After spending most of our lives being able to dress however we pleased, we’re now entering a time when we actually have to start considering whether or not an outfit is age-appropriate. When you’re in your mid-twenties though, this can be a surprisingly difficult thing to do.
In fact, sometimes we are so eager for that thrill of danger, of uncertainty, of desire, that we’ll search for and create problems where there are none. It’s as though our brains can’t comprehend that something can simply work, and that happiness is not just a wisp of smoke we’re meant to perpetually chase and never attain.
Ladies. Please, stop throwing your panties at your computer screens. I don’t mean to be this sexy; it just happens. Even though I’m not a vegetarian, I have a lot of admiration for their kind. To stop eating meat, you are probably either ethical or health-conscious, both of which are appealing traits.
The kiss was not well-executed. Our foreheads were interlocked, attempting to preclude the act. She was rubbing my temples, my shoulders, relaxing the malaise out of my muscles, working to my bone marrow. Why did I let her touch me, was I aroused by illogic? No. I wanted to be transcendent, cerebral. I wanted to be a poem.
Writing like this is what we call an essay — a try, an attempt. This is, of course, the etymology of the word — from the French, essayer, to try. This is not about creating a highly polished, clean, clear monolith. It’s about seeing how thoughts meet language and what kind of order might emerge.