I found this in my “drafts” — untitled & unfinished(?).
I’m pretty sure it’s from a couple years ago, but I always get a kick out of reading things I’ve written in the past. It’s obviously pretty rough. All emotion, very little fine tuning. At the time, I was at odds with what “dating” really meant to me as a female. Honestly, I’m not too sure what it means right now. What I do know is that I’ve found someone who understands me, past and present, and that’s more than enough for me. As you get older, you learn that the “little things” are just “gigantoid blessings” squeezed into tiny, tiny everyday-looking costumes. 

I’m not sure how some people do it.

I can only give my heart so many times.

I can only invest so much emotion.

Dating at this age seems pointless to me, when all that’s really guaranteed is some sort of physical attachment coupled with some form of disappointment. If you’re lucky, some common interests that lead to a conversation or two.

I understand the concept of getting to know different people. I get it.

If you stay a cynic, you’re bound to live a life of a cynic. Embittered with the idea that nothing, no one is ever going to be good enough.

I’m not trying to be a cynic. What I’m trying to do, however, is live with a purpose.

What I’m trying to do is understand the difference between recklessness and risk taking.

I’m not willing to offer a piece of who I am to every person that I’m involved with for blank number of months/years. Constantly, refilling baggage with the same old sh_t.

My heart is not a recycling center, and I won’t fall in and out of love with the excuse that, “I’ll never know., if I don’t try.”

Because I do know. I know what life’s taught me so far, and whether it’s been a first class education or not, is besides the point. In theory we should all learn from our mistakes, and in practice we usually don’t. Here’s my attempt at the former.

I’m not willing to give a piece of myself every time I feel butterflies in my stomach, or every time I see sparks fly. I’m not willing to trade in years of molded womanhood for the satisfaction of a kiss, hug, caress or—bone.

What I am willing to do is salvage what hasn’t been damaged, and save it for someone who isn’t looking for just a status. For someone who isn’t just looking for a “boo” to cuddle with at night. For someone who isn’t looking for stability, for sex, for security, or someone to bump nasties with at the club.

I’m willing to just kick the dating scene in the balls, and just… wait.

For someone to understand that a relationship isn’t about taking risks until

the very final step. That is to say, saying yes to a lifetime.

Because that’s the risk that really matters.

Not the risk on the “bad boy,” not the risk on the “player,” not the risk on the guy who thinks he knows but isn’t quite sure—ladies, if he didn’t know then, and doesn’t know now… he won’t ever know.

Until that final step, I’ll be more than happy to meet men, be friends with a few, and invest my time, with careful consideration, in one. If that sounds unrealistic to you… that’s fine.

My reality is just that. Mine.