Just My Luck

The conceptualization of "luck" often times relates back to some other cosmic force that is just as convoluted and decidedly just as funky. Funky may not be the right word for it, but it leaves about the same effect on my tongue as the words "Your luck will turn around" leaves on my ears. Just an uneasy feeling of eye rolling and the inevitable dragging of the feet to the nearest form of stress relief.

Luck gets thrown around a lot with karma or time or even religion depending on who you talk to. People believe there's no such thing as luck. Others believe purely in it and rely solely on it. Personally, I think that there's gotta be something in it. Honestly, if you've got the luck like I do, especially in the department of relationships, you absolutely have to. But it is balanced out by the success I've had in school, which is counterbalanced yet again by my infernal circumstances in the vehicle department. I've lucked out a number of times though in areas like money, work, and friendship.

But really, does everything have to balance out that I maybe have one or two guys I find a year worth my time? And it's less that I'm picky and rather mature for my age, but more that while there may be diamonds in the rough in the area, their still far enough in the rough that no amount of polishing is going to get them to an acceptable level to where I'm not burdened by the relationship in some form or another.

I'd say that easily the hardest concept behind luck is that there's nothing you can do about it. I hate feeling helpless and it often results in a blinding rage that makes me want to run until the muscles in my legs have given everything they have and I simply collapse. If it happens like that, then I simply have no energy to try to change things and I can simply be carried away on the whims of the world. Sadly, that feeling never lasts for long and I'm back to looking for the needle in the gigantic haystack. (Honestly, I'd prefer that to what it really is, which is most likely vice versa. How's that for a Midwestern boy? I'd love to roll around in a haystack. I might even forget to look for the needle after a while.)

It's a new year, we're almost a twelveth of the way through it and I think I may have found something worth holding onto. Whether he's the piece of hay in my current needlestack or just a shiny gold needle, it's definitely nice to remember what it's like to be infatuated with someone.

Pillow Talk

I was telling someone recently about how terrible I am as a bedmate. I toss and turn and snore and drool on occasion. Plus I'm the loudest breather on the face of the earth. It's gotta be bad when multiple people a day have asked me if I have a deviated septum. Also my bed is a Twin XL. Which is fine and dandy for me, but anyone else joining me is probably going to be a little cramped.

But despite all those issues, in my last two relationships, my boyfriend slept over a minimum of 4 nights a week.

So what is it? Is it our desire to have company at our most vulnerable times, thus making us safer? Is it the security of knowing he's right there and that he cares enough about me to put up with all the shit I put him through while he's unconscious? Or maybe it's just the plain fact that it's nice to fall asleep with someone and wake up with someone.

I'd like to think that it's some combination of want, need, and desire that gives us a sort of pleasure, safety, and triumph. There's something about going back to bed after a terrible night's sleep next to someone for the first time, but the pillows still smell like him. And slowly all the memories of the night before flood back and carry you off into the land of dreams.

The words. The looks. The kisses. The touches. The licks to the face. The nudges in the groin. The loss of sensation in your arm. It all makes the torture of the night before worthwhile. And even more than that, it makes the next night not come soon enough.

Why Martinis are Better Than Your Drink

Call me a stereotypical queer, but I LOVE a good martini. Whether it's the sophisticated nature of lifting the glass after making a poignant argument in a discussion or to maximize vodka consumption by eliminating ice and non-alcoholic mixers, a martini is always in style.

I'm a bit of a purist. Recently I was having a discussion about food and why the culinary world seems almost entirely split down the middle. On one hand, there's a movement towards complicated flavor profiles that no one had ever thought of and cross culinary fusion. The other hand, there's a simplicity and a clean finish. I'm definitely drawn to the clean side of the movement.

In a world where things are often murky and the world is full of grey ethical issues and moral standards, the clear liquor in my crystal glass that requires balance and skill to drink from is my looking glass, everything is brighter, less hazy, more straightforward.

Or maybe it's just the booze.