People ask me sometimes why I blog a particular thing, or why I blog in general. They wonder what appeal Twitter has for me. I usually tell them that I live almost entirely in my head, with a constant narration voiced over every activity. It's like I experience my life in the third person. And so when I blog, or tweet, what I'm doing is taking that narration and making it real. The words become real when they exist in a public space. And that is deeply satisfying to me in ways I can't quite explain. I can't get enough of it. It's not about readership. I talk aloud to myself in an empty room; I would write these words to an empty internet, if such a thing existed. It's not about being read, it's about being readable.
I also remember telling someone once that I have no sense of privacy. I have no filters, not where the internet is concerned. I send a tweet on Wednesday evening at 7:30 saying that I'm going over to Satanist Dan's house for a thinly-veiled study break. I send a tweet at 12:30 that same night saying I'm back. I sometimes enjoy appearing enigmatic, but it's an affectation. I like the appearance of being coy more than I care about actually protecting information.
So it feels very odd as I write this, because I do want to withhold details. I'm not sure if it's because of a not-quite-buried sense of privacy, or embarrassment. It may be shame. I'm still processing what happened and why, what I liked and didn't like and why. I think that the overall lessons are already apparent. I think my experiment with acting out, this strange and exciting excursion into being a woman of loose morals, is over.
I'm watching myself play out my life according to an already established script. I'm such a cliche. Look at the girl getting into a serious relationship in her early 20s. Look at her uproot her life in her late 20s to move across the country to go to graduate school. Look at her reexamine her life, realize she isn't in love, realize she isn't the person she wants to be. Look as she gets closer and closer to her 30th birthday: she gets her lip pierced in San Francisco. She starts drinking. She starts dating. She starts sleeping around. It's classic mid life crisis, minus the red car, or at least a slightly early case of the 30-something angst that seems so popular these days.
And the next part of the story, of course, is where I realize that meaningless sex is, in fact, meaningless. And not only am I not any happier when it's over and the latex is being removed, but I'm not even that happy during the process. Meaningless sex isn't even very good sex. This isn't some grand revelation. I knew this is exactly the conclusion I was going to come to. But I felt like I needed to get there myself. I've always had the answers in the back of the book but if I couldn't show my work, what use are answers?
It may be too early to say that I'm done with this part of my life. There is obviously a big difference between deciding to do something, and actually doing it. Perhaps next weekend Boy 3 will call again, and offer the same deal, and I may decide that the excitement, the newness, the slightly scandalous nature of the offer makes it appealing enough to accept. Then again, perhaps affection will overwhelm reason and I will convince myself that I am in love with Satanist Dan, that I want him and no one else for ever and only.
I like to think that neither will happen. I like to think that Dan will call me again soon. We will eat mint ice cream and watch cartoons sprawled on his couch, his hands rubbing my back, kissing during commercials. And I will keep sending out messages, hoping someone will write me back, and we will chat over coffee, then drinks, and I will wonder if this new boy wants to kiss me because I really want him to. I will get a big goofy grin when he calls. I want goofy grins. As I process the last 48 hours, that is what stands out, what is missing.