It's a word I can't say without feeling like I have a mouthful of creamy peanut butter. It makes me smile big but it's also not very clear or easy when I say it.

Did you hear the gross sticky throat, kind of gurgling noises when I say “boyfriend?”
Yeah. Me too.
But I’m saying it and I am fucking SMILING after I say it.

Look, this is a very confusing time for me, so is it going to kill you to have a little patience while I sort out these strange, foreign feelings of confidence and sweetness and longing for partnership.

Okay. I haven't thought of "boyfriend" in a long time. I've been doing my thing and checking out the cute dog park guys and you know... flashing the dimple for some and switching my ring to my left hand to throw off some of the others. I’ve been myself, with no real craving to meet someone and no agenda when I do meet a cute boy.

And yet, I sort of wanted to meet someone, right? Who doesn’t? Even effing Lucifer, even Brad the Hermit Dad, even… hell, I dunno… even I wanted to meet the big sloppy man of my dreams.

Meeting people, not a problem. Dating them? Ewww. For a long time, I was Not Dating. I finally figured out that dating sucks away my mojo faster than Chippers can suck a…. Wait. Never mind.
I didn’t want to be spending my precious time and my creative energy focused on dating. It’s soooooo boring. It goes like this:
1. Meet for drinks.
2. Meet for dinner.
3. Go out to dinner and then for drinks and dancing.
4. See above, add sex.
That pattern is so completely uninspiring and unappealing to me that it became revolting and suffocating. I’m actually disgusted right now.
I need to wash my hands.
I’ll be right back.
Where was I?
Oh yes.
Well, you know better than I do: Celibate, dog-owning, lesbo-friendly slw over here. Pretty much working on growing out my hair and weaning myself from my All-Candy Autumn Diet, you’ve heard me: “Gotta go! Top Model is on! Tyra and her boobs!”

Kind of randomly, I called this guy but not because I wanted to hook up with him or because I wanted to go back and trap him or because I felt some gigantic connection when I met him. He popped into my head and I had his digits and I called. I think I was probably calling to close one of the doors that I opened during my Summer of Remorse.

God, what’s with the Naming and the seasons, Sarah?
Dude, I know. It’s annoying but kind of funny, too.
Really? You don't?
Well. I kind of REALLY like it, so can I keep it in here?
Thanks, I’ll keep your opinion in mind as the Winter of My Bliss sets in.

Sorry. I had to talk to myself for a minute.
Anyways, in a surprisingly pleasant plot twist, considering The Life of Sarah, and all of its many-named seasons, this guy, he’s the Viking and ummmmmm….
He's pretty much the perfect man that if I was g-o-double-d, I would get out my Homo-Sapiens Play-Doh and Divinity Sculpty clay and maybe a tiny bit of Filo for God and I would build this guy. I would then pretend that my little poppet goes for the same types of adventures that the Viking does. I would make-believe that the doll and a similarly-crafted effigy to me were living in the Barbie Dream House and I would make up conversations where he tells my image the same things that the Viking says to me. Things that make me sing, you know. Things that feed my soul and give me hope for all mankind. Things that don’t even surprise me because they are so manually true and basic to my person.
He even gets the persona, I think.

Yeah, that does kind of suck, I agree.
Well…. It’s just that there’s not a whole lot to fall back on when someone you adore can vibe on you to the point where you aren’t even being called out – you just are who you are, no hiding and no TRYING and no… nothing.
But yourself. And right now? Myself needs to quit interrupting me while I am writing. Go away.

I haven't spent any time looking for what's wrong with him. It doesn't even occur to me that he's a guy and that they are the Enemy and that as such, he will surely use me for sex and for money and then he will lie to me and leave me for one of those super-blonde Arizona-type chicks.
Normally, I would have rolled my eyes at him a hundred times from the safety of my telephone. By now, I am usually finished with most of my paramours, at least in my head; and by now, I know how it ends. I know what is wrong with the proverbial him and I've either decided to over-look it, or to flee from it, depending on what "it" is.

But here I am with the Viking and I’m not even freaking out about not freaking out which is… no words.
Do you see that?
I am a champion freaker-outer and I’m NOT FREAKING OUT.


I’m thinking about the word boyfriend and the Viking and for the first time since I was like 15 and had a massive crush, I am imagining my LIFE with someone and I am ADMITTING it.
Up front, before the fighting and the vain, passive-agressive emotional infidelity, I am acknowledging how much I dig the Viking.
The beauty is that I'm not 15 and I don't have a crush. In a crush, or at a younger age, I used to feel all this pressure to be Awesome. I had to prove myself to the guy either in my life or who I wanted to be in my life.

I don't feel any pressure with the Viking... not even when I find myself steeped in a make-believe fairy-tale-type fantasy, complete with the birds and the flying rubies and sparkling waters and dinosaurs and fucking baying at the moon and every other millisecond of "intensely powerful" stock video images that pour through my imagination all the time. Even when day-dreaming, I would expect a certain amount of discomfort while playing Future in my head. When I am violently awoken by a ringing phone on my desk and I have to stop swimming around in my pretty pretty pretend world, I would expect to feel a little embarrassed, or resigned and yet… here I am, allowing the Viking to sail around and I’m completely comfortable, and comforted by how much I feel for this guy already.
I mean, I do generally hate most people or at the least have something nasty to say about them, expecially if they are total strangers.

It just feels organic to me to care so much for him.
As noted above, I’m not even freaking out, or freaking out for not freaking out. God, there’s not even a twitch of the freak-out impulse.

Except for the giggling when I try to say “boyfriend”, and the radiating feeling of warmth that starts in my heart and that spreads, no – barrels, through every fiber and to every tip of me when I get to hear him talk to me… there’s no freaking out about “boyfriend”.

arizonasarah at 10:06 a.m.

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