Cuteness cures

 Even now, years after the fact of my pathetic teenage unraveling, I still get those tight feelings in my chest and those urges that say 'cut, cut, cut'. As if I never progressed passed my adolescence. As if all I'm destined to be is a this. Here. Now. This.

Feelings, right? I'm governed by them. Held sway by their power. The earth is moving under my feet and the sky is tumbling down and I just can't tame these goddamn feelings. Negative, dark, twisted, and unexplainable emotions that sway me like young bamboo caught in a hurricane  Very lame, I know. I'm but a sad-sack excuse for my species, a testament to the flawed theory of our supposedly superior - so-said cerebral - evolution, a sad girl cliche ala Tumblr 2014. Is it hormones or a congenital defect? Is it written somewhere on my mitochondrial DNA that I, like my mother and hers before her, am doomed to routinely self-destruct and cry like a bitch in the shower? Whatever. Basically, I still get sad sometimes. Boo hoo. What a revelation.

Thankfully, the great adventure of life provides easy, simple distractions. Despite the many terrible traits I inherited in the genetic lottery, I won a few hands and scored some cards that make these distractions easier to partake in. I'm pretty. Whatecer. Taking advantage of the symmetry and frame I was given, I dive deep into the worldly pleasures of boys, boys, boys. Boys, at least, are easier for me to comprehend. Boy, at least, are explicable. They're puzzles I know how to solve. Games I know the cheat codes to.

Of course, there's a new one. There's always a new one.  This is why we're hear. 

Unexpected but easy. 

Cosmic karma.

The end of the fucking world. 

So where does this one fit in to the tapestry of my love's and losses, wins and big L's? I'm not sure yet. 

Here I come, this freight train, stumbling through the bramble and writing just because I feel enamoured 

Maybe it's the rush. Do I live for the chase? Or the letdown that inevitably follows me winning them over then losing interest?

Maybe I am, like my psyche tells me, just a raging bitch with an unquenchable thirst for dick and more, more, more.

Maybe I'm a romantic.

Maybe I'm a user.

Maybe I'm a succubus born on this earth to suck men dry.

Maybe I'm just clinically depressed and trying to explain why I like sex so much.

But maybe, just maybe, this is the shot that will land true. Maybe this is the boy who will fuck away my problems. At worst, we'll both score some pleasant memories to revisit in summers yet to come. At best, maybe I'll be cured, be happy. Be best, thanks to some transformative care and love - haha - or whatever they call it, I'll be cured. 

If not, at least I have another name to pin to my lapel and another adventure to write home about.