And Lace
If life is made worthwhile by the connections forged with others, what of a life without the existence of such connections? What of the hapless fool who, in the span of a lifetime, failed to make such connections? Questions that have plagued me for longer than I care to remember.
Questions for which I still have no answers.
This is dangerous territory that I am traversing. I am afraid that if I do not pull away now, while I still can, that I will be caught in a current that will suck me in and devour me whole.
Ça suffit. C’est fini.
I sincerely hope that’s you punching at my uterus. Please. Pretty please come already.
My encounters and interactions with the opposite sex in the human ritual of dating have sparked a feeling of uncomfortable familiarity in me. I thought about it for a while, about why this feeling plagued me. I realized that the jokes, the conversations, the interests, the activities—planned and completed, the motions, are all reminiscent of their predecessors. Uncomfortably reminiscent.
I begin to wonder if I really do pick the same person over and over again.
