Kansas in August

Precursory note: I must warn you, readers, that this post is going to surpass all prior established sappiness levels. Like, seriously, I'm about to get all kinds of mushy and emotionally sensitive up in here. Consider yourself warned.


Now, I am almost certainly going to regret everything that I am about to say. Good things, as we all know, tend to conclude rather abruptly. Whether it be tomorrow or a decade from now, I know that this good thing that I have is going to end. However, I have always been a very earnest, in-the-moment blogger, and I have to document how I feel at this moment because maybe if I write it all down, it'll seem more legitimate. Or something. I don't know. I can't exactly quantify anything right now, but I have a feeling that my confused sensation may be remedied by my spewing my soul all over this digital page.

As I mentioned in my last post, Technicolor Boy dropped a big, fat L-word on me. (Obligatory Scott Pilgrim quote needed here: "Step up your game, Scott. Break out the L-word." "Lesbian?" "The other L-word." " Lesbians?" pahaha. Oh, Michael Cera.) Alas, my beautiful Technicolor Boy dropped the real L-word.

His hand was on my hip, I had just kissed him good morning, and as I looked up into his sky-on-a-sunny day eyes, he said it.

"I love you."

To which I deftly replied, "Oh, shhh."

Now, pause, because at that exact moment, several thoughts flew through my brain at once:
-Good God, I am smooth.
-Did he really just say that? Did I hear that right?
-I love you, too.

Of course, I didn't vocalize any of these. I just kissed his forehead and hoped he wouldn't mention it again. Here is the big fat fucking problem: he kept saying it. Not immediately, but later on, he said it again. And again.

Here is the bigger fat fucking problem: I can't say it back. I've replied to him with variations, but I cannot bring my lips to move in such a way as to tell him straight out, "I love you, too." which sucks, because I most definitely do.

Once the initial shock subsided, I realized that I am really, really happy about things.  Like, I am elated. I've had the same song from South Pacific going through my head all day. It's this one.

Now, I am going to say this with as much colloquial eloquence as I can muster:
Gurrrl, I am fucked.

Historically, I have always rallied against this myth that is love. I have always claimed that sex was the be-all end-all, that love is a biological illusion created by humanity to justify reproduction. I've always said that I would never be anywhere near that level of stupid. I have always loudly and rudely denounced the idea and existence of love and romance.

I stand corrected.

I don't know what this boy has done to me, but I don't care! I don't care if I'm vulnerable in front of him. I don't care if he's older than me. I don't care how many girls want to get with him, because he is mine. I don't care how hypocritical and cheesy and ridiculous I have become. This shit is real. I love him.

If he tells me he loves me, I am going to say it. I have to say it. He deserves it.

My main issue with all of this was first mere shock, then sort of my own existential implosion regarding whether or not I am allowed to be happy, and after all of this, after I have processed and confirmed and all that shit, I have concluded that I am allowed to be loved.

I am so happy with him, even if it's just for now. I am going to be happy and sappy and girly because I can, God damn it!

OH SWEET, HOLY GOD! I AM TURNING INTO A ROMCOM.


Julia