Monsieur Whistledown?

I’ll be talking about love poured into a cup made of flaws woven by hand into pride and beauty.

The dress maker said:

There is no such thing as true love without first embracing one’s true self.

I feel like Lady Whistledown, writing again after so long.

The truth is, I feel more like Penelope.

I feel like I am boxed in.

I feel like I cannot write anymore because I know the weight, the loss, the pain my pen dishes out without consideration.

I love 3 women.

I love them for different reasons.

Yet, what I want to spend my time thinking about is the 3 other women that I have met in the past and how I want to win back their attention.

If that wasn’t bad enough, I wanna write unemotionally about them as if they have no souls as if they are dinner plates I get to cherish and store away in my cabinet until I am ready again to use them.

I cannot write because I have not chosen. I have not chosen because I am waiting for the new emotions.

I am waiting for the new feeling in my hands.

I want to feel what a thrill a new bum bum will release.

It’s not so much that the old bum bums are not special. It’s that I have emotional cancer.

The woman I have been praying for has been waiting for me to see her. She has seen me and recklessly chosen me. She has given up everything without me asking for it.

Her love feels cheap and unearned. Because I have sold myself a story that my love must be the rose because of her thorns. My love must pierce my heart and scorch my skin? And roast my tongue. It must poison my gut and leave me diarrhea. Unable to sit still without worrying and wailing in agony.

I need therapy.

I have now gotten to the point where I am exploring having kids without intercourse. When love is a decision away.

I am not sad anymore. I don’t wake up anymore preferring to not wake up.

Now I wake up talking to time to slow down. I wake up counting my days to another birthday with no home, no wife, no kid.

But it would be so convenient if this reality were because no one cares or no one likes me.

I am here because I am afraid.

I am trapped by the fears that do not even make any sense to write out loud.

My biggest fear is that I will be at my own wedding ready to pounce at any mere hint from my friends that suggest that I wife is not beautiful. I’m legit terrified by it.

I picture walking away with my bride and having the nods of approval from my boys. I wanna hear em say:

Omo you carry eye go market o!

It’s an IEC thing.

Can you imagine finding someone that loved you unconditionally and your worry is that they may not be smoking hot in the eyes of everyone.

I want a universal nod that I have found a good thing.

Then I thought deeper about it and realized. As much as I may want to excuse away this thought process. It must become a requirement or I must become wiser.

You cannot peer into yourself and see your stupidity then decide which of it will be a part of you.

We don’t choose who we are, we only have some influence over who we become. Those who refuse to embrace the birthmark as a defining quality of their beauty, will forever chase a reality that has no roots in the soil.

The truth is that I believe I am a smoking hot guy. I am tall, handsome and muscular. And while I have been trying for 7 years to turn my pot belly in 3 packs, I am still a fella because thankfully women don’t care about 6 packs to the degree that men, or I should say I care about bum bum and a fine face.

It’s all true.

So I can’t Decide.

So I am looking for the next woman even though I hhaven’t decided on the 3 that are amazing and in my life already.

The annoying part is that I have tried to let them all go. And I have said the words but often I find that I need them to stay more than I want them to go.

I push them away to appease my conscience then I fall on their floor and have them walk on me like the red carpet that they deserve.

I call them my queen but I buy them no crown let. alone a ring. I do anything possible to get space to chase whatever next looks like but I stay in their lives just enough to be jealous.

I feel alive knowing another man is approaching them. I want to hear about how I measure up and how they have chosen me even when I haven’t.

Isn’t that just cruel?

But that is who I am, right now.

And this is what it means to write honestly. It’s not to paint a picture that is untrue. Sometimes the picture is unkind to someone else; sometimes it’s unkind to me. But always it’s true.

For in truth lies a liberation more intoxicating than champagne and wine.

I like 3 women that love me unconditionally; and I find my will only to leap for the next new feeling.

I’ve seen men take the plunge. I’ve seen men make the choice work; but all I see when I converse with my gut is a spineless broken son desperate to have a day when his father will say:

I am proud of you son, I love that you are off my loin.

It is not my friends’ opinions that I crave. It is a healing from being my father’s second son. It is a pain as old as birth.

I must learn to be content with who I am. Not because of what I achieve. Simple because I discover me, and I unconditionally honor my choice to love whatever oozes from me squeezing out who I am, now.