I'm not a fan of anything classified even remotely as romantic: not in the traditional sense and most certainly not in any interpretation given reference to under modern thought and meaning. I don't read the books or listen to the music and it's more than once that I've dozed through a movie which presented an usually persistent exchange of oral fluid.
Never mind my particular aversion to chocolate and the fact that flowers can have me in bed for a week as the result of an allergic reaction. Cheesy violin music and intense looks that last up to twenty minutes at a time could only be irritating to someone such as myself whose entire CD collection is introduced by song titles like "If you don't love me, lie to me" and "Heartbreak Hotel".
It's funny though because every time I giggle my way through the death scene in Romeo and Juliet's, I stop to wonder how I came to be so cynical having never suffered a moment of heartache in my life as a result of my attachments. My more fondly remembered romances have been the ones that never really took off or the ones that ended with me suddenly claiming alternative sexuality citing my exclusively purple assortment of underwear as the basis and often as well, the proof of my sudden but highly irreversible conversion. Recently, while on a break from my "starving artist, starving writer" routine; which consists mostly of re-reading angry monologues by Czech writers, and whipping up a thousand variations on pasta and tomato sauce (though recently I have discovered that I can towel a savoury crepe around a helping of toasted vegetables for far more exciting results), I met a man I thereafter described to my soul's friend as my destiny. In a sequence of events that consisted but ten minutes out of a rather long afternoon, I became convinced of the generous nature of Fate. This man, my destiny, was in that moment the very image of perfection. He was tall (trust me dandruff and the occasional malnourished yellow gray hair is almost appealing from below but if you have to look down at it rather too often you might eventually desire that your eyes be hired out for the duration of such encounters), with broad shoulders and soft eyes that rested quite politely on my chest in an open demonstration of appreciation for small things. For all of five minutes I thought I was in love. It must have been some thing quite like love because a smart girl like me doesn't give her phone number to men she meets while walking through the dusty streets with her complete attention focused on trying not to slip and fall by the verdict of a juicy leaf of cabbage or a banana peel, and waving hello to pregnant goats though I am learning slowly that they don't like this at all and that the impression it makes on passers-by is not really very positive. I gave him my number because within that five minute bracket his proposal was almost tantalizing , but when he finally sent me a text the next day my first impulse was to go into the bathroom and sit on the floor with my head near to the rim of the toilet bowl so that I might indulge in the strange pleasure of sticking my finger down my throat to purge myself immediately, of that characteristic feeling of butterflies afflicting the gut, and the dangerous potential that every girl has to make that ridiculous sound that is somewhere between a loud sigh and a restrained scream. My room-mates would gladly qualify my allegation that my romantic life, if one dares to term it as such, is turning me into someone who is constantly on the brink of lunacy. I am no longer one of those people who waits eagerly for my phone to ring. I prefer instead to leave it on the window-sill during peak hours in the hope that if someone undesirable calls he will catch the gist of my response in the motion of my phone falling the two stories down and' with a mighty and preferably fatal crash, onto the ground below. Hopefully, there might happen to be a puddle conveniently situated in that same vicinity.
But back to earth, where the man I had met walking towards me surrounded by a thick halo of dust and framed by the red light from the setting sun in the distance behind the hills, called me just the other day and asked me out. At least I think he did I wasn't feeling generous enough to help him across the language barrier;"Oh, 'allo! Sank you to ask for two buy coffee ze ozer time today, qui?" I didn't miss a beat as I spun an elaborate lie to the effect that I was halfway across the country and would remain there until the August circumcision rituals were over and my fifteen children were back in school. I can only thank my lucky stars that his English is significantly impaired and that no one hears what I say when I speak anyway because when I spotted him later that evening at the supermarket I was quite skillfully able to revise my previous lie to accommodate a sudden outbreak of cholera and my now obligatory migration to Lesotho for which I was presently very busy packing for. I thought it was all very funny until I recounted all this to Sarah over lunch and her hands, as though with a mind all their own started flying about cutting through the air between us in what I suppose could only have been the gestures that were meant to support her contribution to my comedy. "Why do you do that? Why do you sabotage yourself?" That is the same question I've been asking myself all these years.
I'm not one of those people for whom it is a fun and exciting thing to meet with the numerous challenges that afflict even the best of relationships. I know how to be alone without actually ever being lonely, but am I setting myself up for major disappointment in the distant future by not taking every opportunity to be socialized into the life processes that support the basis of human survival? I think a lot about the future; I know when I'll buy my next packet of Skittles and I have a diary entry for when to clip my fingernails and twist my hair, so how is it the entry for "fall in love, get your heart broken" is the only one I allow myself to ignore? More than once I have been called cowardly but all my counterparts in cowardice are miserable people who let themselves be trampled upon by Life and never seem to learn from their mistakes. That definitely isn't me; I'm the dumdum who always goes out kicking and screaming never mind that the corpse of an idea or emotion or a very big mistake has been stinking up the atmosphere for a long while. What I think my problem might be is that I haven't the patience to sit through the opening credits long enough for the film to start. Home alone these past few weeks I've broken the remote in three places and chewed the lithium out of the battery for all the fast forwarding I do if I'm trying to watch something on the DVD player. Without the remote I have to sit through every episode as I try to get to the one that interests me and of course I never get very far like this. I simply don't care enough. I think my position in life is quite similar. I'm ahead of myself in so many ways that I can't backtrack and moving forward is virtually impossible. Again, this is probably just another instance of me being very close to the questions but incredibly far from the answers and everyone knows I have questions in plenty.
I have a new plan! I'm going to do the emotional equivalent of standing in the middle of a busy highway and hope to god that whatever hits me speaks more English than I do French and maybe even that it's even a tiny bit presentable (I'm not too fussed but if he looks like an old tattered brogue...or even a brand new one honestly, we might have a problem). Romance still isn't the most desirable element but somethings I'm willing to forgive I guess. All so that one day I might find myself in an emotional abyss over someone who's driving is as reckless as my heartbeat. I have every intention of falling; and if I hurt my knees the better, some scars are worth having. Hopefully I won't spend all my life picking at scabs.
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. I seldomly fall in love but when i do boy ooh boy, i always need help from a book or above. 
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Alexander