Day 6:

I’m currently wondering why I’ve chosen to begin this experiment. Maybe after all the failed relationships and disappointing one-night-stands, I’m tired. Tired of all the “musicians” and “artists.” More like, narcissists. No, thanks.

I need this though. My body needs this. A rest. Especially, because I’ve begun to feel like an addict. Addicted to the whole process— the booze, the bed, the awkward morning after. I’m not sure if that makes me self-destructive or just “experimental.” And is the whole thing really all that bad??

20 questions with no answers. Maybe they’ll come in the next few months. If I’m lucky that is. Hell, I could come out in the end even more confused than I am now.

Eh, I’ll go with it. Just to see what happens. 

And so it continues…

::

I’ll call him #29. We met at a hip-hop show. Made eye-contact from across the way. He’s cute in that way that babies are cute when they’re just born. Kind of wrinkled and misshapened. Except, he’s hairy. And manlier than I expected. I’ve always been used to a certain kind of man, a girly man if you will. But, I met my first lumberjack— man’s man, meat and potatoes kind of guy. Traditional in every sense of the way. I am woman, he is man. Pink and blue. Only and always.

We were the farthest from a perfect fit.

I am woman, alright. “Whoa-man! Get your own fucking beer, I’m busy making history over here.”