I have a very busy life, Interested Party, and while it may come as a shock to you, between sporadic blog updates, bar tending, and 17-hour naps, I somehow find the time to write in an honest-to-God pen and paper journal.
Now, these genuine-journal (let's call it my GJ, for lack of a more creative acronym) entries tend to be more emo than my internet journalistic endeavors. This is mostly because I earned the privilege of omitting the "-teen" suffix from my age description and realized the World Wide Web is not the ideal place for angsty, spur-of-the-moment ramblings. Part of it, however, is when I get melancholy (I want everyone to know I spelled "melancholy" correctly on the first try), it's not always when I have immediate access to a computer, let alone one connected to the Interweb, so it's handy to have a GJ stuffed in my messenger bag when said melancholy inspires bursts of rhetorical creativity.
I've noticed a trend, however, and it's that I never feel particularly compelled to write when I'm happy. Probably because I'm too busy eating buffalo wings, frolicking in meadows, and listening to LBC during these blissful times, but also largely because I take happiness for granted.
I plan to remedy that tonight, so pardon me, Interested Party, while I indulge my Scientologistisc side and jump up and down on your e-couch for a few minutes (if you don't catch the reference, go back in time a few years and get out from the rock you've been living under. I am the Spongebob to your Patrick. You'll thank me when you're older) (and if you didn't catch thatreference, well, not everyone can be as hip as I).
An acquaintance from high school asked me a few weeks ago if I was "still with that guy", and when I responded positively, added "you should marry him. For insurance purposes." Ignoring the multiple layers "insurance purposes" could hold, I instead focused on his use of the words "that guy." That Guy is, with no hesitation, the best damn thing in my life to date (commence animated hand gestures). I've always been generally reserved, emotionally as well as in other ways, and it's sort of come as a shock to me that, after the beginning stages of "gee this is fun" progressing into a nice plateau of "gee, I could get used to this", I find myself more in awe of That Guy as each day dawns.
I find myself reluctant to use the word "love" in public, most notably because I've heard tales of married people who suddenly fall "madly in love" with an extra-marital person, and realize they never really experience "true love" before. However if "love" isn't the word to describe the warmness and fuzziness that settle into the pit of my stomach every time That Guy is mentioned, or something reminding me of him catches my notice, then I'm not entirely sure I'm emotionally equipped to deal with "true love" (and now begins the couch-mauling).
My point, now-bored and probably throw-uppy Interested Party? I'm happy. I'm happy we don't fight (something recent events with the BFF have made all the more profound [no offense, Poncho]). I'm happy we can have intelligent conversations. I'm happy that we laugh together. I'm happy that I have That Guy in my life.
Feel free to berate me Mass-Media style for my outburst. I probably deserve it. But you know what?
Despite being generally trusting and occasionally downright gullible, there are a good number of things I don't believe in. Aside from the obvious, like Santa or the Tooth Fairy, Fate and "The One" tend to top my list.
When it comes to Fate, I'm a bit pigheaded about the whole thing, since I'm too lazy and philosophically retarded to actually define it. However, some people, after having a rough day at the office, consider it Fate when a song comes on the radio during the drive home that describes exactly how they feel. I'm more inclined to call that Mainstream Music's Ability to Appeal to the Masses, but then, I'm a cynic. And a communications major.
As for "The One", my stance on this is slightly more defined. Unless you define "The One" as "The One I've taken a lot of time to get to know and consider and have deemed suitable", the magic aura surrounding this mysterious person just doesn't do it for me. I won't discount the possibility that I might only love one person in my lifetime, but I do think it's profoundly depressing to think that there is one, specific person out there for you. There's a lot of people in this world, and the odds of that person being in your graduating class seems slim. Of course, that's what Fate is for. These things tend to go hand in hand, I've noticed. I'm just saying that even though I might not hear bells the first time I lay eyes on someone, doesn't mean that, after time has gone by, I won't hear bells or feel thunderstruck every time he smiles at me.
I'm also disinclined to acknowledge meaning behind coincidences or dreams. But hey, being a cold, hard realist is very In these days.