Prepare for melodrama.

I’m going to go ahead and violate so many of my own site-writing rules at once that, in fact, I may never be able to write again just out of the shame of my own writing infidelities. But, currently, I think this is something that needs to be done. Some people, when bad events occur, hole up in their living room with a bottle of ice cream and watch depressing movies. Some go on murderous rampages. I write a lengthy treatise on why I am the way I am in a romantic sense. Some people juggle geese.

For about the last month and a half, I have been doing my part to attract, woo if I may, a young member of the womanfolk crowd. We met in one of my creative writing classes, and eventually used the good ‘ol college-stalking network known as Facebook to accumulate knowledge of each other through ridiculously lengthy e-mails which, by the time they had come to a close, had exceeded a solid 12,000 words. Then the logical advancement to instant-messenging was made, and more talking commenced. Eventually a date for breakfast was set, and things went well. A week later, and the jump into a committed relationship was made. And a bit less than two weeks later, the committed relationship was ended. By none other than me. This seems like the necessary amount of summary for me to delve into the bulk of this post: me. Because I’m my own favorite subject to talk about.

Actually, that’s a lie, but that’s neither here nor there.

To be totally honest, I’ve done a fairly good job of staying outside the dating pool throughout my time in college. I knew enough of my own tumultuous high school relationship to know that the best way for me to get into a relationship is to not be in one. So… I haven’t. Whether this is for the lack of womenthings that I’d actually want to get into a relationship with or entirely of my own design I don’t know. Either way, I simply hadn’t even thought about a relationship (dating, yes, but not a relationship) in a long time. Though with this girl, English Girl as she had been so affectionately nicknamed by me and mine, I thought I honestly could get into a long-lasting relationship (which seemed — and is — what she wanted) without having to worry about my own skittishness which I had become so familiar with over the course of my life.

Here’s generally how it goes: the first week is awesome. If something goes wrong in the first week, then I generally bail without a second’s thought, because things shouldn’t be that complicated that early on. By the time the second-third weeks occur, though, I become ridden with doubt about what I’m doing in a relationship. It doesn’t matter with who, or what’s been happening, but whenever I get the glimpse that there might actually be a future in any given situation, I bolt like a frightened bunny at the sight of a lawnmower. Sometimes I can get over this without a problem… Though very rarely. I can’t even say I get the skittish way I am. I don’t think of myself as an immature person — well, except when it comes to relationships. If I had to guess, I’d say it’s a general inclination to continue my fairly simple, uncomplicated, and fairly hermit-like (I use this very loosely; it’s not all that hermit-like, though I don’t generally feel the need to fill my day with things to occupy me) daily routine. Add that with the knowledge that I get easily freaked out in relationships which seem to be moving a bit faster than I like (which generally means that they don’t lie stagnant in one position for a long length of time).

But, if I have to try and really find the root of this little self-destructive dilemma of mine, I’d say that it’s still because I believe in some weird kind of fantastical romance. I’m not a very emotional person, nor a very romantic one, but I do hold on to the thought that the “right” relationship will be one where the first month (or, preferably longer) simply go so well, so smoothly, and are simply so fun that there’s not even a need to think about anything too serious. I figure that when I’m in the “right” relationship, that all of my romantic oddities will simply disappear, and I’ll be left with only the feeling that everything about the situation is so right that when problems crop up, that I’ll actually want so desperately to work through. Whenever I end a relationship, I’m left with the lingering feeling that the whole “romantic idealism” is simply impossible and that I just let the next-best thing pass me by… Though when that little thought pipes up, I generally just crush under my emotional boot and then it remembers not to pipe up about romance ever again.

And then there’s also another issue I have. An issue which is probably far more applicable to the current situation; I don’t want to toot my own horn or anything, but the problem is that I’m too nice. When I get into a relationship, I should just be selfish and think about my own feelings for the interim period until, like, the two people in the relationship form some kind of shared consciousness together as they bask in the sunlight on a romantic horse ride along the shores of the coastal beaches in the Caribbean. But, instead, I worry just as much about how my own indeterminate actions — my “defeatist attitude” if I may — will affect the other person, rather than just focusing on my own feelings. This sounds like a fairly good trait to have, but I’ll be honest: it’s not. It basically means that my own fears and insecurities are amplified by the lack of certainty with how the other person will feel when (there’s no “if” in the thought process) I screw up. It’s a fairly vicious cycle.

I mean, I realize that no relationship will ever be a completely perfect fairy-tale caliber kind of thing. Though I do maintain the viewpoint that the beginnings of one — say the first month at the least — should be the “high” of a relationship. Things shouldn’t be difficult, but rather the interactions between the two people should feel perfectly natural and should be having the time of their lives… Or something.

Anyway, this has been entirely too much of an emo entry, and for that I do apologize. I did serve a bit of its therapeutic purpose, so I guess that’s a good thing. I think I’ll go drink a big helping of testosterone so I can become one of those guys who hits on the drunk womenfolk at parties/bars, proceeds to have a one-night stand, and then forget about them forever.

But, no joke, I know I’ll never be that guy.