Short Love Story


“Excuse-me, I think you dropped this.”

I looked up. He wasn’t handsome, not by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, he was quite ordinary-looking. But there was a sparkle in his eyes which made something swoop in my stomach, and I, taking the book I had dropped from him, smiled hastily, said, “Thank you”, and tried to hurry on my way.

Too bad he didn’t let me. A little alarmed, he said, “Can I treat you to a cup of coffee?” Those warm, dark eyes sparkled with mirth. He seemed strangely comforting, like someone I should’ve known, perhaps for a long time. I liked the look of him, in his tan-coloured jacket and brown pants. He looked about my age, maybe a little older.

“Alright,” I said, hesitantly. “Let’s go and have a cup of coffee?”

“Yes,” he said, smiling. “Let’s.”

The waitress gave us our coffees, and he asked me if I wanted anything to drink, which I refused. I sat opposite this stranger, who somehow felt very familiar, and sipped my coffee, not knowing what to do or say. He had nice hands, and I liked the way he sat in his seat, as if he were the most comfortable, easy-going person in the world. “Tell me a bit about yourself,” he said, having not touched his coffee, his eyes on me.

“Well,” I said. “I’m a failed writer. I don’t write much anymore, because the well of inspiration has run dry, and one of my books recently got rejected by publishers. Other than that, I’m starting a childcare traineeship soon, which I’m extremely nervous about. I’m quite ordinary. Boring, really.”

“Oh, I don’t think you’re boring. I can tell you are a deep thinker, and feel things very deeply. You see the world in a certain way, don’t you? I bet even the flowers love you.”

I blushed. My, he certainly had a way with words. “I—I don’t think I’m that ethereal. But, yes, I do love flowers, and when I look out at the world, as I walk along, or while I’m on the bus, I do feel wistful, as if I’m searching for something, or someone…” I blushed again, feeling as though I had revealed too much about myself, aware that his eyes were still on me.

“Let’s go. Let’s go on an adventure.” Before I knew what was happening, he had grabbed my hand and was leading me out of the coffee shop. We went to a fairground, and went on rides. He bought me a stick of candy floss, which we shared, and as we walked, we talked, about everything and anything. I found out he was working in the finance industry, although he had always had a penchant for art, for painting and drawing. “I would love to read one of your books one day,” he said, linking his fingers through mine. “I’ll illustrate them for you, if you like.”

I smiled. “That would be nice.” I looked up at the sky. The sun was starting to set, and the lights of the fairground were coming on, the Ferris Wheel glimmering like a Christmas tree. For our last ride, we went on the Ferris Wheel, and it was there, high above the city, that he kissed me, quick and sweet. I looked out over the city, as our carriage slowly made its revolution up and over the world, and felt as if all was well.


Get INFP Advice, Blog posts and Skype Conversations From Me



Click HERE to become a patron. Or this link: Thank you!

So, recently, I decided to build a Patreon page. It is a kind of platform where people can become your “patron”, giving you a couple of dollars every month, in return for certain “rewards”. So far, my rewards are getting to talk to me through Skype (nervous about this!), writing a blog post on a topic of your choice, getting the chance to get an email filled with advice about life in general and being an INFP, and getting blog posts early, sent straight to your email.

I decided it was preferable to selling a service. The layout was fun, and I had an enjoyable time coming up with names for the different “types” of dreamers. Either way, it doesn’t matter whether this kicks off or not; I’ll always be here, writing blog posts for you.

Thank you, in advance, if you do decide to become a patron. I hope you know that you are supporting someone who has been behind all the words on this blog all this time, and wants to become a writer someday, and is always diligently writing, whenever she isn’t daydreaming.

Many thanks.

I’m Not Evil…I Think.


So. Dating has been on my mind recently.

And no, before you ask, I am not getting lonely, or desperate, or some needy combination of the two. With God in my life, and writing, and books, and anime, and films, and Youtube, and a potential cat and job in the age care industry in the future (did I word that correctly? The cat and the job are separate—though I would be glad to look after elderly people’s cats as well), and loving family members and a couple of (okay, I sometimes have to pretend I’m someone I’m not around them, but I’ve long ago realised that for creative, bookish people like me, who has yet to find another writer in her entire life, to maintain acquaintances and not seem cold and rude I have to put on a mask sometimes—and they’re more like acquaintances, to be fair) friends, I am not in a bad place. Anymore. Which is good.

Though everytime I feel myself getting a little too happy and hopeful with how things are going on at the moment, I remind myself that there are people in the world right now who are starving to death or have lost family members to murder and that shuts my overload of happiness right up. I don’t think it’s fair for some people to be so happy, while somewhere else in the world, someone is miserable enough to want to die. So, a tip: tone down on your own happiness, if you are fortunate enough to have it at the moment. Is that too pushy?

I ate chicken today. I hate eating meat, but sometimes my body just craves the protein, so I cave in. Today, while walking home, I passed these walls put up by the council around a building site, and they had been literally covered in pro-vegan slogans and writing, and recommendations to watch a 2005 film called “Earthlings”. I decided not to watch it. I can’t handle seeing any form of cruelty or pain. In the past, during moments of complete rage at people who I deemed had hurt me in some way, and pure malice, I did wish death on some people I had come across, but that part of me, after I have started to get closer to God, has been eradicated. Sometimes, I am surprised at how easily I could turn into a monster, if pushed far enough—never enough to actually hurt someone in real life, but enough to imagine hurting them. It’s a dark side of me that I am horrified of. That’s what comes of having a vivid imagination, I suppose.

Anyway. Back to dating. Last night, I prayed to God to wonder meet someone—yes, a romantic interest—who would fall in love with my creativity or something like that, and decide I am the light of his life, and keep me safe forever and ever. He would be tall. He would be Christian, and love God. He would like cats. Or just animals in general. He would be a writer. He would be creative. He has to be a fan of animation, whether it be Pixel or Disney or Studio Ghibili or anime. He should like books. Actually, make that a must. And then after that I prayed to get published, and then I prayed for a cat, and then I daydreamed a little, and then I fell asleep.

I’m sure you’re finding all this fascinating. This really is just a ramble, isn’t it, about my own little world. Welcome. What does the entrance of my world look like, you ask? Why, it is a fairy door, of course! A stone arch, covered in brambly white roses. Only the kind of heart can pass through, though a little darkness is allowed, of course. Otherwise it would be so boring. What was I talking about again? Oh, yes. Dating.

I actually figured out the most perfect way for a writer to meet someone. It would be for the two of us to find ourselves sitting next to each other in a library or on a train or some other public place, reading each other’s books. And I’d look up, and be like, “Hey, I wrote that,” and he’d look up, smile, and say, “Likewise.” And it would be the most romantic, to-die-for thing ever, because I am the kind of person who would die for my own writing (you think I’m joking, but if it was between my life and getting published, I’d choose the latter in a heartbeat, without batting an eye), and who would protect books and fantasy world inside books, animations and films, to my dying breath. It is the only place where I have felt truly happy, and belonged. So to meet someone that way—through books—is kind of a happily ever after for me. I calculate that the chances of it happening in real life are close to—the chance of everyone in the world deciding to stop eating meat even though it is available. Which are zero.

I don’t want to have babies. Ever. The world is overpopulated enough that having children, in my eyes, is a selfish thing to do. I want to adopt. Three children. But to do so, at least in Australia, I would need to have a partner. It’s not going to be easy. I love children almost as much as I love cats.

As for things like sex…well, everyone has hormones. We all got here somehow (excluding children who are born out of horrific circumstances, like rape). I suppose, under the right conditions, I would have the same urges as everyone else. But it’s not that important to me, because sex, like all physical pleasures, is incredibly short-lived. Sure, I’ve walked into a shopping centre or somewhere and thought—golly, he’s good-looking! Then, I take a closer look at him, at the way he talks or interacts with other people, and I realize, instantly, with my magic personality reading skills, that we would never be compatible. I worry, sometimes, that I won’t ever find someone who “fits” with me, psychologically. Still waters run deep.

My last post, about animations, anime and all sorts of stuff, is probably one of the best ways for someone to understand who I am. I am fantasy. Creativity. That’s it. There’s honestly nothing else. My favourite books in the world are Charlie and the Chocolate Factory by Roald Dahl and The Magic Faraway Tree by Enid Blyton. And by favourite, I literally mean just imagining what happens in the books inside my head is enough to get me high with happiness. This is probably getting a little dull, but my passion for writing, for magic, is infinite. The only thing greater than it are things I care about, like the environment and family. Animals. I might not throw my books away for animals, unfortunately, or my mother (I am a hideous person, because the absolute truth is, since I don’t feel close to her, if I had to choose between publishing my own books and my mother’s life, I would actually find myself completely stuck and uncertain—and tempted to save the former), or a group of strangers who I have never had any contact with (honestly, if someone had to sacrifice my life just so their books could exist—I would gladly die for the greater good. I’m not kidding on this one. If my death, for instance, would have allowed Hayao Miyazaki to keep living, I would do so in a heartbeat.  And after I’ve published all of my books, of course, and only if the death is painless), but if it was a choice between my sibling, who I love more than my own life, or Mother Nature itself, who is everything to me, or Jesus, I would sacrifice my books (and by books, I mean the novels I’m currently working on).

I’m not a horrible person. I don’t think so. Maybe a little obsessed and egotistical. I just love books more than anything else in the world. And this might sound completely deranged (feel free to slap me in your mind), but when it comes down to it, I could imagine myself giving the OK to kill someone if they were going to do something horrible to my books, like use magic powers to erase all my books out of existence so that they were never published, never where even there. Just a random fantasy of mine.

This is what I was born for. To write. And I’m not even that good of a writer. I trust it all to God—everything, my future published books, my writing, my literary skills, my creativity. To hard work and practise. It is my purpose. Oh, and to do a heap of charity work until all my money is gone and I die of old age, surrounded by books and cats. All this is kind of hard to explain to people. Even when I tell the people closest to me that I must get published during my lifetime—or die, deep inside my soul, into an eternal blackness, the moment I take my last breath—they scoff, shrug, laugh it off.

It’s that important to me. Not because I want to be published and go, “Hey, I’m better than you, because I wrote these published books!” or for the fame, or for the money. I honestly believe my books need to exist, because they are very unique and pretty, and people have to have this burst of creativity God has gifted me.

Ha! And I promise I am not psychotic, or delusional, or plain crazy. I just know. I just know things. And I probably sounded really insane and evil in this post, spilling my thoughts out like this, so my dear dreamers, feel free to unsubscribe from your Dreamerrambling, who I am sure you all now believe is a demon.

Oh wait. This was meant to be about dating. In case you were wondering—a man who wouldn’t sacrifice his own life so my books would get to reach people is not a man I want in my life. Muahahaha.

Half of this post was tongue-in-cheek. I promise. I’m pretty sure I would sacrifice my own books in a heartbeat if it would save a pig screaming in fear from being slaughtered in front of me. Or a human being. It’s just easier, isn’t, if you can’t see it happening.

A Boy Who Likes An INFP (Wish Fulfilment, Obviously)

Yellow flower

So, there’s this girl.

Before you get any ideas, I don’t like her, or anything like that. She isn’t particularly pretty, or clever, or witty, or anything, really. She’s just a little peculiar, odd, and in this world, it’s sometimes hard to find anyone really strange these days. She lives next door to me, and I see her often. Sometimes, I see her through her bedroom window—not that I’m trying to be a creep or anything, you know, sometimes I just happen to glance out my window, and see that hers is all lit-up, with the curtains parted, and I sometimes just catch a glimpse of her, sitting at her desk or walking around her room.


What’s so strange about her? Well, get this: all the time, every single day, whenever I pass by her or see her leave the house, she carries this shoulder bag bulging with library books. I know they are library books because once I passed by her when she dropped the bag, its entire contents spilling out onto the pavement, and I saw they were all library books. And get this—they were all fiction books, ranging from children books to teen fiction, and she is practically an adult woman. An adult woman, reading fairytales! Reading little kiddy books, picture books. Who does that? I get the feeling she’s got her head stuck up in the clouds. And does she even have a job? With that misty look in her eyes all the time, it’s a wonder employees would consider hiring someone who is evidently so scatterbrained and immature.


One other time, I caught her having a conversation with herself, or perhaps someone in her imagination, on her porchsteps. I think she was pretending she had a boyfriend, with the way she coyly smiled at some invisible man, and clasped her hands as if she were in love. It’s absolutely ridiculous, the way she—oh, just everything about her is laughable! Frankly, I do believe she might be a little mentally deranged, or at least quite the private actress. The more I spy on her, the more I feel as though I’ve stumbled across some rare, eccentric human specimen, someone untouched by the reality of the world. Someone who never grew up, when everyone else did.


And, no offense, but I get the feeling that she’s really, really lonely. I’m good at picking up people’s weaknesses, if I do say so myself, and she seems like one of those lonely adults who never grow up, buried in books, cats and her own eccentricity. She’s literally a crazy cat woman in the making. Does she even have any friends? And what is with that look in her eyes all the time? That sad, lonely and lost look, that seems both faraway and intent at the same time, as if she lost something very dear to her long ago and has been searching for it ever since, her hope slowly ebbing away over the years. Oh, what am I saying; listen to me getting all poetic over some lonely young woman’s misery. But—it’s the way she looks at things sometimes that gets me. The clouds. Flowers. Out windows, at the stars at night. As if she is searching for a home, someplace safe to rest her soul, in whatever she looks at, and always finding herself disappointed.


She looked at me the other day, while I was coming home from work. Right over the fence separating our residences, straight in my eyes. For some reason, it was a shock, staring straight into that soft, faraway gaze after seeing it directed other things for so long. She was picking flowers in her garden, had a whole bunch of dandelions in her left hand—a grown woman, picking flowers like a five-year old!—and the moment she saw me, she blinked, turned red, looked away, and a moment later, scurried back inside her house, the door squeaking shut behind her. She’s a strange one, I tell you. That night, her curtains were closed, but I could sense her behind the curtains, at her desk, reading her childish books or doing whatever she does, thinking her strange thoughts. Maybe thinking about me.


That’s it. I’m going to stop spying on her, because this is the last straw. Yesterday, sick from work, I spent the day reading some books I’d loved as a kid, Zac Power and Geronimo Stilton, and in the afternoon, when I was feeling a little better, I went out into the front garden and just sat in this sunshine, stroking my cat. I hadn’t done anything like that in years. Weird. I swear that weird girl who happens to be my neighbour is having some kind of slow, insidious effect on me. I certainly hope it isn’t permanent. An independent, grown man like me has no need for eccentric women like her in my life. Besides, I have a date with Natasha next week, and need to spend my time properly preparing for that, instead of sitting at my desk staring out my window at her bedroom window, wondering if those curtains will ever open again.


Natasha came round to my house after the date. We frolicked a bit on the sofa. Nothing serious—just a little flirtation, a little kissing. For some reason, I wasn’t that into it—and I became even less into it when I saw her through the window while I was entangled with Natasha, standing in her garden, staring straight at me. The look in her eyes—but why should I feel guilty? It isn’t as if she and I are in a relationship, or anything. She’s just my neighbour. This time, when our eyes met, she started as if I’d stuck her with a jolt of electricity, and  turned and walked away, this time without haste or hurry, with slow, measured, and, dare I say it, regal steps. Suddenly, I felt like being alone. Disgruntled, Natasha left, her hair and lipstick a little mussed, the smell of her perfume lingering all over my clothing.  Now I’m sitting at my desk, looking out the window. Her curtains are not closed this time, but she isn’t sitting at her desk, or walking around her room. She’s lying on her bed, her face turned away out of sight.


I mean, it’s not as if I’m interested in her or anything. But she certainly is an oddity, and I’ve always been a curious person. That’s why I’m going to introduce myself this afternoon. We are neighbours, after all, and it is about time. I want to ask her what she’s been reading, and what the name of her cat is. I wonder what her bedroom looks like, when you’re standing inside it. I wonder what she likes to drink—surely not coffee? No, coffee wouldn’t suit her. For all I know, she likes to drink from juice boxes with a straw and snack on lollies. Who’s her favourite singer? You know, just ordinary questions, for an ordinary girl.

I wonder what her imaginary boyfriend looks like.

On The Incomprehensibility Of Romantic Love


I tend to go through life in a constant state of low-level anxiety and panic, which occasionally crests and soars into hysterics, and very rarely dips into short periods of serenity. Overlaying this backdrop of discomfort are a plethora of several other unpleasant emotions, like misery, despair and wistfulness, each of them taking their turns to fill up my chest, or sometimes even arriving altogether at once. In other words, I have a lot of feelings, and it makes my tiny, ordinary and very uneventful life both very passionate, and very difficult. There is, however, one thing that brings forth a whole cascade of emotions every time I think of it, or encounter it (very rare, but it happens) and that thing is love; specifically, romantic love.

Romantic love is something which, deep down, deep into my every pore and every fibre of my being, I desire very much. I am a hopeless romantic, through and through, just like most of you who walk this planet. For many people love is so entrancing because it is an escape from the monotony and tedium of their lives, a chance to bask in secret joy and delight with another person, and to feel wanted and cherished. Unfortunately love, being so universal and complex a phenomenon, is also where many people trip up, or, in my case, fall flat on their faces and scramble around desperately like an overturned beetle in futile attempts to pick themselves back up.

I have been in love once in my life, many years ago. It may have been conjured up by my imagination—I’m not sure, it’s very hard to distinguish between fantasy and reality sometimes when you’re prone to daydreaming at all times of the day—but it certainly felt like love, and when it ended, very shortly after it began, I certainly felt heartbroken as one would after a failed relationship. Of course, I never really spoke to him, but, well, who needs to speak to a person to determine whether you love them or not, eh? Not I. I pined from afar, let my heart break from afar, all the while lost in the clouds and in books. Nevertheless, from this limited experience, I have learned a great deal about romantic love. One must never pass up an opportunity to learn the gears and bolts of life, and there is nothing like love to knock some lessons into your head.

The first thing I learned about love, is this: romantic love is not a necessity, in that you won’t perish should you find yourself without it; but it nevertheless is something that is very good and healthy to have in your life. Having love is like having fruit in your diet—you certainly won’t die without eating fruit if you consume plenty of grains and vegetables, but with their wonderful nutrients and antioxidants, it is nevertheless a very good thing to include in your daily meals. Being single and celibate, as I currently am, and am likely to remain as, is not the best state for a human being to be in, no matter how much of an introvert or loner you are. Fruit is good for you, and so are relationships, even the bad ones that leave you broken and afraid of the world. There is a reason everywhere, all over the world, throughout history and to the present day, people pair up: it is because that is what human beings are designed to do, not only for the sake of procreation, as some scientists would have you believe, but also for the sake of companionship. A partner is an antidote to loneliness. A partner can make you smile. A partner, while they can’t give you happiness—that is something you have to obtain for yourself—can contribute greatly to your existing contentment. Should you be discontented, a partner can make sad and bad days a lot less sad and bad.

The second thing I learned about romantic love is that it has the ability to bring a great deal of one’s internal issues to the surface, even if you never actually enter into a relationship with that person or even talk to them. As love is such a fundamental part of being human, it is linked, like the centre of a spider’s web, to various psychological nodes of one’s being, from self-esteem to the relationship you had with your parents. Just by being around your loved one can make you realise how much you perhaps yearned for but never received your father’s approval or how you actually kind of hate yourself and the way you look, deep down. Love forces you to confront your own failings, and to fix or improve them. In this respect, it is actually a very emotionally rejuvenating thing for a person to experience.

Closely linked to the yearning for love is the yearning for security. In most peoples’ minds, including my own, the idea of love is wrapped up in the idea of one day settling down and starting a family, tapping into a deep primal instinct present within almost all mammals: build a home, have children, and rear them together, in a safe, happy, loving and secure little universe. With the world such a scary and quicksilver place, people turn to love for refuge. Much as I doubt I will, especially considering my various issues, ever find someone to settle down with, just the very thought of having a husband by my side, of seeing him come home from work to kiss me on the cheek and then play and laugh with our child, is enough to fill my heart with a wistful and pained joy. As the child of divorced parents, the idea of creating my own perfect, happy family to heal myself from the unhappy one I grew up in is overwhelmingly tempting. If I could just have a child to kiss, to tuck into bed, to read bedtime stories to, then a man’s arms to return to, at the end of a long day’s work, then maybe, just maybe, I will stop feeling so scared and scared and anxious all the time. It’s a fantasy, I know. It will probably never happen. Marriages are very breakable; I know that first-hand. But I dream, nonetheless, and will never stop dreaming, along with several millions of other people who desire conjugal bliss.

Above all, however, what I have learned is that I am very afraid of romantic love. Familial love, parental love—those things, though I have lacked them at various points in my life, I have never feared. Romantic love, I do fear. I fear it because I am afraid of things turning out badly, the way things turned out badly for my parents and many millions of households across the country, and I fear it because if it does turn out badly, the pain will be very great indeed, a cataclysmic shock to my emotional system. And I fear it because I am afraid of not being accepted or loved back, or seen for who I truly am. I fear it because death exists, and therefore if I let myself love someone, show myself to someone in all my strange and awkward glory, there is something that can take them away from me. I fear waking up one morning to find myself sleeping beside a stranger. I fear the sound of voices raised in argumentation, echoing and jarring down through the very walls of a house like earthquakes. I fear looking ugly, appearing ugly, speaking or talking in an ugly manner and revealing all the not-so-pleasant aspects of my personality, and being scorned or derided or hated for it. So I fear, and I dream, and I go on living and working—just like everyone else.

Do You Have To Understand Something To Love It?


Or someone?

For a long time, I thought this was so.

I thought, as someone who had built her identity around being “unique” and “different” in order to bulwark her self-esteem after years of social exclusion–and in a way I am unique, but so is everyone else—no-one would be capable of understanding what it was like to be inside my head, see the world through the lens of my eyes, experience my thoughts and feelings. And what was more, I certainly could not know what it was like to be in someone else’s head, no matter how far I strained my imagination or empathetic powers, for each human heart is the greatest mystery under the sun. According to this logic, then, there was no point in, or no possibility of, anyone truly loving anyone, as we were all puzzles, impossible to get close enough to properly solve, and therefore properly love.

I was wrong.

You don’t need to understand something to love it, a rule applicable to almost everything in life. I don’t understand life, yet much of the time, even in the throes of despair, I still subconsciously love it, adore the emotions coursing through my veins, the black misery pumping in my heart. I love the universe even though I find its complexity baffling. I love writing and the creative process, but, once again, I don’t understand exactly why I love it, or how it works; all I know is stories and characters come to me, and they need to be written down, almost as though I have been assigned to do it, and it makes me very happy to do it even when it is hard. So much human effort is spent on figuring things out, decoding and dissecting, and while that is not a bad thing—curiosity has landed us on the moon and given us fantastic works of literature and computers and light bulbs, just to name a few—sometimes, one simply must accept things, like affection or art, without trying to deduce its origins.

I’d even go so far as to say it’s one of the only ones to true happiness, or at least satisfaction, in life. To just enjoy whatever comes to you, each a little tidbit of happiness to be savored, with the deep, subconscious awareness that life is beautiful, even when it is bad, that life is a gift, even when it pops open like Jack-In-The-Box in your face, that life is something to be loved, even when you don’t understand it in the slightest—just like love. Whenever someone says “love is the meaning of life”, many people believe they are referring to romantic love, or the love one feels for family or friends. But that’s not true. Family and friends and spouses and children are often not enough to sustain a person. What they truly mean is that love for everything, for every facet of life, from the tiny dead flies on the windowsill to the sun shining in the sky each morning, delight at the immense complexity dancing and shivering around you, is where the meaning in life lies. Love is what propels us to do whatever we do, to struggle and work in face of meaninglessness and loneliness. We don’t understand anything, but we love many things, so we use that to keep us going.

Like everyone, I have loved before. And I’ll tell you this: all love is the same. Whether it is love for a man or a woman, or a brother, or a book, or an art form, or any piece of the universe, it gives you the same sensation of happiness and pleasure inside your chest. It reaches down into the very nooks and crevices of your essence, in tiny, golden spurts of liquid happiness. It also often aches, pain experienced along with the pleasure, because all sources of our love are transitory, including life itself, but it is a nice ache, nice and beautiful, just like everything else, a kind of sweet agony.

My advice to you, then, is to love freely, passionately, and deeply, without fear of failure or pain. When you love, inevitably, you will fail, and you will get hurt. But you will also succeed and experience moments of such blinding joy it will be as if the sun is shining out through your pores. In the past, I have not followed this principle of acceptance. For instance, for many years, I denied myself my love for writing and the imagination, believing I was no good at it and would never be any good at it after a bad incident with one teacher; but these days, I don’t think or worry so much, and just follow the honey-trail of love to where it leads me. I have also avoided people I loved, not only because I did not love myself enough at the time (an enormous problem when it comes to forming any relationships), but also because I was afraid of trusting love. I was afraid of getting hurt, abandoned, feeling lost, ashamed or rejected. I was afraid they would not understand me and my anxiety, my myriad quirks that make it difficult to feel comfortable outside the home or amongst society, especially when my struggles already made me feel defective. Should they have shunned me or exhibited scorn at my shortcomings, my heart would have died. So I pushed them away, and pushed them away hard. It was the right decision at the time—but perhaps a great deal of suffering could have been lifted, had I simply allowed myself to accept my feelings, followed them to wherever they might have led me, be that the tip of a cliff or the depths of an abyss.

This principle, to love something or someone, even when you do not understand them or it, is very useful when it comes to fending off existential angst. We don’t understand life or death, so we are afraid of both, and thus never really live or die. We just exist in this perpetuity of fearful stasis. Don’t do that. Trust love. Trust it. Whenever something speaks to your heart, makes it curl over and purr like a contented kitten inside your chest, do it, speak to it, work at it, look at it, enjoy it. That is what it truly means to follow your heart: whatever gives you a great leap of joy can only be good for you. Love desperately and passionately and gloriously, and when the end comes, remaining loving until the very last second, kiss the world goodbye with a smile on your face and a tear running down your cheek.

A Dreamer’s Advice For Relationships: We’re All Toads


Perhaps a recluse who tends to flee whenever she catches sight of a male creature of her species isn’t the best person to dispense love advice, but there is something to be said for the knowledge observers can gain, if they look long enough, and think hard enough.

The way I see it, there seems to be a pattern to relationships that end badly: two people get together based on an illusion of each other, then gradually show their true selves until either one or both are repulsed by the cracks beginning to show in what was initially their smooth, porcelain-vase man or woman, and break up.

It’s what happened to my parent’s marriage, and one of my worst fantasies, though it’s unlikely to ever happen—I do have a habit of fantasizing horrible scenarios in my head as well as good ones—is to one day find myself loathing the guts of the man I have chosen to spend the rest of my life with. This is horrifically frightening mostly because of the parallels that can be drawn between it and the situation with my mother and father; and if I were ever to one day echo in my own life the dynamic between my parents, I think I would die of disappointment and self-hatred.

Which got me thinking: there is in fact a very easy way to avoid landing into messes like that in the first place, and that is to put your worst foot forward when you meet someone who you might consider as a prospective partner. Well, perhaps it isn’t entirely easy, but it certainly is a more practical way to approach the dating game, if you’re currently participating in it. Essentially, what you do is when you meet someone, instead of smiling and making an effort to appear wonderfully well put-together and attractive and thus inveigle your way into their good books, as we are all inclined to do, you should just be yourself—the worst version of yourself, that is, the kind of person you are if you wake early on Monday morning with a panic attack to the sound of rock music blaring from a neighbour’s window.

There’s a self that we show to people in the outside world, which is not real, and there’s a self we reveal only at home, amongst our family, which is who we really are, and which is oftentimes not always pleasant. At home, we might curse, yell and scream, have small tantrums and fits, act childish and immature, and in short behave in ways we never would in front of someone we found attractive. Yet who we are in the company of those we are most comfortable with is eventually the face your partner will see. Doesn’t it then make perfect sense to show this aspect of who are first, before progressing to kissing and intimacy and moving in together and marriage?

Because who a person is when they are at home, with their parents and siblings, is who you will end up marrying or dating. That’s the real deal—not the suits and the ties and the impeccably polished shoes and chivalry or the coy smiles and the dresses, but the disheveled man who hollers like a lunatic when there’s no milk in the fridge Sunday morning, or the woman who mopes and moans around the house like a small raincloud whenever her writing isn’t going well until you just want to flick her away like a flea. A person is not just the way they smile, or the gentle golden slope of their neck when it is hit by sunlight—they are also their irritating habit of not flushing the toilet or cleaning up after themselves, their selfishness and impatience, their tendency to daydream in the middle of a conversation, the way they look when sporting messy bed-hair and glasses, their high, whiny laugh that sounds like an enormous fly stuck up a pipe. The truth is, there are more aspects to our personality that are annoying than appealing, especially when endured over time.

In order for any relationship to have true potential, then, the illusion must be banished, and the problem is people sometimes can keep up the illusion for quite some time before it begins to disintegrate, though they all eventually do (no-one can pretend forever—not even actors). The truth, as they say, will come out, and since this part of the relationship is inevitable, why not jump straight to it, and skip all the flowers and make-believe which serve no purpose except to create a temporary, fantasy bubble?

Of course it would be difficult to undo years of conditioning and go against the primal instinct to impress a potential mate upon first meeting him or her. One would also run the risk of alienating the person and killing a romance in the bud before it’s even begun to blossom. The best way to go about it, then, I think, is to blatantly ask the other person to engage in a little “experiment” with you, whereby the both of you agree to show your worst selves in front of the other person, and perhaps see each other pooping while sitting on the toilet. Not the most romantic start to a partnership, but it’s certainly better than waking up angry and disillusioned many months, or even years, down the line.

Then again, perhaps that’s not a realistic way to go about relationships. Most relationships generally progress to stage where two people get to see all the ugly cracks and holes in all their irritating glory in each other after the first idealized period of courtship, which is when the decision to leave or stay is often made. Maybe we even need the shy smiles and the fantasy of the other person to jump-start the process of attraction, and make dating a little more fun and enjoyable. Maybe people want to experience a bit of fairytale romance once in a while, even if deep down they know it isn’t real, and that their Prince Charming or Princess farts and burps and snores just like everyone else on the planet, and has bad morning breath or gets greasy hair after “forgetting” to shower for several days.

Nevertheless, I do think being a bit more upfront and honest about who you are as a person in the early stages of relationship would making the process of selecting a mate much less painful and disappointing, and much more effective. If you are a messy person who believes making beds is the most pointless task created by mankind and doesn’t think twice about leaving dirty underpants on various household surfaces, then perhaps you should think twice before jumping into a relationship with someone who is anal-retentive and has a deep revulsion for anything untidy or unclean rather than pretend to be neat and prim in front of them. You’d be surprised how a little thing like a lack of tolerance for untidiness can take a toll on a relationship. If one partner constantly berates the other for not cleaning up after themselves, resentment will brew and fester in the hearts of both parties—the tidy one will think their partner is not putting in the effort to make them happy, while the untidy one will feel resentment for having to control their disorganization when it is a natural part of their “creative” nature—creating rifts and destroying love.

Little things, as I always like to say, add up, and it’s always the little things that matter when it comes to relationships—people need to sometimes sweat the small things a little more than they currently do—because being with someone often isn’t a grand romance, but an ordinary Saturday evening spent washing the dishes and then going to the grocery store to stock the fridge for the week, and if the other person grates on your nerves in various ways, then you will effectively be spending your life with someone who makes you irritable and unhappy. This doesn’t mean that two people are incompatible just because, say, one of them likes to tidy the house, and the other doesn’t. Those things can, to a certain extent, depending on the tolerance of the parties involved, be compromised. However some differences, which many people tend to hide in the first couple of dates, and perhaps even months into the relationship—for instance, if a man is a loner but pretends to have friends in order to impress a woman, or one person likes to save money while the other enjoys spending it freely even when they don’t have very much of it—can tear partners apart faster than hurricanes.

Relationships, requiring as they do tolerance, compromise and sacrifice, are hard enough without throwing into the mix the fake personalities or habits people adopt in order to put their best foot forward. We all want to seem like Prince Charmings or Princesses, but that just isn’t the reality; everyone is a toad, in their own unique way. So to save tears and long nights spent wallowing in regret or the kind of disappointment that leaves a bad taste in your mouth and frankly your entire body for days on end, maybe people should make an effort to be less polished and more authentic in their interactions when it comes to dating. Or you could just skip the tiresome business, become a hermit like me, and opt for books and cats over loving relationships with real human beings, both of which, I might add, will never judge you or hate you no matter how badly you act.

How INFPs Approach Love


The short answer: We don’t.

Or, at least, I don’t. I can’t speak for all INFPs – every person is different even if they share the same personality type, so perhaps this should be titled “How An INFP Views Love” – but I can safely say that “approach” is not the right word to describe the way I gingerly dodge and avoid the arena of relationships, turning up my nose at the whole business around others and then wistfully gazing over my shoulder at the spectacle when no-one is watching.

The long answer is a little more complicated.

My past is a contributing factor to this caution and fear. When I was a teenager, my father walked out the door without a backward glance, leaving my mother and I without the funds to pay even the rent for the week. To this day, I have not seen him since. At the time, the sense of abandonment I felt was like a howl in my heart I could not express verbally. Even when he was in life my life, he was awfully distant, awfully selfish, and awfully unloving; I remember he used to spend thousands on the perfect sound system yet complain when I needed fees to pay for school excursions. So it only follows that, as he was the first man I tried to love, my opinion of the male species in general is quite low.

Not all men, of course, are as bad as him; lots of men are nice and good and kind; I am not so bitter as that. But in terms of relying on men, on handing over to them my love and trust, as a partner – frankly, I would sooner stick a skillet in my eye. I am fond of likening myself to a woman who carries invisible burns, and now, every time I come close to any “fireplaces”, even if they are not lit, I cringe and step away. This, combined with my extreme desire for love and affection, naturally anxious personality, and high sensitivity, tends to make me view love with the wide-eyed gaze of a gazelle caught in a lion’s sight.

Then there is the small matter of my sense of separateness from humanity. In truth, I do not think there are any glaring differences in myself compared to others, apart from perhaps an increased tendency for introspection. But this introspection, which some might call self-absorption, means I am a highly self-conscious creature, which means in interactions with other people I am overly focused on myself and my own shortcomings, which makes me feel removed, and, well, different. Out of place. An outcast.

Being creative doesn’t help matters, as often what you want to talk about are too strange and random and bizarre to be palatable for most people. For instance, most people do not want to make up as many symbols for Death as they can while waiting in line to borrow books at the library (though I can’t imagine why). What all this boils down to, essentially, is that there are a limited cohort of people in society with whom I can find any common ground with, and feel comfortable with. University campuses are infested with people who talk of the most banal and trivial subjects; I have yet to find that sort of odd, artsy young graduate who is by himself a lot of the time, and seems to see and notice things others do not. Basically, I like unique people, and in society there are not many unique people, mostly selfish or boring or indifferent people. Thus my very nature greatly limits the available romantic candidates. Until I find a man strolling alone through a cemetery in the sunshine, looking thoughtfully at headstone after headstone, deep in philosophical thought, and who is not a serial killer trying to select the best place to bury his victims that night, falling in love is unlikely, if not impossible.

Another complication is my own self-hatred. Because I spend the majority of my life inside my own head, thinking and thinking and thinking, it gives me a lot of time to analyse myself, physically and psychologically, and, truth be told, I do not often like what I find. Self-love is an ongoing battle, every second posing a choice to love myself or to berate myself. On my rare good days, I see myself as a beautiful creature, both inside and out, kind and intelligent and sweet. On my bad days, which is most days, it is hard for me to look in the mirror without feeling visceral surge of disgust; to not loathe my arms, any body hair, my legs, my skin; to not see myself as an a reserved and aloof woman no-one could stand to be in the same room with, let alone love. On the worst days, I am disgusted by my own bodily fluids, disgusted when I pass gas or burp, disgusted by every word that comes out of my mouth and every thought that crosses my mind, am unable to look in the mirror or leave the house, and wish I were a pristine, ethereal creature who was above all humans matters and concerns. Such an unhealthy mental state, need I say, would not be conducive for a good relationship. To love others, you must love and accept yourself – and I am just not there yet, and might not be for a long while and after many hours of therapy.

On top of all this, I am just not an easy person to be around for most people. For one thing, I am very, very introverted. I am most comfortable going through great swathes of my day talking in short bursts, and spending the rest of the time observing the world and the people around me and holing myself up in my room, doing introverted tasks, like studying, reading and writing, for hours on end. This annoys people who like to talk. Even other introverts get a little huffy at my extensive desire for alone time.

And then there are times when I am just plain unpleasant to be around. Yes, I am kind, and caring, and I would never hurt a single creature willingly; but in the privacy of my home, I can be moody and impulsive, wallowing in misery one second and then taken to the heights of ecstasy by a beautiful piece of artwork. If riled, my ability to intuit exactly what would hurt the other person most makes my tongue sharp as a thorn. When my writing is not going well, or when I begin to despair of my literary ambitions coming to fruition, the door is shut, my soul is dark, and anyone who dares come inside my room does so at their own peril. Whoever does end up being my partner will have to be someone strange or crazy enough to want to put up with my mercurial moods, my bouts of self-loathing and depression, and my isolated nature. It’s a tall order, is all I’m saying.

In theory, I am a romantic, but in reality, I would much rather be alone than spend my time around someone I cannot be myself around, doesn’t understand me, and doesn’t support my creative endeavors. With the right person, I will appear bright, sensitive, self-aware, creative and talented. All the wrong person will see is a moody and immature woman who holes herself up in her room for long hours and possesses the irritating tendency to gush over the beauty of a dead insect, a rusted tap, a flower poking its way through the footpath. I need to find (or stumble, more like; “find” suggests one is actively searching) someone whose weirdness interlocks with mine, just like everyone else, and until then, I will file away Love to the back of my drawers, to be taken out some other day, and leave the business of dating to others.

A Story Of A Girl & A Boy


I would like to be the girl who meets you on the corner of the street, I think, just by the red Post Office Box, two people colliding on their way to work, trying to move around the other but ending up blocking the other’s path with each attempt, smiling in spite of ourselves.

But of course eventually our feet would find their way past the other – nothing stays together forever – but as we walk off, a little breathless, in opposite directions, both our hearts would be lit by a secret glow to smoulder quietly through our day.

Later on, as evening draws close, the sky deepening, a faint wash of yellow spilling out across the horizon, when my heart has already forgotten you and is busily trying to slough off the day’s debris, I will visit a bookshop, just down the street from my apartment, because being around books, which are like bits of souls left behind by their authors, always make me feel less alone.

You will be there, too, just by coincidence, browsing the shelves – but I won’t notice you, not at first, mired as I am in my melancholy. You will see me, however, and recognise me, glancing back down at the blurb of the book in your hand without really seeing the words. You will replace the book on the shelf then take down another, blindly, glancing back over at me as you do so, unsure and uncertain.

Meanwhile, true to my personality, I will be oblivious to my surroundings, flipping through book after book with a calm ferocity, unaware that what might truly ease my heart stands only a few feet away. I will look sad, and you will see that I look sad, and feel sad, too. Many things will be roiling inside my mind (for I am not really seeing the words, either): fears of failure, the jealousy I feel towards my contemporaries who have carved out writing careers and now have families of their own, terrified that perhaps both conjugal and creative bliss shall be denied me in this lifetime due to my own inadequacy or stupidity or ugliness or lack of talent or discipline or lack of something. Perhaps, as I sink deeper into these thoughts, the world will a blur a little, hot tears filling my eyes, and my hand will shake so hard the book will fall from my grip.

Two outcomes can then branch out from what happens in the next moment: either I wipe my eyes, scolding myself, and pick up the book and put it back on the shelf and leave the store, or you pick it up and hand it to me without a word because no words are needed. In real life, cynicism impels me to believe the former would occur; you, perhaps, would be too crippled by a fear of rejection and your own sense of inadequacy to do anything, watching helplessly as I leave the store, telling yourself probably nothing would have come of it, anyway. But I am in sore need of some delight in my life right now, so let us pretend that it is latter that occurs. I will look up, surprised, blinking through the wet haze as I reach for the book, then blinking again, in quick succession, this time in recognition.

“Oh, thank you,” I would say, my voice full of shock, too taken aback at seeing you again so soon that I will not have time to re-assemble the false, affable persona I shed after leaving work. Before you I would stand, very sad and lonely and broken, all the cracks showing, in all likelihood unable to meet your gaze from shame.

If it were some sentimental moment in a romantic movie, you’d probably lift your hand up to my face and wipe away a year with your finger. I think I would hate you if you did that. I hate anything sentimental, even though I am a desperately romantic creature myself, which is perhaps why I do not like myself very much. There is a disconnect between my love and my hatred; the two emotions mixed up where they should not be mixed up, which, you, if you have ever cooked anything, will know always leaves a bad taste in one’s mouth. Instead, you will just look down at the book I am holding, and say, “I like that author’s work. Have you read anything else by him?”, in so casual and calm a way that I will fall in love with you almost instantly.

A nice dinner at a cafe, under amber lighting, would be next on the agenda if this were a romantic movie, the two of us discovering all the myriad things we have in common, falling deeper and deeper in love by the second as we sip our cappuccinos. But that is, again, too sentimental for my tastes. Too easy. I would rather have us leaving the book store together, empty-handed, awkwardly trying to build up a conversation as we walk down the street with a good amount of space between us. Where do you live? Oh, just down the street…what about you? Oh, yes, just across the road from here. Ah, so now we know then how close our homes are, just a hop, skip and jump away, and the knowledge will hang between us strangely heavy, as all unspoken knowledge, good or bad, does.

It is a very long walk home. There are gaps in the conversation, silences during which I act nonchalant, observing the nightlife swirling around me in pulses and blips of coloured light, even as my heart tosses like an alarmed horse. Soon we will fall back on the default topic people use to find common ground – work – and you will tell me you work at this company, doing this for them, and I will tell you that I work at this company, doing that for them.

But after a while, digging deeper, I will find out you are in fact trying to start a business on the side, selling artwork you paint, and you will find out that I am a writer, published sporadically here and there, but yet to hit my big break. We will commiserate on the impossibility of turning your passion into your job in this society, not voicing the true fear, that perhaps we are not good enough to truly succeed at our passions. At this point the air between us will be weighted, a canvas roof caving in with its load of rainwater accumulated overnight.

As my apartment is closer than yours, we will stop at it first. I will force a smile onto my lips, knowing you know it to be forced, and spit out a cheery “Goodbye! Have a good night!”, my heart still sad but safely hidden so it can be sad all on its lonesome, and you will politely return the farewell. And we will part, once again walking in opposite directions, me up the steps into my empty apartment, you a lonely figure crossing the road, this time each of our hearts heavy as stones inside our chests.

It is very likely, if this were a real story, that that would be the end of it. For you see, there is always an end to the magic, and it makes no difference whether it comes before you meet and kiss and move in together, or afterwards, when you are married and have children and are old and have long stopped sleeping in the same bed. This is because there was no magic in the first place; we all made it up, in our heads, working in tandem to build an intricate and beautiful illusion. Everyone eventually finds out, once they have lived long enough, that life is but a never-ending sense of dissatisfaction. Each time we think we have found something to make us whole, it falls into the void within us and disappears, some faster or slower than others, whereupon we try, never learning, to find something else to fill it, rinse, wash and repeat, until the true end, death.

Far better would it have been if we had met each other at the corner marked by the red Post Office Box then never saw the other again. That way, at least a little of that magic would have been preserved as a sweet memory, to be taken out during lonely hours and turned over this way and that, embellished here and there, like a present we cannot open and can only wonder at what it holds. It is hard to say who feels the greater misery, the one who can never open the present, or the one who opens the present and thus dispels the magic, the sense of possibility; all I know is that we must be grateful for whatever gifts come our way, and keep a great deal of wrapping paper in our drawers for others.

But this is not real, I am writing this alone in my room as the sun sets outside the window, so let us pretend that we do meet again, years from now, a successful artist and an established writer, on a plane or in a grocery store or at a resort, this time, as we catch the other’s eye, smiling at each other in way that feels like both an end and a beginning.

The Types Of Men An INFP Woman Might Marry

couple marriage

**To get INFP and general life advice, or Skype counselling conversations, or to choose a blog topic, click HERE or the link:

Yes, yes, I know, O, maiden, thou does not need a man to complete thy life – and it seems a little ironic, to say the least, to write this after recently taking a vow of celibacy – but just because I have decided not to get into any relationships doesn’t mean I can’t speculate on the various types of people who might be suitable romantic candidates, which I shall detail in this post, and whom, I might add, are, as of yet, entirely the products of my imagination. Which accounts for the vow of celibacy, I suppose.

For those of you idealistic, sensitive men out there, and my heart does go out to you for your continued survival in a conformist society that tries to mold men into masculine archetypes – please feel free to change the gender of the following types of individuals to that of Female, or Male, depending on your preferences.

The Sensitive Artist

Marrying the Sensitive Artist, with his deep, soulful eyes and melancholy outlook on life, is sure to be rewarding – especially if he lives in a dingy attic that overlooks other rooftops in a romantic city, like, say, Paris.

The two of you can spend twilight evenings walking down the boulevards, past quaint cafes with green awnings and golden lights flickering behind the windows, other strolling couples, the odd bicycle rider passing by in a tinkle of bells, having deep, philosophical conversations.

Back at his “studio”, the prints cluttering the walls and the floor resembling multi-coloured puked-up guts can offer plenty of fodder for further philosophical thought – as an INFP, you are sure to discover the meaning of life in a splotch of red and green paint, or uncover a fantastical scene in something that looks like a dog’s breakfast after it has been partly digested. Your rapture at his artistic talent will satisfy him greatly.

In return, he will listen to your deepest desires and dreams, understand the despair you feel towards life and the world, and refer to you as his “Muse”, which you will brush off with an embarrassed air, smiling shyly, but secretly feel very pleased about. However, be prepared to pay for meals and other necessities while with him, and, when the man racks up hundreds of dollars in debt buying new easels and paint tubes, remain uncomplaining as you scrawl your signature onto the bill handed to you by the delivery man at the door.

Who knows: Through your experience with the Sensitive Artist, perhaps you will learn something new: that your INFP nonchalance towards money was wrong, and that no matter how “deep” a partner is, sometimes the depths of his pockets is a little more important.

The Good, Caring, Responsible Man

What INFPs need most of all from other people, and which they very rarely receive, is kindness; and this man is bound to provide this scarce resource in abundance.

He will care for you, just as if you were his own flesh and blood, treating you as the fragile, little creature you are: Helping you with real-world tasks, like filing for a savings account at the bank or getting your car registered; comforting you in the middle of the night when you start crying remembering something horrible you said to someone last year; and he will never berate you for being “too sensitive”, or “too quiet.”

No matter what happens to you in the outside world you can have the comfort of always returning to someone who will tell you that he loves you, and cooks you nice, warm meals to show you that he cares. Unfortunately, though he will be smart enough to work as a system’s manager at his accounting firm, chances are he will not possess a drop of imagination, and bore you to bits. In which case, you will have to decide which is more important: having your own equivalent of a talking pillow to soothe you after being battered by the vagaries of life, or someone you can intellectually connect with.

Intellectual stimulation is simple to obtain on your own, in the form of books and, well, more books, so perhaps it would be nice just to settle for someone who cares. Then again, books are fine company on their own, and, unlike this particular breed of the male species, never become too smothering.

The Executive

The Executive is assertive, confident, and bold – in other words, the ENTJ Myer-Briggs Personality type, who values rules, systems, actions and logic, and is the antithesis of the INFP personality type.

Isabel, creator of the Myer-Briggs Personality Type Test, however, has proclaimed the Executive to be the most compatible with the Dreamers. Though I have yet to completely puzzle out her reasoning – the two personalities could not be any more different – nevertheless, it does not require too great a leap of the imagination to envision the Executive being charmed by the INFP’s air of mysterious shyness, and the INFP attracted to the Executive’s boldness and social ease. After all, we often admire what we lack in ourselves, and opposites, as they say, do attract.

In this relationship, regardless of what gender you are, who the dominant partner is clearly defined. You will always have someone to tug you down from the clouds back to earth  with his rational thought processes, thereby helping you to take action rather than daydream your life away; but be prepared, as he is a predominantly logical thinking, to sometimes have your feelings trampled over, and to pick up your battered heart from the floor at the end of a long day.  On the other hand, expect good conversations, as both of you, being intuitive, will probably enjoying imagining the future together, and developing long-term plans.  You will also not have to worry about having your bank account drained, as this type of man is often quite successful in the career, usually opting to work in lucrative fields such as business.

Ultimately, he will be appear powerful and dynamic – captivating, even – but this relationship is liable to go down in flames unless either he grows a little more sensitive to your feelings, or you grow a little tougher in order to withstand his constructive criticism. Still, it can be the basis for a good partnership, and you may even find yourself peeping a little more out of your shell due to his influence, growing a tougher exoskeleton – but, if I were you, I’d stick with the books for less heartache in the long run.

The Quiet Writer

For those INFPs out there who are fond of writing themselves and are looking into it as a career, the Quiet Writer has the ability to offer the perfect partnership – it will be practically like dating yourself! A shared love of literature will be the glue that binds the two of you together, and dates will probably consist of visits to the bookshop or the library, tottering back to the car with tiny towers of novels balanced in your respective arms.

The rest of your time together will probably be spent sitting together or in separate rooms writing or reading, with the occasional visit to the other’s room or lifting of eyes from the page, to comment on what one has read, or written, and ask for additional input regarding it. Birthday presents will be books, and more books, and for the two of you, the idea of a good evening is to sit, side-by-side, at the kitchen table, upon which lies an open dictionary, and giggle over the strange words that exist in the English Language – erinaceous, for instance, which means to resemble a hedgehog. The next morning, you will say to the Quiet Writer, as he awakens with scruffy bed-hair beside you, “My darling, you look most erinaceous,” and the two of you will burst into laughter again. By all accounts it sounds like the perfect relationship, but there is always the chance, the two of you being equally retiring and antisocial, for the relationship to dwindle away into something that more resembles two roommates, sharing a living space, than  anything romantic or loving. But, you know, at least you’ll have plenty of books.

I hope this selection of potential mates has given you some food for thought. Do not forget that dating is not confined to Myer-Briggs Personality Types, and that any personality type can fall in love with any personality type, as each of us are too complex and nuanced to be encapsulated by four mere letters.

I, however, in the process of writing it,  certainly came to some conclusions of my own – namely, that, well, as long as I have books, there is very little else I need; but, we all desire companionship, sooner or later, so it’s best to keep an open mind regarding such things, even if having a partner, though it might be an evolutionary imperative, is not exactly a psychological necessity. This should not rule out the possibility of one enjoying having someone warm to curl up against at night, when your heart is too cold, and the world is too big.

But, then again, you could just get a cat for that – much less maintenance.