On Romantic Scenarios

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To put it nicely, I am a hopeless romantic. To put it rudely, I am a desperate, young woman, who needs romance they way some people need their next hit of nicotine.

And since, added to this pile of a mess that I am, I am also an inveterate daydreamer, quite a few nice romantic scenarios cross my mind on a daily basis, and most of them are too good not to share. For instance, today, the romantic scenario popped into my head, perfect for any rom-com or movie if anyone of you out there are interested in writing and directing one, of a girl who is revived using CPR by a handsome savior, who then wakes up in hospital with said handsome savior sitting by her bed, concerned for her well-being, and enraptured by her beauty, rather like a twist of the Sleeping Beauty fairytale. Wonderful, isn’t it? As I imagined it, I put myself in the place of the woman, and the entire thing was so delicious and romantic, I actually smiled in real life, right in the middle of the First Aid class. Talk about embarrassing.

Oh. And here’s another one. A young woman goes wandering in the forest, looking for her grandmother (okay, I might be basing them all off of fairytales in this post, but, you know me, I love stuff like this, where there’s a pattern to it and it’s all Disney-like). To her surprise, instead of her grandmother, she encounters an evil, bad wolf, and only with the help of the handsome huntress, who slays the wolf, saves her grandmother, and kisses her in the end, is the young woman able to escape the forest, free and unharmed. Okay, perhaps that one ran a little too close to the fairytale. Oh goodness, my fingers are flying across the page—I made the mistake of buying and drinking some Coca-Cola today, forgetting it contains caffeine, and now my insides are all jazzed up.

Come on, I know there are some more inside of me. I spend a good fifty-percent of my time daydreaming, so there’s plenty of juicy material to be had. Let’s see. Oh! If we’re going to run with the fairytale theme here, we might as well go with it. Cinderella. A poor, penniless young woman (me), somehow manages to meet a rich, handsome man, who somehow falls in love with her—together, they while away their time riding private jets and visiting hotels, and eventually, she convinces him to spend most of his fortune on helping the poor and the world’s abandoned children, and on animal cruelty, because, after all, Cinderella is meant to have a kind heart. That one is a favourite of mine, if only for the ending—and the fact that I’ve certainly never stayed at a luxury hotel before.

Beauty and the Beast. Well, to be honest, there’s nothing to work with here, because I can’t imagine a modern re-telling without some serious plastic surgery to take place, and I certainly would find it rather strange to fall in love with someone only after they’d had their face artificially altered. Let’s find another one. Usually I’m absolutely boiling with romantic daydreams. I’m lost, alone and sobbing, trying to escape a terrible, arranged marriage, to a cruel and lewd man. In order to escape, I traverse, on a suicidal mission, on a boat into the darkest areas of the nearby sea, ready to float away into oblivion, only for my boat to rock up on an island where a young, handsome stranger has been living, keeping a deep, dark secret, which I must unlock if I am to escape with him from the island together.

Then there’s the book I’m writing at the moment, called The Woodlands, which is basically, in a nutshell, and which I will eventually type up and post on Wattpad, is about a romance between a young woman and one of the fae, an otherworldly young man with vivid green eyes. But there are so many more inside of me—if I could just turn the right tap, I’m sure all of them will come gushing right out. Imagine if there was a young man, wounded and alone after a battle, who stumbles alone to my cottage—okay, I might have read a story like this somewhere, but still, nevermind, how romantic!—and, obviously, I heal him, and he happens to be drop-dead gorgeous, and after bringing him back to life, with my tender and loving hands, he awakens and falls completely and utterly in love with me! How convenient! Daydreams often are.

Or, if we go in a more realistic direction, a young man stumbles across my blog or reads one of my books, and happens to fall in love with me, and we somehow reach out to one another and start talking online and then we meet up in real life and we fall in love and get married and have kids and live happily ever after.

The dark truth is, most likely, most probably, unless some Divine intervention takes place—and I still don’t know yet if it will—nothing particularly wonderful and romantic will ever happen to me. I have lived enough years on this planet to know that real life and fantasies almost never match. Red Riding Hood might be saved by the wolf, but that doesn’t mean the hunter will fall in love with her—most likely he’s already married, and has got kids of his own. In real life, rich people tend to fall in love with other beautiful rich people; people do get plastic surgery in order to make themselves more attractive in the dating market, especially in Asian countries; and I don’t have any nursing or medical abilities whatsoever, and would, in reality, just stand by and watch as some handsome young man fell in love with some capable, beautiful young nurse. Everyday of my life, I watch other couples happy together, I see families, I see husbands and wives, girlfriends and boyfriends, and inside, I heave a little sigh, because it might never happen to me, this business of falling in love, not in this dark, dreary world they call reality.

In the real world, there are no fairytales. There are only nightmares. So far, at least. My life is devoid of anything romantic whatsoever—even my taste of it, when I ventured into the world of dating for a little while, was bitter and uncomfortable, because the kiss I shared with the man was one of the worst experiences of my life. It was enough to make me wonder if I was, in fact, lesbian (I’m not, just to clarify).

So, handsome, young men, looking for odd, kind and creative daydreamers, where are you? Are you actually out there? Do you really exist? Maybe you are reading these words right now, in which case, call me, my number is — just kidding, I wouldn’t make my number public on the internet. Either way, if you are reading these words right now, just know there is someone out there who yearns for you just as much as you probably yearn for me, and I know this is but a shout in the darkness, an echo, but maybe one day we’ll meet, in real life, and maybe the person behind these words will be close enough to touch and maybe we’ll love each other and everything will be all peachy and fine.

And then again, maybe not.

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In The Rain

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I wish I was someone dazzling, someone people marvelled over.

 

Stunningly beautiful, sharp-witted, elegant, gorgeous in any dress, with smooth, tanned skin and shapely legs, with a handsome man by my side who has the ability to make my knees weak with a kiss.

 

I wish I was the popular girl, dark-haired and beautiful, strutting down the aisles of the school like I owned the place, grabbing boys by their ties and kissing them behind lockers.

 

I wish I was brave, fearless, wild, someone so lovely and fierce only a hunter would fall in love with me, and a handsome one at that.

 

I wish I was a princess out of a fairytale, who sees her prince from afar, while seated in the bevelled window of her tower.

 

I wish I was a gorgeous lady, going out clubbing every single night, tossing back drinks like candy, and getting men to eat out of the palm of her hand.

 

I wish I was a flapper’s girl, with flirtatious red lips, ready to enchant any man that comes my way. I wish I was anybody, but me.

 

No, that’s not true. I love being me, and it has taken me a long time to reach this point. I love myself. I just wish for something more exciting, and sensual, to enter my life; it’s something every young woman with a mind full of daydreams wishes for, secretly yearns for, even if on a subconscious level. Why do I love being me? I love how deeply I think about things. I love my own insight. I love my own beauty, I love my face, with its relatively big eyes, rather large nose and big lips. I love my body, even where the fat rolls up around my waist. Heck, I even liked the cheese-flavoured popcorn and prawn chips I ate today, as unromantic and ordinary that might be.

 

The day will come when all my romantic fantasies come true. Actually, I don’t know if they ever will, but I hope they do, and I have a feeling they will come true, so, for the purpose of this piece of writing, yes, it will all happen to me. Until then, I have to find a way to live with myself. Lately, I’ve been working on being a kinder and less vain, self-absorbed person. Writing a blog post about yourself might not be the best way to do this, you might think, but, in actual fact, while being understood is one of the reasons I write this blog, I also want to make others feel less alone and comforted through my words. If I can do that, I honestly think I can die happy. If there is someone out there who religiously checks up on my blog, and hangs on my every word, and is brought to tears because they resonate so strongly with my words—then, I think I have achieved what I wanted to achieve here.

 

Let’s see. What should it be like? The perfect romantic moment. Indulge with me for a moment. Perhaps it will be with a handsome man, underneath the boughs of a tree. No. It doesn’t have any sparkle to it. Maybe he should crawl in through the window of my bedroom, like Edward the vampire, and surprise me with sweet-smelling kisses! I’m joking; that would be terrifying. No. Let’s think about this properly. On a boat, on a lake. We’re getting closer. I just paused for a long moment to think. In the rain.

 

 

In the rain.

 

Perfect.

 

 

Goodnight.

 

Heartbroken

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The problem is, I have the ability to love anyone—except for murderers, rapists, and other terrible people. Everyone can be adorable in some way, cute in some way, interesting in some way. I am kind. Loving. I say this with as much honesty as possible. Too bad, this proved, when it came to dating, to my ultimate downfall.

Because I couldn’t differentiate between the love I feel for everyone, and the kind of love one feels for one’s romantic partner.

I’d been seeing this man for a couple of days. He was Australian-Korean. He wasn’t the most handsome guy, and I knew I wasn’t completely attracted to him. But he was sweet beyond comparison. When we walked, he would lightly touch my waist, guiding my forwards through the throng. He would touch and stroke my hand. He would kiss me on my cheek, on my hand. Everything was fine, perfect, loving, sweet. He told I was sweet, I was gorgeous, a woman so lovely it was a wonder some other man hadn’t snatched me up yet. He paid for all our meals. He carried my bags.

We talked about everything. What we wanted to name our children. Getting married. Children, marriage, love, religion, skies and stardust and the darkness that lingers inside of ourselves. Nearly nothing was off-limits. Even grown-up topics, like discussions about pornography and the frequency with which men indulged in it, we discussed. Grown-up stuff.

Everything was perfect. I was set on marrying him.

And then he kissed me.

To say it was awful would be an understatement. It was like being smooched by a wet marshmallow, except the marshmallow was badly moist and tasteless. I didn’t feel anything. No attraction, no chemistry, nothing sexual at all—just plain, well, aversion. And just like that, my dreams evaporated like steam.

I didn’t know how to break it to him afterwards, but I hugged him and told him the truth. I feel no sexual attraction for you. I told him the truth. And in the last word in person towards me, “Bye,” I heard the finality in his statement.

I feel close to crying. The disappointment is destroying me from the inside. I thought I had found “the one”. I thought all those stupid love songs and stories were going to make sense, were even starting to make sense. But it was all an illusion. Now I’m lost and confused. Heartbroken. I loved him, as a friend, as a brother, as a lover—but not enough to ever kiss him again, or sleep with him, or do anything with him a couple are meant to do together, eventually, which are crucial and important to a relationship. I couldn’t fathom it. I fear too many of those kisses would make my stomach roil. If he ever read this, and I doubt he ever will, he would be more heartbroken than he already is. He asked me never to call him or text him again, because he couldn’t bear to see me with another man and to see me anymore when I couldn’t be his. He is drop-dead gorgeous when it comes to wooing and romancing, everything I could have hoped for in a man—but that wasn’t enough.

I’m listening to My Heart’s A Stereo and grinding my teeth. I hate this. I really do. I feel so lonely, like I’m destined for spinsterhood. I want someone quite badly, and it’s awful that I don’t feel complete without a significant other. And what constitutes a significant other? What if his kisses make my head swim, but he treats me like garbage? Would that be enough? Should I search for good kisses and good romance, do I believe a person such as that exists right now? The answer is, no, not yet, I don’t.

I suppose I will get over this eventually. More quickly than he will perhaps get over me. But I’m heartbroken, all the same, and as he fades out of my life like a lovely firework, I’ll crawl into bed, curl up like a lonely, little girl, and dream of princes and princesses.

The Facets of Love

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The facets of love. What is love? Romantic love, exactly?

That’s something I’ve been exploring, as I’ve grown older and matured into a young woman, no longer a little girl who had playground crushes on good-looking boys and pined after them from afar. I think love starts off as friendship; you begin as friends, who care about each other, and like aspects of the other person. Then, slowly, attractions of the more sensual kind begin to creep in, and slowly, romantic love blooms and blossoms, like red ink through water.

But there’s a lot more to it than that. There’s chemistry, too; I mean, two people just somehow get along, there’s an intangible feeling in the air between them when they are together, something sweet and wonderful. Chemistry is something that cannot be faked: it’s either there, or it isn’t.
Kindness is also something I find very attractive. I don’t think I could ever love a man who wasn’t kind. That’s just me. I’m sure there are plenty of cold and cruel people in this world, who find solace in the embrace of other cold and cruel people. And likewise, kind and loving people only find warmth in the arms of those who are kind and loving in turn.

Love is such a human thing, so infinitely complex and multi-faceted. There are so many different kinds of love, but for the purposes of this article, I’m only going to focus on the romantic kind, the one that occurs between a man and a woman, or a woman and a woman, or a man and a man. Since I’ve begun dating, I’ve felt as though my psyche has opened like a flower. I couldn’t believe that, for this long, I’d been missing out on such a fundamental part of what it means to be human.
Obviously, I’d had crushes on men, or teenage boys, a fair amount of them. Most of them were dashingly good-looking, far beyond my league—or so I thought—and, in the end, because of my social anxiety and awkwardness in my youth, ultimately spurned me.

I listened to Taylor Swift songs for so long, without really relating to any of them, the stories of heartbreak and betrayal, even though I adored the lyrics and the tunes, and, as a matter of fact, I still don’t entirely relate to them. I’ve only dated, not had a proper boyfriend, and definitely haven’t gone through the heartbreak of a proper break-up, which, cross my fingers and wish on the stars, I hope I never do, because it would kind of be crushingly-disappointing.

I feel as though I understand men a little more. Not entirely—I don’t think any woman can ever completely imagine what it’s like to be a man. But there is something about masculinity that is appealing. I suppose that’s why I’m considered “straight”. But men like to feel dominant, in certain ways, something which I’ve begun to learn, and they can be kind and caring, in certain ways, too. You just have to find the right person.

Love stories still don’t entirely make sense to me. Compared to my experiences with love, they are more like roaring bonfires, while mine are like the warmth of a heater, gentle and slow. Or maybe even a candle, although a candle is rather weak in flame and fire. Stories about love, like Romeo and Juliet, are passionate, though, and I am beginning to understand, as I grow to date and understand dating, that there is the potential inside myself for a love like that, as obsessive and deep, and all-consuming, although most of what Romeo and Juliet experienced might have been lust.

I’m still shy about talking about these things. I’m unfamiliar with it. It’s new territory. I feel as though I’ve grown as a person, in a matter of a week or two, just because I’ve started exploring romantic love. It’s exhilarating, but also a little scary. I don’t know how to be me sometimes. I try so hard to be genuine I wonder if it is actually coming out forced or fake. I don’t know if someone could actually accept the real me, with all of its flaws and burdens.

But isn’t that what love is all about?

A Lost Princess

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Are princesses meant to be like this? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I know everything there is to know about princesses. I know that we are meant to find love, very soon, and very quickly, because that’s just what princesses do. I know that we are shy and demure, but filled with a shining light of our own. I know that our prince is waiting for us, just around the corner, even if we have to kiss a lot of frogs to find them.

But are we meant to be like this? So stumbling, so unsure? Surely I can’t be the only princess around who feels this way. Do you? What do you mean, you’re not a princess? Look at you. You’ve got the dress, the tiara, the—costume? What? As in, for a play? You mean you’re only pretending to be a princess? Then who are you? What is your life like?

It isn’t easy? You have to—to WORK? Surely not! A beautiful, lovely lady like you should spend her time sitting in an ivory tower, waiting for her prince to come along. Who would pay the bills? Bills? What on earth are bills? Don’t you—isn’t your father—oh, to hell with it, you mean he isn’t the king? He isn’t anything? That what is he? Dead? Oh. Oh dear. I’m sorry. Oh, not dead, he’s just not with you anymore. Then where is he? With another—with someone—oh my. You’re life is tragic, indeed. It is almost as if you’ve been cursed. What do you mean, that’s not the worst of it? What! There’s a chance you might never find your prince? Are the words issuing from your mouth right now the truth? How can you possibly now find your prince? That’s like the sun not rising tomorrow!

Listen, I’ve been through this kind of thing before. People think princesses have not an ounce of sense in their head, and spend their days beautifying themselves and going to grand parties. Well, that’s not true. I’m well-versed in The History of Princesses, The Geography of Kingdoms, the study of various languages, including Bullfrog, and many more, and my opinion is—you are pulling my leg, young lady! This surely cannot be your life. A beautiful lady such as yourself deserves a better fate. Come, come with me, to my kingdom. You shall be given gowns and pearls to wear, and you will find your prince. Come with—with—oh dear, I was sure there was a doorway here just a minute ago. Where did it go? What did you say? Portal? What’s a portal? What do you mean, the way back is gone? Where am I, exactly? What on earth is Washington, I’ve never heard of such a kingdom before. Let me ask my Geography teacher, she’ll know. I’m her brightest student, I’ll have you know. Now, if I could just get back…Listen, dear, are there are princes in your world? Fairy godmothers? Wishes and curses? Do you have any wishing wells? Well, how else do you get the things you want? Through TEKNOLEGEE? What kind of magic is teknolegee?

You know, all this bother is really rather putting me out. I think I need a good lie-down. I don’t suppose you happen to have a bed soft enough for a princess’s skin? What was that? The Princess and the Pea? A story?? Silly child, that was my cousin. Now, if you could just wave that magic wand of yours and use some teknolegee to whisk me back to me own kingdom, that would be much appreciated. I don’t believe it. You’re eating your wand. A preztel stick? What’s a pretzel stick? How old are you? Twelve? Does your kingdom have a king and queen, and how do I reach them and speak to them? Tell them it’s urgent, will you. I appear to have been stranded in a kingdom far from my own, due to witchcraft, and I intend to get back before my prince comes. Who is Donald Trump?

An INFP’s Fake Boyfriend

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What? Oh. Erm. Suuure. I have a boyfriend. His name is—is Tim. Tim…um. Tim Um. Yes. Strange last name, I suppose, but that shouldn’t be a deal breaker now, should it?

What does he do? Oh. He does lots of things. Yes. Lots. Erm. He works as a plumber. Yes. Likes to get into the guts of plumbing, he does, fix things up. You know what that’s like, when the urge comes. And he loves to go fishing on the weekends.

See, Tim and I, we’ve been dating for over a year now, only I never told you, because I was afraid—I mean, I am afraid, that he is a little on the shy side. Yes, you wouldn’t expect it, not from a great, big burly plumber, but he’s rather timid, really, which is why I like him, I suppose. We met at a fish shop. Yes. I was just standing in line, minding my own business, thinking about whether I should get tomato sauce with my chips, when suddenly, he came forward, and asked me if I had any change. And I told him I didn’t, of course, because I was so flustered and he was a stranger, but then he went on to say that he didn’t really need any change, he just needed an excuse to talk to the beautiful lady in front of him in line. Yes! It was love at first sight, of course, and terribly romantic.

As for our future, we’ve got it all laid out. We’re going to buy a small Victorian house somewhere in the southern suburbs of Australia, and we’re going to have two kids, one boy, one girl. His personality? Oh, he has a wonderful personality of course, absolutely perfect. He’s very mild-mannered, never shouts, is never aggressive, if you know what I mean, and he loves poetry, and he loves to draw and write, and dance. It really is quite perfect.

You know, he’s taking me on a date to Paris this year. Yep, Paris. Plumbers might do dirty work, but they earn quite enough to live by, and together, we’re going to see the Eiffel tower, enjoy the sights, drink hot chocolate in front of this little cafes, and buy baguettes in those paper bags and ride on bicycles with the baguettes in the baskets and nibble on cheese just like real French people. It will be absolutely marvellous. Janice and John. That’s what we’re going to name our kids. Yes. No, absolutely not, wouldn’t dream of it—they’ll get a wholesome education, the both of them, at a nice private school. Yes. Good-looking? My dear, good-looking doesn’t even cover it. He’s got dark hair, beautiful dark eyes, very strong, too, because of all the plumbing he does, and when he smiles, the edges of his eyes crinkle just so, which makes him suddenly look very shy and boyish. He’s simply marvellous and perfect, John. Oh! Silly me! I meant Tim. Yes. Tim is perfect. Little ol’ Timothy. My Timothy. All mine.

And I haven’t even told you about the gift he got me last summer. It was a seashell ring. It was absolutely gorgeous. I said to him, I said, “I don’t want anything flashy, you understand, all those sparkly rocks are just a big waste of money” so he ended up getting me a seashell ring! It’s a tiny little seashell, attached to a silver band, and absolutely gorgeous. I left it at home, so you can’t see it, but let me tell you, it was quite the thoughtful gift. As for our deep, long conversations together—why, they get deeper than you would believe. Since he is a poet—oh, well, poetry is his hobby, you see, not his actual job, he’s a plumber by day, poet by night—he thinks very deeply about things, and there’s so much he knows, so much wisdom and light and laughter and shiny, pearlescent—

When can you meet him?

Oh.

Short Love Story

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“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

 

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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.

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I’m Not Evil…I Think.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.