Mix tape

I really need to stop procrastinating my homework. At my best estimate, I'm about three hundred plus pages behind in my reading...yet here I sit, blogging and burning CDs and coloring the fronts in disgustingly elaborate detail. And oh, the mix titles. What a misunderstood soul.

Tonight B. and I had a really interesting conversation regarding sex. Well, I consider pretty much any conversation regarding sex to be at least a fairly interesting one (I daresay most people would agree), but this one was more than the typical "I want to bang you" exchange. I think his celibacy claims are admirable, if not somewhat farfetched. Call me a cynic, but I find it difficult to believe a guy, especially at this age, who claims that he had too many problems with sex and is now "waiting for the right girl" before he does it again. Guys just aren't wired like that these days. Guys are, for the most part, impulsive creatures who think with their heads, not their brains (sexual pun...I'll take a moment to let the immature snigger and the slow catch up).

But if he's serious, then I think I'm okay with that. Those of you who know me can stop laughing; I mean it. I'm not implying that I am slutty or easy...I am just impulsive. To be perfectly honest, I really only cared about two of the guys that I have slept with in the past; both of them completely crushed me, M. in particular. As a result, my views on sex are much more casual than those of most girls. I've noticed recently that I'm more coarse and vulgar about it; I'm much more likely than my friends to use the word "fuck", as opposed to "sex", "sleep with", or (this one actually makes me cringe a little) "make love to". I'm sorry, but that last one just sounds so absurdly misleading. I have this tendency lately to only sleep with guys in whom I have no romantic interest whatsoever. Again, I would like to stress the fact that I am not a slut. It's just that I've been so fucked up in the past by using sex as an emotional attachment that it just seems safer to not get involved like that. Even that disaster in November...I didn't do it because I thought that sleeping with him would fix things. It was like an exorcism, a chance to prove to myself that I could sever the tie between emotion and physical intimacy. It was almost a test, a conquest, an achievement. The same concept applies to the situation on New Year's. I went to the boys' house knowing what I was getting myself into. I just wanted to prove to myself that I could sleep with someone and not let it fuck me up inside.

I never thought I'd turn out like this. Not that I regret my choices; I'm definitely not unhappy with the way I am today. But if this blog somehow found an Internet wormhole and was flung back two or three years, and my sixteen- or seventeen-year-old self had seen it, I wouldn't have recognized it as my own words. It just doesn't fit with who I was. I used to be such a hopeless romantic, so gullible and naïve and trusting. Now I'm this cynic buried in this shell, this armor that I've built up around myself. And it's hard, because I remember what it was like to be in love. And I miss it. I'm probably the only cynic who wishes she could fall in love. I'm a walking oxymoron.

Then again, pretty much everything I do is contradictory.

And I wouldn't have it any other way.