For all the gripes, the bitching, the over-analyzing, and the general bad karma that results from women, I don’t really hate them. I hate a million things they do, but for every single thing they do to piss me off, a bat of baby blues, or an unexpected hand grab can wipe that all away. Of course that usually is a catalyst for even more trouble, but I don’t care. They make me forget myself, they make me want to be a better person. They make we want to write musing upon musing about them. Ever since the first encounter in grade school, I have constantly been bemused, beaten, and awed by every single occurrence I have with the opposite gener. I strive to understand them, to have them understand me. I kill myself trying to find the closest thing to that indescribable four letter word that has been described for ages, and yet still can never be pinned down into words.

Whether it’s the girl I almost got engaged to, the girl who shot me down before I could get the stones to tell her how I felt, the girl I will eventually marry, the girl who I drunkenly hook up with at a party when I lose all judgement, I always, deep down, appreciate every story, every stupid fight, every 3 AM phone call, every time I go out of my way to tell a stupid joke and get a cheap laugh, even if it isn’t appreciated. Everything gets me closer to the person I want to be, and everything shapes me into the person I am. I guess we just learn to take the good with the bad. The cheaters with the ones that steal your soul, and just hope that we struggle along until we find that phantom person that makes it all worth it. And it kills me that despite all my cynicism and bitching and horrible battle scars and war stories, that I still think that person is out there.