I need better exes.

Secondary conclusion reached after deeply contemplating why this year's impending Valentine's Day is mocking me.
It never did before.
I haven't cared about the holiday since middle school.

Primary conclusion arrived at prior to Valentine's Day backing into primary conclusion like a teenager backs into a row of trash barrels on the side of the street at 2am in the sneak-out car.
[Lights turn on in the house. Busted.]

Primary conclusion an eloquent version of "dating is a waste of time I'd rather spend on myself right now."
Can't presently recall said eloquence.

I did a whole valentine-themed romantic doodler once.

Bought lingerie.
Made some shrimp dish.
Made chocolate mousse.
Probably there were candles.
Later possibly sex.
More likely a gut-wrenching, heart-deflating argument.
I don't remember.
I hate lingerie.

On a different Valentine's Day, one of them, one of the exes, brought home a teddy bear. The kind with stubby bear stumps superglued for all eternity to a heart that says "I love you." The kind you can find at any roadside stand, last-minute and cheap. I thought it was a joke. Hilarious! I laughed and called it hideous. Hurt his feelings. I switched things up quick and pretended I loved it and wasn't confused. We'd been living together for over a year. I really thought he knew me. He didn't. To his credit, he never got me anything like that again. To his discredit, I had to get a restraining order after we broke up. *

*Refer to secondary conclusion at top of page.

Last year I was single for Valentine's Day.

It wasn't a big deal. Covid and all that. Crows keeping me busy.
Year before that I was sick the entire month of February. Forgot the holiday existed.
But this year...
THIS YEAR.
Man.
This year is a bitch. I've learned too much. Grown too much. I'm boring, now.

I don't daydream anymore. Don't obsess about crushes. I used to. My imagination was better than any drug on the market. I knew how to squeeze all the endorphins out of the smallest pebble of hope. I was good. If I could have sold that shit on the dark web, I'd be rich, and you'd all be on it.

Now?
Now I can hardly work up a good she-boner over my faraway impossible fantasy crush.
Dammit.
It's all rational now in the daydream machine.
Sterilized.
Factual.
Flavorless.

Is this it? Is this the funeral for my romantic idealism? Are we gonna bury it on Monday, February 14th, 2022?

Quoth Poe's Raven:
"Outlook grim."

Quoth My Crows:
"We find one partner and stay together for life and we only have sex with each other four to six days in a row, once a year, so we can make babies for Jesus H. Crow. We spend the rest of our lives raising child after child every year provided they don't all get eaten and killed."

Not sure if that means yes or no?

Am I sad about outgrowing my euphoric obsessions?

No. It was fun, but no. I don't want to go back to being a daydream junkie.

Do I wish I was sharing fluids and twinklies with someone else?

Maybe.
Sure.
Yes.
Yes I do.
Of course I do!
Of course I do BUT.
I'm getting a lot of shit done right now.

I have these things I want to do.

Like build the website for thecrowlady.net that I purchased a couple of weeks ago on an intuitive whim even though I'm broke as fuck right now.
Like spend the month of August driving to Alaska and back again.
Like write the book about my amazing relationship with crows and the amazing ways my relationship with crows has improved my life.

Of course, it could help things if I met someone and we really hit it off. We could split expenses on the Alaska trip, and when we go hiking in Yukon backcountry he can be the one that gets eaten by the grizzly. Then I can mourn the one good ex who's only an ex because he gave his life to save mine, and put that in my book so that it reads like a novel, like a tragic love story, no one can console me but the crows, instead of reading like a self-love story and gathering dust in the self-help section of Powell's local self-published authors.

But I'll wait on that. Give the poor guy a chance to live.
And myself a chance, too.
Because...

Being involved with someone always meant being in a coma.

I was oblivious to the paralysis.
Blind to the absence of love in the relationship I clung to in the hopes of being rescued by someone who was also sleeping.

It's not easy to see myself as that person.
It's embarrassing.
It's also sad. I really feel for that chick. That me of the past.

This is the first time in my life I've had compassion for myself regarding the bad choices I've made.

It feels fucking fantastic.

Being awake is a good thing.

Being awake all the time with insomnia because I'm trying to settle into my new woke-ass life can be a pain in the ass, but it's a learning process.
Sometimes cool creative things come out of it.
Like all these pictures of Junior.
Or all these words.
All these words that have no fancy conclusion because there is no fancy conclusion, there's just keep going, kid, you're doin' fine.
At least I hope you are, anyway.

Still need better exes, though.
I'll work on that.
After Valentine's Day.
Once I get used to being awake on my own.

_{Just to be redundant, all words and photos are mine. All photos are of Junior. No using them without our permission.}