio posts. Recording them was fun—and I’ll play around with that medium going forward—but I’ve resolved the issues I whined about.(1)
I’m accepting my contradictions. Not doing the Libra thing of finding the ideal space between them. Resolution sponsored by several tidbits I’ve read over the last few days with this one at the center:
I don’t understand why men are so boring when they want to fuck you.
The man in question is my checklist incarnate. Tall. Clean cut. Boyish charm with the promise of mischief in his eyes that belies his age (within a comfortable two years of me). And so it starts the way things do when an influx of out of towners invade a small-ish city. Busy, well-traveled boy spots local girl. What passes for fliting in 2022 (an exchange of Instagram handles) ensues. His mission is clear: he wants to secure companionship for the night. Mine…less so.
That was my first thought when I woke up this morning. For half a second, I considered rolling out of bed to grab my notebook, but I knew what would spill out on the pages and fifteen extra minutes in my bed felt better than confronting the inconvenient, gnawing truth.