There are 2 times in my life when I got really drunk. Both of them I did because I was falling in love; I was confused; and I didn’t know what to do.
The boy I’ve dated didn’t call me for 4 days and I thought he was “lost to follow-up”. I was sick to my stomach because I didn’t want to be the one to call him. At that time, I was still under the illusion that there was a “proper” way to go about “stuff” such as “courtship” (an antiquated word which I hated).
The thing that really bothered me then was I let this boy touch my back. As far as I was concerned, nobody touches me and lives to tell the tale! But I let him, and God knew why!
Was it a matter of him being at the right pace at the right time? At that time, I was restless, bored and depressed at the seeming nothingness of my life.
Or was it just him. Because he was The One? The soulmate I had been dreaming of and writing to since I was 17? (or 12, if you count my early attempts at fiction). Or was he my muse? The projection of all my adolescent fantasies?
… to be continued