My Fantasy

Fantasy is a bitch. A poetic, seductive smoke screen blissfully clouding your view of reality to allow crushes and fantasies to manifest. Like mirages they are perfect, at safe distance away on the horizon, the sun hazing out flaws.

My imagination loves to run naked-through-a-field wild. I like the fantasy more than anyone real.

Real people let you down. Real people are disappointing. The real people I’ve let in my life… the drug addict, the porn addict, the alcoholic. The selfish narcissist. The emotionally abusive guy. The immature child. The liar. The compulsive liar (there is a difference). The cheater. The whiner. The one with mommy issues. The lazy guy who hasn’t showered in a week. The mooch. The guy who blames you for his erectile dysfunction. The spotlight stealer. The wimpy one. The one who likes you way too much at first that you know it isn’t real and won’t last. The guy who brags about how much money he makes (PS this guy doesn’t even make half of what he says). The guy who moves too fast. The guy who moves too slow. The guy who is distracted by big boobs like an infant who never got over the fact that his mom didn’t breastfeed him. The guy who is so normal it’s boring.

It’s ok. No one is free of issues. I have my own label for myself. Picky is the first word that comes to mind…

But first, my fantasy… I can flip that person off like a switch. I don’t have to put up with anyone in my space. I don’t have to ask anyone to shut up. I don’t have to say, Go away I want to be alone!, or, It’s hot and you’re sweaty, move over!, or, I hate it when you slurp your soup, it literally makes me sick, fucking stop it.

Actually bring someone into my life to share what feels like too much about myself? To fight with about nothing important. To fight with about everything important. To have someone point out when I suck. For me to feel completely repulsed by someone else, to watch them eat and hear them chew. To have to use the bathroom after they shit.

I also don’t have to feel awkward hugging, kissing, snuggling, or wanting to have sex with this person. Whatever I want, I get. Whatever I don’t want… Switch. Fantasy over.

And if I change my mind about my fantasy, I don’t have to break up with anyone. I don’t have to end a relationship. I just change what my fantasy looks like or acts like. Maybe I’m a coward. Telling someone I don’t like them, or telling someone that our relationship isn’t working and that we aren’t going anywhere… that experience feels the same as endlessly projectile vomiting.

Here’s another word for my label: Selfish. It’s a special protective selfishness, laced in fear and shame. I’m afraid to make another wrong move. I’m afraid that it will be great for years, and then suddenly, we won’t care about each other anymore. I don’t know if I’m more afraid someone will change their mind about me, or I’ll change my mind about them.

I’m a chameleon. I’m the girl that can shape and change my persona just enough to have a nice time with almost anyone, if I want. I also freeze in situations where I’m around someone I’m attracted to. I can’t talk or look at them. I won’t call them or text them, and if I do, I probably spent an hour projectile vomiting over the idea of it. So, we can add pathetic to my label.

I fantasize about someone that I don’t act like that with. Where I can just be me. Sometimes I don’t feel sure about who that me actually is. And then I think, I can already be that way when I’m alone and it feels wonderful and secure. Why try to bring someone who I barely know into my world?

Well, who wants to bring the girl who is pathetically selfish, picky, and afraid, with chameleon-like ability into their world?

The idea of including someone else in my life-balancing act seems like a horrible idea. And when I come to this conclusion, the loneliness I feel inside boils over and puts out a tiny flame in my heart. I extinguish the little space I allow myself to have a little fantasy burn that includes silly notions like snuggling, surprise flowers, even an idea as simple as kissing someone I actually care about. When I put that flame out—seemingly tiny, ridiculous, and inconsequential—it feels like my breath is gone.

It sounds hopeless. And then I remember this:

Love is a crazy blind leap. A chance that will leave you either suspended mid-air in ecstasy or plummeting five-hundred stories to crash on some dirty, littered patch of concrete. You have to try. And you have to hope the other person has the same capacity for trying and patience and love as you do.

I know who wrote this. The hopeless romantic girl. That sunny, sweet, affection-craving, hugging, bursting-with-love girl.

Ugghhhhhh. That girl.

But she’s right. Reality calls for risk-taking, and my fantasy sucks because it is mindlessly boring, predictable and safe. It’s too safe to elicit anything that feels like ecstasy. Risks are necessary. With a real person.

A real person. A real person? Maybe a real person with one of those awful labels I mentioned before. How did I even end up with any of those people?

None of us are just one thing. And all those real life guys, they weren’t just one thing. They each had a glimmer of something special. Some were artistic, others were generous. Some held doors open for me, others valued my independence. Praised my success. Some made me laugh so hard I cried, others gave me butterflies with their deep, endless eyes. We all have fantasy-worth parts [that’s what she said] and qualities that are real and not so pretty. We just have to find someone with real qualities that are worth taking a crazy blind leap for.

Besides, that hopeless romantic girl… the one who wrote about love, and hope, and mid-air ecstasy.

She’s me.

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