Frustrated would be an Understatement

Frustrated would be an Understatement

After hours of trying to write a report on John Donne and his poetry, I decided that the more I pursued it, the more crazy I will become. As you may be able to tell, I have currently lost all my ability to create sentences that make sense and are gramattically correct, and I can't even spell some things. All I can think of is Mr. A.

Not A, actually, but about the fermentation of the current relationship. We are not committed, of course, it's way to soon for that. I don't want to get into the details, as they are very personal, and also will make me seem more nerdy and uber-geekier than usual, and that's just beyond embarrassing.

Well, most stories begin with some background, and the formation of some sort of problem, and that leads to a climax which comes down to a resolution/ending of situation. Most men, however, do not follow this rule. Most men, when a problem comes into view, they bail. They bail, so there is actually no climax and no resolution for the poor loser, such as myself. When they bail, they experience this sense of climax and resolution and closure. When I am left hanging, I feel like crap.

When I say most men, of course, I am generalizing out of the accumulated anger from within. When I say most men, I actually mean all men that I have had the displeasure of meeting so far thus in my life. A has not joined this catagory of men yet. Perhaps he will. Perhaps he won't. Perhaps all my worries will be for naught. But until I know, I will have to sit on this cushion of needles. I just feel as though it might be best if I just crawled back into my hermit-hole where I came out from and hide until the apocalypse. I'm not fit for the dating world; it is a cruel, dog-eat-dog world where only the absolute strongest and the fittest survive.

To release some tension, I went to the gym (after several weeks!). I pounded my feet on the treadmill, almost abusing my body with pain and weariness, like the Spartans did their young in training. Now I'm tired and weary, but my mind is a bit clearer. It is a bit more focused. I'm starting to regain my sense of who I am -- for a moment, I began to define myself by whom I date. While I'm not completely out of the turmoil, I think I will be able to have some clarity and gain the ability to tackle John Donne and "The Flea" (his poem).