The Heur in Bonheur

"Shit happens," is what she said to me when I tried explaining why I couldn't end this relationship I found myself to have suddenly become a part of. She knows just about the most anyone can possibly know about me. She knows that I have a hard time coming to terms with the fact that having sex is normal, and that having sex with multiple people in one's lifetime is more and more accepted. She knows that I fear that the end of this relationship will be the beginning of my slutdom and my initiation into normality. Call me old-fashioned, but I have morals, morals of an eighty year old grandmother. It's not like I was waiting until marriage (I've already indirectly stated that I stopped believing in marriage), but I suppose I was waiting for that one person I believed would be the only person I'd ever be sexual with if I were ever to be sexual with anyone.

The same man who coupled liberty and the pursuit of happiness so closely in the Declaration of Independence could later state without equivocation that 'Happiness is the aim of life, but virtue is the foundation of happiness.'

The End?

I say being in love is not about owning someone. That it isn't an agenda or an end game, but rather happiness. That love happens. And that I will flow with and follow my feelings.

I'm sad to say that at this time in my life I'm writing this post to give this blog another end.

Guys That Give Unforgettable Hugs

I grew up disliking hugs. I was that girl. Your not so average female. Until one year, I met someone who didn't care for my personal preferences. With my arms hanging by my side, he hugged me tight nearly every day. Until one day, I tightly reciprocated. And from then on, I realized, you can learn a lump some about the way someone gives you an unforgettable hug.

It's A Word.

"I don't think I know what the definition of love is."

"Well you know in your heart when you love somebody." 

"But it's not in your heart, it's uh, love's on your tongue; it's a word, that's all."

What am I into these days? Nothing new.
Because I can't shake that certain "you."

com·pat·i·ble: capable of existing or living together in harmony

This is special entry number four.

After falling for Alain de Botton's way with words, I discovered his Twitter account, and found out he's quite obsessed with it as well, his own way with words I mean. When he tweets, it's usually a succession of a thousand submitted texts. I enjoy reading every, single, one. And guilty of RTing most of them, including the following:

Compatibility is an achievement of love; it shouldn't be its precondition.

— Alain de Botton (@alaindebotton) April 2, 2012

Guys That Have A Sense Of Fun In The Sun

I hate tanning, naturally or not, but I love the sun. And there is no better place to burn in all of its glory than on a beach. But more than the sun, sea, and sand, the beach is a place where all you can do is be there. Be there with the ones you came with, or the ones you meet.

When I was still living in The South, a summer beach vacation wasn't just a cliche, but really the cheapest and most relaxed sort of escape you can make. The white sandy beaches of the Gulf Coast...

Guys That Would Please My Mother

My mother is the kind of mother a daughter doesn't have to hide anything from. She's the kind you sometimes want to think of as a best friend, but you know she's a better parent than that. Because she's the one you tell all your boy problems to, and she's not afraid to always remark, "Why are you settling? You can do better." 

Guys That Fit Into A Double Zero

(...though not literally.)

Girls dream of the day their crush loans them their high school gym shorts to sport in Myspace photos. Women wish for their partners to loan them their suit jacket on breezy walks in the night. Though it may be the sentiment of the ritual that appeals to these females, the act does not particularly "tickle my fancy." Growing up, I'd always sarcastically quote idioms like "Everyday is a runway," and "Fashion over comfort," to explain my actions. But there is truth in every sarcastic remark. Gentlemen, I apologize to your acts of chivalry, but I rather be chilly than be seen waddling around in something ten times my size.

And perhaps in a strange way, my denial to wear a counterpart's article of clothing is compensated by my attraction to those wearing mine.

expectations : possess :: reality : resemble

What we seek, at the deepest level, is inwardly to resemble, rather than physically to possess, the objects and places that touch us through  their beauty.

I read this ten times over in The Architecture of Happiness. (Guilty of starting this piece of literature after its starring role in the overly mentioned film (500) Days of Summer.) In section IV "Ideals of Home", author Alain de Botton finds purchasing something found as beautiful to be the "most unimaginative way of dealing with the longing it excites in us."  He then generalizes the statement with being in possession of something. (And yes, it took me over a year to get to page 152.)

I believe it not only applies to objects and places, but people as well.

Guys That Taxi Late Night Drives

There has been mention of how I don't ask for much of men here on this blog before. I'm still trying to decide whether it is because my mother raised me to do things myself or if my social upbringings consistently remind me of its pesky behavior. Either way, I like to think I owe little favors because I've asked of little favors myself.

However, there is one particular favor I find myself asking for one too many times: 

(some place the moon is shining bright, a phone rings)

"Hi. Can you take me home?"

Guys That Will Enjoy Films I Enjoy

I recently took a literature elective on "film analysis" of which was led by one of those professors that believe it's a great idea for students to introduce themselves at the start of a course. Name, major, year, blah blah your-favorite-movie. The "What's your favorite..." series of questions always rubbed me the wrong way because I don't particular have strong opinions on much, but this one in particular was something I didn't have to sit and think about. But I have to admit, as a string was being strung through cult followers of friendly and nonfriendly self induced bloodshed, and action junkie jocks still wondering whether the totem top stopped or not, I couldn't help but feel as if I were going to be judged as the lonesome femme without hope of romantics when I spoke.

Granted, we were able to reason our choice with a few statements in addition to a mere title, but as I started to speak about Marc Webb's great tale of romantic moral and his ability to portray that as the physical nonsensical reality that it is...I lost my own tongue of sense and cut it short to a mere, "yeah, ya know, I liked his composition."

The thing is, despite it's poignant tagline, I don't think people really grasp the idea that (500) Days of Summer isn't a love story.

Guys That Can Appreciate The Powerpuff Girls

The Powerpuff Girls is the foundation of my childhood. I lived, ate, and breathed PPG. Literally. Everything from the television series, to the movie, to the backpacks and school supplies, to the stuffed dolls, to the coloring books, to the Halloween costumes, and even the cereal (whose superpowers came in the form of pop rock candy), made up the little joy found in my upbringing. Now and days, I get that joy from the "Ahh" moments of talking nostalgic about the 90's with other early 90's/late 80's babies. Yes, among conversations of Britney Spears, Von Dutch trucker caps, and AOL dial up, I would be the one to bring up PPG,

Guys That Prefer Drum Sticks Over Guitar Picks

Since I've already opened up roughly about how I run this blog, it wouldn't be too much to expose it a little bit more. I have in the past jotted "drafts" for future posts. Most of them were never finished and published, (though there weren't very many). I talked before about having to be inspired by a situation before being able to write about a topic well enough. Like a miracle, the night I published that post I met someone who re-inspired one of my old drafts.

There's a cliche out there that says any guy who can serenade a girl with his guitar will win her heart. There's also a little known fact out there that says I don't have much of a cliched heart to be won. But what does keep my blood organ beating, are the beats of a drum.

A Guy That Doesn't Say "I love you."

I must admit, it has been a while. Obviously I couldn't keep up with writing posts on a weekly basis, but it turns out even writing monthly is difficult for me. In part there has been so much going on in my academic life that finding the time slot to sit and write is difficult. But on a larger fault, I haven't been inspired to write about anything, about anyone. Anyone other than [name of a particular male].

Letting you in on the systemic thought process of writing this blog, I will tell you that I tend to be inspired by recent happenings that conjure thoughts of past recollections. Other times when absolutely necessary, (like when I was writing once a week), I would think of certain people who have made an impression on me most recent to that date and write about their impressions. In the past month however, every time I want to write a new post I realize it's always about the same gentleman and feel that constantly writing about him is unjust to the initial purpose of this blog.

But it's been long enough and I owe some sort of text on the matters of appeal. Whether it be fortunate or unfortunate, (I have not yet decided), the appropriate thing to do this time around is tell you of the secret of my lifetime: I'm in love and it's not complicated, until you ask who/how/when/where/why/what.