Maybe it's the elevated heart rate that gets us going, the feeling of "what's gonna happen, what's gonna happen, what's gonna happen?" Because I can not make a good relationship decision to save my life (I am convinced I am going to die at the hands of a lover choking me to death for saying "Would. You. Just. DECIDE!" for the last and final time that broke the man's already tenuous at best grip on sanity [if you doubt me or my taste in men, please refer back to my track record]), I doom myself to routinely playing Russian Relationship Roulette, especially during early morning drunken hours. Most women can blame it on the same thing: It was 1/4th honest emotion, 1/4th Mr. Boston Virgin Islands white rum, and a full 1/2 a desire to know what would happen. Curiosity killed the cat-- it's also been known to kill the mood. I'll admit to it-- sometimes, women can be known to test something out just to see if they'll get burned or not. Que diabolical snickering, and the ringmaster's entrance. Things are about to get hot.
There is a sick fascination with the things in our lives that cannot be changed-- things out of our control, things we wish weren't quite so cut-and-dried, things that we really think would be perfect a different way. Playing with proverbial (or tangible) fire is one of the ways that we know we can spice up what is our usual 9-to-5. How many times have you caught yourself engaging in behavior that you know, deep down, is wrong and petty and base and destructive, just because you can? How many times have you bemoaned certain character traits or situations in life, while secretly getting off on them because, hey, isn't life more interesting when you're pretty damn sure it's about to fall down on your head at any given second? This is why, for better or for worse, I can't really point fingers, make accusations, or demand certain things from other people. Despite being ravenously curious about most things in life and a consummate player of fire myself, I have been known to occasionally (often) take the ostrich approach to my own life. Not only do I like to bury my head and pretend things aren't happening, but I also procrastinate like I get paid full-time with benefits for it. At the moment, I am:
-Putting off calling my landlord to inquire as to if I get a cut on June's rent as I can't move in nearly 10 days into the month due to building issues (I hate asking monetary-relevant questions; maybe a hold-over from a middle-class family, but it just seems so rude);
-Deciding if I should/want/will make any changes to what could be called both my stagnant and frenetic love-life (a game I like to call, "Have I Finally Had Enough, Is It Time To Move On, Or Am I A Helpless Masochistic Idiot?");
-Going to the barn to ride my sadly neglected pony because, after crossing the New York state border and walking through the front door of the barn, I swear a rift in the space/time continuum opens up, and you NEVER get out of there by the time you want to, too pulled in by girl gossip, a good ride, and the existential ravenous search after a hard ride for something tastier than slightly liquefied carrots in the barn's fridge;
-And texting a friend as to inquire as to the state, livability, and happiness with his new apartment after moving in yesterday. (Yes. I even drag my feet when it comes to my friends and people who have shown that they certifiably love me. I cannot, A.) ask for favors, B.) ask for a place to stay, or C.) ask for some clarity concerning plans without feeling like a huge, huge imposition, and a massive, massive inconvenience. One aspect in which my confidence needs vast improvement.)
It's possible I put things off because I want to pretend they don't exist, just like how women will play like fire to avoid the reality of a situation. If you're worrying about getting burned, you're not thinking about deadlines or buying more toilet paper.
Part of it probably also comes from the daredevil aspect of it. There's something so convincing in thinking of yourself as a fire-juggler that you can't help but feel as if the very act of it makes your helplessly enticing and attractive to the opposite sex. If you're so close to the heat, you've got to be so alive, so engrossing, so un-mundane. You must have, by now, heard the song "Bad Girlfriend" by Theory of a Deadman. It's on every pop radio station, and sounds kind of like a poor man's version of Nickelback, if there is such a thing and you can get any cheaper than Nickelback. But guaranteed, almost every woman reading this right now knows that song. We know the words. We sing along to, "Dirty girl, gettin' down, dance with guy from out of town. Grab her ass, actin' tough, mess with her, she'll fuck you up. No one really knows if she's drunk or if she's stoned, but she's coming back to my place tonight. She likes to shake her ass; she grinds it to the beat-- she likes to pull my hair while I make her grind her teeth. I like to strip her down; she's naughty to the end, you know what she is, no doubt about it, she's a bad, bad girlfriend."
Women like that song because it reminds us that there are aspects to our personalities or the things that we've done that drive men as crazy as we drive them; hence, the playing with fire. Sometimes you end up doing things that you know are wrong just because they feel so right. But what do you do with the guilt afterwards? After washing it down with two deep pulls straight from the bottle, I lay there…and I could still taste it. Maybe that's why we like it. Maybe it's what reminds me that I am, in fact, not great girlfriend material. Some of us are just always bound to want to rock the boat. Or the bed frame. Maybe that's why I'm single. Single? Singlish? Single with a chance of it's-raining-men showers? Single and stuck? Like I said-- eternally curious.
XOXO
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