Tonight I performed the "Dear John" monologue in person... no fun, and never easy, because it's not easy at all to be picky and self destructive and snobby and nice and even tempered all at once, especially in the face of adversity, of any kind, really. Something about plain old honesty comes pretty easy to me, though. It is both a blessing and a curse to be unabashedly honest, especially when I meet those people like me, I do not always appreciate their "candidness"... nor do I find that my own is universally pleasing, either.
I recently had to face the possibility that I don't know what love is, and have yet to experience it. This strikes me as a complex brain twister, as I have certainly felt "in love". However, were my pangs of, often simultaneous, heart and groin palpatations purely animal passion and immature attempts at love-like behavior witnessed from countless books, magazines and movies stretched over screens everywhere across our horribly romantic western culture? I have certainly never truly felt the urge to spend "the rest of my life" with anyone whom I've spent some of my life with. And, luckily, no big mistakes, life mistakes, have been made on my watch. A little, possibly, premature heartbreak and drama... but, no scars, no visible baggage, it's possible, too, that my heart may have only been being dramatic. Is it possible that this heart has yet to know what love feels like and has only mourned for what was disguised and misguided?
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