Of Love. Of loving. Of loved.

I have a friend who used to say every woman falls in love three times in her life. I have never loved. I know I say I'm in love with Sebastian from The Little Mermaid and Danial, Dinesh, Mainee, Jamie and a whole load of people have lost count of my husbands [ok, jesse, polygamy IS the new black], but I've never really loved.

I have also never been in a relationship. Oftimes I think about it and wonder whether my expectations make me what a demigod of a man, but honestly, I don't. At least I don't think I do. Guys I've been out with either (a) can't make me think, or (b) get intimidated by me.

I have to admit, though. I'm waiting. I'm not good at waiting, but it's been 18 years and another year's coming to an end. I want someone, as vulnerable and as pathetic as it makes me sound.

[I know after this, I'd have these spasms making me take this post off because it makes me sound too weak. Fuck lah, I'm still human]

There are times when a feeling of expectancy comes to me, as if something is there, beneath the surface of my understanding, waiting for me to grasp it. It is the same tantalizing sensation when you almost remember a name, but don't quite reach it. I feel the same thing when I think of humans, of the hints of evolution suggested by the removal of wisdom teeth, the narrowing of the jaw no longer needed to chew such roughage as it was accustomed to; the gradual disappearence of haair from the human body; the adjustment of the human eye to the fine print, the swift, coloured motion of the twenty first century. The feeling comes, vague and nebulous, when I consider the prolonged adolescence of our species; the rites of birth, marriage and death; all the primitive, barbaric ceremonies streamlined to modern times.

Is there really someone there, waiting for me?

Perhaps someday this revelation will burst in upon me and I will see the other side of this monumental grostesque joke. And then I'll laugh. And then maybe I'll know what love is.

I want to love somebody because I want to be loved.

Loneliness comes from a vague core of the self- like a disease of the blood, dispersed throughout the body so that one cannot locate the matrix, the spot of contagion. How fucking perfect. Solitude sucks sometimes. The loneliness of the soul in its appaling self consciousness is horrible and overpowering.

I've friends who claim they love their significant others after a month or two after being with each other. I'm happy for them and all that jazz, but as far as I know, you can't love a person within a matter of weeks.

Maybe you can love your friends within a matter of weeks, but even that I find difficult.

I think I'm too cynical. I'm a fucked up, cynical, self-centered bitch who deserves to be brutally murdered for questioning one of the purest emotions God has cultivated in humans.

Don't get me wrong, I think love is good. It's beautiful. But I've too much conscience, too much cynicism injected in me to stop questioning.

Will I never rest in sunlight again- slow, languid and golden with peace?

I want respect. I want the ability to express my thoughts without having to self censor because I might think that you might think that I'm being far too intimidating, far too rude, far too blasphemous.

Women are not any better with the matters of the heart. Most of the times, we're as confused.

Wait, let me just speak for myself.

I'm a tired, banal, confused and cynical woman. In other words, tomorrow is another day towards death.

Over orange juice and coffee even the embryonic suicide brightens visibly.