obligatory he's just not that into you post.

Subtitle: “He’s Just Not Into You” messes with my head.

Sub-subtitle: “I’m just overthinking.” (Grey’s Anatomy)

When I was 15 and a freshman in high school I went on my first date. I was so smitten with the boy. He came and picked me up, we went to Chili’s, I ordered what he said his mom usually got because I was shy and uncertain. He brought me home. He called the next night. It was fated.

I remember a month later I found out he had started dating a girl a year older than he. He was a junior, she was a senior. I listened to Brandy sing “Have You Ever” over and over again. (Don’t judge me.) My heart hurt.

When I was 16 and none-the-wiser, I went out with that boy again. This time was a double date. Afterwards we went to the house of the other boy and watched Friday and it was ohhh so romantic. I swooned over Ice Cube. The boy tried to unhook my bra. (FAIL.) And then he took me home.

Shortly thereafter he wrote me a note and handed it to me between classes. “I’ll always love you,” he wrote, as he went about explaining to me that his best girl friend, whom I had never met, had confessed her love for him. And if they didn’t try things now, he’d always wonder.

It wasn’t until the end of that school year that I got my first kiss. From Mr. Athletic. We had gone on a walk on the beach and he’d laid it on me. It was my welcome to the world of sandy kisses. He carried me back down the beach to the house. We kissed more on the couch in the room with our friends. And then I went to bed thinking, How am I going to get rid of this guy?

I had liked him for months but now? Now that I was sure he liked me? Now he was smitten and I was not. Over instant messenger he asked me to be his girlfriend. His girlfriend! I could’ve been somebody’s lady friend. Instead I told him I really didn’t want to date someone over the summer. Because, obvy, the summer after my sophomore year was going to be booked, you know.  He didn’t listen to Brandy but I hear he got good and drunk.

My freshman year of college was the year that I got good and drunk. At a fraternity function. I was dressed as a flapper and my date, my old friend from preschool who I’d always crushed on a little bit, was Mafia attired. We pre-gamed, we danced, we hit up a booth in the corner of the place and we kissed and we kissed and oh lord I needed a ride home and someone to tell me the next day whether that kissing actually happened or not. Which my date’s best friend was more than happy to do, as he told me how much my date had liked me and he was so shy and I needed to reassure him by calling him some (or, er, calling him back). But I didn’t, and he didn’t step up, and there was nothing lost. (Except maybe for a little dignity which had likely been spent on purple jesus.)

Two years later I was back on a dance floor in a frat house with a boy named Ben whose name I think I liked more than Ben himself. He tongue attacked me and tried to [in the bathroom] mack on me but all in all I left with most of my dignity and my phone number still kept to myself. (A trend I would later recognize.)

Post-college I experienced a lot of boredom. This is also known as no dating potential. Casually recognized as just plain no date invitations. (Um, I was used to it, so who are we kidding?)

I found an attachment to a guy friend I’d met that meant spending most nights at his house. We never did do anything but talk and sleep and spend inordinant amounts of time together. And he, Mr. Beat, was a guy that soon became someone I wanted to beat over the head with a stick. I was attached. To him and to his conversations. (And now, I can honestly say, not to the way he looked.)

One day, some time later, we did finally kiss. It had followed jaeger, produced zero sparks, and taught me a lesson that Garth Brooks has tried many times before to instill in me. That being thanking God for unanswered prayers.

The search continued. After pina coladas laced with moonshine, I found myself on a Sunday funday in August of 2007 on the backporch of the Slumdog Bachelor’s house realizing what the words “good kisser” meant. I got up off that porch and into my car that night to go home and counted down the years it’d been since anyone had good and kissed me. The next morning before work I told the roommate of the little bit of dignity I’d spent the night prior and she decided the following week to test my best kisser theory. (No harm done; Slumdog Bachelor never was on my radar to begin with.) I continued to act all Judgy McJudgerson on guys that followed. Guys who continued to go without my number. Someone I’d known in college, Dreadlocks who had been my super secret special crush, McHottie’s brother Otter. I continued to kiss ‘em and leave ‘em and Oh! They never called because they had no way to! And I didn’t want them to anyway! So all’s fair, right?

Well, if we’re being honest, they never tried to get my number. And the one or two that did have it? Yea, they never tried to use it.

So while saying no big deal, I wasn’t that into them either, can be both helpful and true, it really makes me think. It’s pretty simple: I’m just looking for the guy who’s my exception just as much as I am his.

“I don’t want to be ‘sort of dating’ someone. I don’t want to be ‘kind of hanging out’ with someone. I don’t want to spend a lot of energy suppressing my feelings so I appear uninvolved. I want to be involved.” He’s Just Not That Into You by Greg Behrendt and Liz Tuccillo.

this may get confusing.

I’m trying to figure out where the beginning is so I know where to start.

Last week, across the dinner table, I sat there looking at him. Mr. Perfect, in all his togetherness. Talk of family, of running and biking, of work, of life. I sat there and couldn’t help but think of where in the big picture he sits. Yes, I have always had in on a pedestal. You know, the kind where you have known someone for a long time, know all of their good parts (and their bad parts too). Know their family and their take on God. Know that a part of you maintains an innocence so that you will be good enough for someone like him. Someone like him but not him. Because with him it just isn’t there. Not 8 years ago and not now, anyway. And that’s irritating. Because here is someone that seems to have, you know, atleast a good percentage of the 20 must haves. And that should be enough, right? Enough for me, at least.

I left the restaurant and didn’t think of him any further. Not in the way I like to have a guy I want to be with occupy my thoughts. Because, well, he just doesn’t occupy my thoughts so much.

A couple of days later the roommate and I were planning a really thrilling evening. And by thrilling I do mean the discussion went from mexican to pizza to carry out or eat in to whether we were going to go to Blockbuster and really branch out to just planning on watching the Sex & the City movie. Yet again. It was Friday night and we are very popular, you see. (I am being sarcastic, for all those who might not be able to tell.) I walked into my room to grab my phone as we set to head out the door and as I looked at it, I saw that The Ballplayer had texted me. Texted to let me know he was headed to the restaurant I too was about to set out for and asking if I was interested.

So we joined he and his friend. For dinner and beer and then to another restaurant for more beer and shots. And then yet another. (Because you know, as I told the security guard when I’d left the office at 5:30 pm, I’m not drinking tonight.) We talked casually but not much of significance to me. We laughed, because the evening was light and fun.

Sitting on a barstool I saw him. My first kiss, the bitter Mr. Athletic. He appeared genuine with his hi hellos. As he always does. And yet I’m still unnerved by the fact that we can’t be the kind of friends that call each other and make plans like we did way back when and like he can with all of our other friends. Not wanting to be your girlfriend in high school does not a bad person make you. In my opinion but apparently not in his.

“Kristin, I just don’t understand why you care that much what he says to others about you. Why is it such a big deal?” the roommate asked me as he walked away. I will explain why this bothers me the same way I explained to my Charleston best friend’s husband today why she is allowed to be unnerved by a coworker’s rude “you gained a lot of weight during your pregnancy” comments to her a few months back. We want people to like us and be nice to us and treat us equally to other people they like and are nice to. I am, unapologetically, consumed with other’s impressions of me. Maybe my heart is warped, maybe my ego is at fault, maybe I’m too damn sensitive. Maybe it’s as simple as something chemical about me. But I want to feel unjudged and missed and loved. From EVERYONE.

There. I said it.

And so, his shit bothers me. It bothered me and kept me from apparently paying attention to The Ballplayer and realizing what the roommate seemed to see so clearly. That he is apparently way into me. And I am apparently crazy for not getting that.

And honestly, for once again, not feeling the same way.

Good guy. Sports fan. Lives with his sister in town. Actively pursues me and clearly doesn’t take “not tonight” for an answer. Makes sure I get home safely and sends me “night sweetheart” texts.

And I’m just, not into him. What the hell is wrong with me?

Friday night was my moment of rehash. Sitting on the final barstool that evening I found myself 4 stools over from The Nice Guy. Oh yes, the teetotaler was at the bar. Not drinking. Duh.

Between he and I was a girl that dated, albeit briefly, Cute Boy.

HELLO, I’m aware this is all too much and it may be difficult to keep up with ALL OF THE GUYS I AM NOT INTERESTED IN. We shall call them my discard pile. Mr. Athletic, The Nice Guy, Cute Boy, etcetera, etcetera. I really wish happily ever after consisted of a road made up of yellow bricks. And not speed bumps.

Tonight I sat at home thinking that maybe my perfect guy, my One, is with someone else right now. Maybe he’s with this girl, or that girl, or SOMEONE. Someone that is not me. That is funny. And beautiful. And everyone loves her. His family and his friends and her friends. (Sad that that’s even a one up on me.)

And maybe it’s okay. Okay that I have these standards and that that great guy with all these great things about him might not ever come around my way. Or maybe he has and he took one look at me and said, “That’s not what I want right now.” And he went off and found someone that fit him for the moment. Or maybe for forever. And that’s okay.

Because maybe if I had my One right by my side right now, I wouldn’t really have all that much to write about.

we'll call them ghosts.

There was a moment yesterday when you cocked your head back with laughter and I thought, “Wow. You look so much like your brother.” I couldn’t say it. (You’d kill me.) So I sat there in silence, for just a moment. And I thought about him. I thought about him, to myself, thinking, “How cute is he?”

I’m not dwelling. I’m not even concerned. I’m not letting the fact of all of this affect me. That you don’t bother to even wonder why and what happened. Because maybe you know and you keep on knowing and you don’t want me to voice it because you are afraid I just might. “You’re not who I thought you were and I don’t have time for the guy that you are,” is what I’d say. If I cared enough to say even that.

“Why does he irritate you so much?” I don’t know. “Why do you have such an aversion?” I’m not sure. “Can’t you even just be friends?” Yea, I don’t think so.

I like everything about you that I know. Except there’s this one thing. Beyond that, you make me laugh. Beyond that, you make me smile. Beyond that, I know you’re better than most.

There is something about you I can’t help but hold on to as much as sometimes I wish I’d just let it go. But you’re there. You’re solid.

Do you laugh when you think of me? Do you even think of me? Did you just want to know me, even just a little bit, because of who my father is? Does it bother you, how closely we end up working together sometimes? Does it occur to you that, for once, you’re someone who is more awkward than I?

I can’t believe it possibly hurt you that much. I find it hard to believe what I’ve been told, over the past two years, as to why you find it hard to be my friend, hard to forgive over something that happened 8 years ago. I find it difficult to believe you don’t recognize my voice or my number when I call you to catch up. I find it amazing how excited you act to see me when you least expect to.

I saw you called again Tuesday night and didn’t leave a message. And the fact that you haven’t texted me in months? Yea, I realized that too. But the other day, when I was out running and I thought about you? I thought, man, I really want to get those earrings back that I left at his house. And that was it.

the open road.

The moments, like most of the moments that fill my mind with affection, are etched into my memory now. It is not like the memory of weeks ago, nor of the kisses that I have easily forgotten. It is not like the questions left unanswered that fill my heart from past desires. No, these moments did not leave me wearisome or sad.

I sat in my room this morning; this big, gaping hole in my heart and my thoughts shook me back to Friday night and the differences. The differences in the way he treated me verses the way I’ve been treated. The differences in my urge to kiss him and the way I have longed to be out of the places I have gone to in my past. That past which fills me with wonder. Wondering how much I would give of myself again. How much – of me?

Friday night I sat in McHottie’s brother Otter’s house and I listened. I listened to him talk about leaving his great job – his last day was Friday – to return to the farm. He talked about how great it was to be able to leave a really good place and to instead do what he really loved. He called it a catch-22, saying that McHottie works the job he doesn’t love, but that pays, so that he can support the family he gets to come home to. And he [McHottie's brother], instead, can work the job he loves but has no one to come home to.

I know, what a great line.

He also offered to sleep on the couch. To which my response was, “It’s okay. I don’t fear a midnight rape.”

And then he asked my permission for a goodnight kiss.

I think I swooned.

But still, a part of me is so closed off to feeling. I have tried, so desperately hard, to not get hurt. I have tried by surrounding myself with an indifference that sometimes cracks.

The first boy I ever really liked – and I mean really liked – was in high school. He was a couple of years older and so charming. He took me on my first date and then home promptly with a kiss on the cheek. There were no phone calls for me to wait up for, nor affectionate emails. Our second date came later, as did the things about him I started to learn he’d hidden. Secrets came out with his flaws. And he actually had the audacity to say to me, when he found out my best friend had once liked him, that if he’d known that he would have asked her out. And then, in the end, that he would always love me.

From then on, the hurting was in my hands. And there were guys like Mr. Athletic that fell victim to that. I was determined not to get too close to anyone again. I had a determination the roommate would later reveal to me as being self-destructive.

Almost two years ago I let myself be myself again. I was searching for direction, for me, under everything I could find. I was fresh out of school and thrust into an 8-5 and a city that was once so familiar, and now seemed so foreign. I met Mr. Beat and things seemed to fall into place. Or so it seemed. And now, when I get an email from him, I literally feel nothing. And I love that.

In the wake of all that has been going on in my mind as of late, a coworker, today, sent me an email about Mr. Beat. “I hope you realize that no matter what you think – the boy misses you. He would not be THINKING up things to e-mail you about otherwise. Don’t try to deny it – you will not ever convince me. [You] opened a door and he jumped. [And] even with ALL the bad times, I still think there has not been anyone in your life in recent years that had a better potential of being your soulmate than him. Y’all just couldn’t break down enough walls to realize it.”

And what? Now? I just.. don’t care. I’m entertained, yes. But I’m over it. I’m beyond it. Yea, maybe we will be friends again. But not close friends.

This morning, as I dried my hair, I couldn’t help but think that this moment with Otter couldn’t have happened at a better time in my life. I was talking to someone last night who said to me, “If this is just a fling, you should stop now. Just don’t do it again. It’s too close to home.” And all I could think was, it’s not about that. It’s about me realizing that all the while I was lusting over Cute Boy, over his being that good on paper guy, I wasn’t lusting over his personality. He wasn’t making me laugh. And I wasn’t, by any means, watching him from a distance for long. But Otter, he makes me comfortable. And he makes me laugh.

And if, even, I still don’t expect those phone calls to keep me up at night, or those witty emails that make you smile long after you’ve read them, I can still rest easy on the fact of knowing that out there, there’s a guy that comes around and makes me laugh and that I want to be kissing long after everyone else is gone.

vintage index.

Last night I got a phone call from a guy I know through my West Coast Best Friend.

“Are you as bored as I am?” he said to me, invitingly. “If so, come hang out.”

After a good dinner with a friend of mine and her husband, I did just that. I met him out and drank a few beers with the guys. A welcome distraction from the grown up world.

You know they offer some statistic – which I could attempt to butcher – that for every bout of conversation that lasts some number of minutes, there will be a moment of [awkward] silence to follow. In those bits of silence last night, one of the guys baited the question to us all. “Why are we so bored?”

One offered the need for a change in job. For another, exhaustion. I seemed to think, to myself, it was instead a boredom, floating on the waters of my surface, that was caused by my hoping endlessly and to no avail.

I think this for a number of reasons. When we give up hope what is left? When we’re exhausted we’re hoping to remedy that, perhaps with sleep. And then, in turn, hoping leaves us exhausted.

“Childhood is what you spend the rest of your life trying to overcome. That’s what momma always says. She says that beginnings are scary, endings are usually sad, but it’s the middle that counts the most. Try to remember that when you find yourself at a new beginning. Just give hope a chance to float up. And it will..” birdee pruitt, hope floats.

When it comes to work, I am more so hoping for successes to come of my current roots than for me to be uprooted to find success. When it comes to my home life, I am hoping for mutual respect. When it comes to my family, happiness and health are what I hope for.

When it comes to men, I want neither to hurt or be hurt. Though it’s happened, both ways, I keep hoping. Accidentally Me asked that I give a play-by-play of sorts. Really, a reference to who I have hoped for and who, sometimes, has even been left hoping for me.

Mr. Athletic – My first true crush. Also known as my first kiss. Mr. Athletic was the first guy that annoyed me to the point of I can’t date you. And our relationship might, in fact, be an accurate representation of my entire dating experience. What I do know is that I apparently hurt him more than I was left hurting.

Mr. Perfect – Some might know him as the one I keep going back to. Some might think of him now as Patrick Dempsey. He’s the one I never think I’ll be good enough for. But, in all, he’s the guy I’ve known the longest. He’s the guy I couldn’t just casually date. And, to be honest, the thought of a date once shook my core. Sometimes I really think he just gets me, or reads me, too well. I can talk to him. Like, really talk. And if you want to know, I think this says it all.

Mr. Beat – Also known as, the crash. The friend, the best friend, that showed me in his own way that I just wasn’t good enough. That I wasn’t worth his making time for me. That I could be his best friend and there with him every day and then – suddenly – a nobody. We went from talking about everything to nothing. The truth is that he hurt me. And I didn’t deserve it. But I still have to deal with it.

Good Lookin’ – With him, things just faded off. He was good on paper from the very beginning. I met him through my dad. We’re in the same line of work, though McHottie still swears we’re just on different levels. Really, if I’m awkward he’s got me beat. Still, he makes me nervous. I wanted to hide from him when he spotted me just last week. And that nervousness, that kindred awkwardness, keeps some story there left to tell.

Dreadlocks – My once super secret special crush. I entertained that whole idea for an instant. A this will never work but I’m going there anyway instant. I booted my norm, I envied his heart, and I turned to hate his docility. All in all he wasn’t so much as a lesson learned, nor a learning experience, he was just something fun.

Cute Boy – I called him a Brett Favre look alike and I still swear by it. He’s got the scruff. And the truck. And the job with John Deere. But you know, I think he’s another one of those good on paper guys that just, doesn’t, make my foot pop. And I don’t think he got me – er – gets me. Maybe I’m putting a wall around myself with this one. Maybe I’m jumping off too soon on the basis that we don’t seem to want the same things, that he broke promises (more than once), and that he’s, perhaps, too good to be true. But in any event, I think that I wanted it to work more that it felt like it did, and that I realized, through it all, I just want ever
ything to be.. natural.

“People fall in love. They fall right back out. It happens all the time.” birdee pruitt, hope floats.

which way will you run?

“All at once
The world can overwhelm me
There’s almost nothing that you could tell me
That could ease my mind.”
jack johnson.

Things started coming together in my head. What they were, only time will help me figure out.

“Idle hands do the devils work,” we were reminded, as we sat, listening to our teacher yesterday morning.

My mind began drifting to my father, to his diligence, to the fact that he has always, his whole life, kept himself busy. He spent his mornings delivering the paper and driving the school bus before class. He spent his evenings in the field. And because of that, his laces have always been straight.

“We deal with people every day that frustrate us, that make us angry,” the teacher continued. “Don’t you?”

His questioned lingered before us as we sat there, sitting in a semi circle yet filling the room, some looking back at him, some staring towards the floor.

“Sometimes it can be the people we love that hurt us,” Mr. Perfect began, directing his face at no one. “And sometimes.. sometimes we hurt the people we love.”

And to that, more silence followed.

He called me later yesterday afternoon. I had just gotten home from the grocery store and was planning on a bike ride and maybe dragging my dad to the driving range. But when he told me he had 2 tickets to the USC baseball game and wanted to know if I was up for it, I couldn’t help but sound excited. And so we went.

It rained on us. But just a little bit. The sun, peeking through the clouds every so often like a light, shining somehow on something, vivid and vague as it may be to all.

When I got home the clouds still sat upon the sky and my plans to go on a bike ride still lingered. Thinking for a minute and checking the clock, I headed out the door. As I road, my thoughts could not calm.

I’ll be in touch. It’s still funny to me. Funny because those words were said Tuesday, when I was found sick and yet, still working. Funny because those words were said as I was asked if I would be coming to an event he [Cute Boy] had invited me to, which took place last night. Funny because not once was he actually in touch.

Funny because, for once, I was proud of myself. For once I was happy to be the girl that doesn’t wait around on the guy, the girl that instead of sitting and waiting for a phone call, went to her parent’s house and had tuna and crab legs.

And cherry pie, of course.

that's just the way it is.

Listen, I don’t think anyone’s really “got it.”

Ducks in a row? Nah.

Who’s to say who’s got that thing? That one thing that’s the answer to all questions, no matter the time, or course, or individual.

Absolutely no one.

That why we keep living – for the better tomorrow.

Mr. Beat and I used to talk a lot about the future, about our dreams and our wishes and our wants. Our dreams of loving what we did and doing what we loved. Our wishes for understanding and the finding of someone who loves your eccentricities. Our wants to get out of where we were.

But where we were is still where we are. And what has changed is a lot. And that feeling we felt all the time of yearning and of wanting to get out and live?

Everyone, and I mean everyone, has felt that.

So what made it all seem anything but run-of-the-mill?

The passion for which we felt it.

If you asked me what I want, I begin again, it is to live without obligation. But still – yes, still – have those very same defiant obligations. And yes, I did just say defiant obligations, as though that makes any sense.

Why then? Because everyone breaks the rules, even if they’re their own rules. Everyone yearns for something different, something better, even if there is nothing better. And at the same time, everyone yearns for the same, the easy going, the go with the flow. The given.

And I want all that, with every breath. Just as I’ve said.. that predictably unpredictable. But really, just the same, there are some parts of my life I really would like to anticipate. Kind of like a broken heal. It helps to have a spare set of shoes.

These moments I yearn for, they don’t have to come every day. Once in a blue moon is romanticized enough for me. See, already there are things that happen to me daily that rock me, that shake my core.

Like, seeing Mr. Athletic at lunch today. There’s a part of me that aches that we can’t be the friends we once were. There’s something inside me that questions his inability to let things go. And then there’s the two of us.. half hugging in a restaurant and rehashing our Christmases.

Or, the Danskos I wore to work today because it’s raining and I really didn’t feel the fashion desire to wear my Bean boots. But I didn’t want to wear black pumps or cowboy boots. So I wore Danskos. And ones I never wear, for that matter. Which, for some reason, don’t fit quite as snugly as the ones I wear more frequently. Which makes absolutely no sense to me. Yes, this actually phased me today.

And then there’s the fact, I’ve mentioned before, that my best friend is moving to LA on Sunday. She’s crazy and I love her and.. she’s moving. And things are about to change. A lot. And I have to face that. I know. But it still.. it hurts. It hurts to think about it. Because I will miss her so.

So here’s to her. Because she, for one, we’ll be livin’ it up.

"it matters to me.."

The other day I was working on a canvas. I realized then that I like the sketching much more than I like the painting. Although, when I’m sketching, I’m in such a hurry to get to where the paint brush is in my hand.. I’m blind to that fact. Like, in my life, I’m so big on planning, on dreaming, on conjuring up, on writing out, on knowing dot for dot, minute for minute, thought for thought.. what I want.. I’m not anticipating the actual living. I’m not participating in it. It’s the living that scares me. It’s the living that freaks me the hell out.

I find that on one hand, I run from everything that might force me to truly.. live. And, on the other, I’m itching to make a name for myself, to be somebody, and to fit in, to mean something to someone and to somewhere. I want that for myself. I want that more than anything.

I find sometimes, though, that when I get what I want.. what I want becomes something different. Is it me or is it women my age? Is it my mantra or does it have to do with the guys I pick (the ones that pick me) or the decisions I make? Can you make a decision and it ever just fit?

For instance.. I’ve found.. in the past.. if I really like you and you finally like me, you’re not as cool as I thought you were. I have this twisted perspective of wanting someone (something), wanting to be with someone, that is so much better than I. And if they, in turn, decide they want to be with me.. who are they anyway?

It’s happened before. Twice, I know. I get into these horrific situations of liking someone so much.. so much it sometimes hurts.. and then.. whatdoyouknow.. they like me.. because, I’m not all that bad. The freaking out happens at different intervals. The anxiety [of being liked] is bound to come. Just wait.

The first time it happened, it took longer than the second. I was a sophomore in high school. I’d dated before. I’d been burned before.. but not so much in a break your heart kind of way.. but in a.. he left me disappointed one. But then came along Mr. Athletic with all his charm and charisma and I was smitten. Trouble is, it never added up to what I wanted. It never added up to fireworks, or that connection, or those knowing looks across a crowded room. Instead it was comfort. It was kindness. It was he offered not to do drink because I didn’t drink. It was sweet. But it wasn’t my foot pop or my draw drop. So one little thing.. one little bitty thing about him that didn’t add up.. and when he asked me to be his.. I couldn’t. It was my out. And I made some measly excuse about a summer in a relationship not being my thing and that was it.

About a year later.. a guy I’d known my whole life finally seemed to see me. Like a schoolgirl with a crush I’d been.. and he, Mr. Perfect, made sense to me. Or so I’d thought. We made sense to everyone else. Or so they thought. Because, in the end, we didn’t make sense at all. That realization, however, didn’t seem to come to me until the day of our first date. And I, in my own true fashion, freaked out. And that was that. No good graces he could ever bestow on me from that moment on would ever charm me in the same way.

I don’t know if it’s fickleness or fear, timidity or timing, or just my own desire to always be free. But.. I know one thing.. the man that can tame me.. the man that can keep me attentive without expiring.. is going to be someone pretty awe-inspiring himself. Because I know that it’s the process that scares me.. and not necessarily the end result.