The Good, the Bad, and the Crazy: The Antics of an Aspiring Writer

I have no idea what I'm writing. I'm just kind of going by emotional autopilot. And given the amount of Tennessee Honey in my iced tea, it's likely this post will end up being more like a drunk text to an ex. That is if I had an ex to drunk text. Which I guess technically you could say I do have a few, but given that none of those "relationships" never went past a few weeks of texting nor an actual date, I wouldn't consider any of those guys to be an ex. And the one guy who could technically be considered an ex because we did date for a month, if you call hooking up and sleeping with a guy you have no real interest in simply because he thought you were pretty until he no longer was getting what he wanted, dating. So really, I don't have an ex. Which means technically I can't send a drunk text to one. And since the one person I want to see this post the most probably never will, it won't matter if I'm sober or not. And since I am no Hemingway, t...

I want to be looked at. And no, I don't mean I want someone to stare at me nor do I wish to be leered at by creepy guys who haven't yet learned that 95% of women don't enjoy being treated like a sexual object. What I want is eye contact. Silent eye contact that could last for hours without creating an awkward separation between me and the other person. I want a connection so deep, it leaves you feeling a little dazed and weak and breathless. I want someone to look at me and see how my face lights up whenever my nieces are around.  I want someone to look at me and see the most beautiful thing he's ever laid his eyes on. I   want someone to look at me, acknowledging my chair and seeing it as a sign of character and strength, not incompetence and something to pity.  I want someone who will take me out somewhere and ask if I want to get out of my chair because he knows that my ass isn't glued to the thing and I am perfectly capable of sitting on something else if I so c...