The Ramblings of a Cynical Romantic

I have a problem believing in the existence of love. To me, it’s like being a kid at the airport. No matter how many times you watch a plane disappear into the sky, you can’t quite believe that something that big can fly.

This month, my parents had their 20th anniversary. They bicker, poke fun, and are still so very obviously in love. It’s painful sometimes, being around two people who have made an art of fitting into each others lives. I’m afraid of that feeling, I guess. I don’t ever want to feel as if I’m sacrificing a part of myself for someone; no one could be that important. But seeing my parents argue about clothes not taken to the dry cleaners, talking about finances…it alls all do very domestic. They are so happy.

I know that love exists, but I try to let myself believe in it, for fear that I’ll start making compromises. Rorschach stands gruffly in the corner of my head repeating the phrase “never compromise.” I’m suddenly struck with my silly inability to write anything (even about love) without making a blatant reference to something related to comic books.

Love…is an outrageous, terrifying endeavor. As a word, love is murmured into the ears of teens eager to feel something. We love that show, that book, that food. We as a society are in love with the idea of love.

And if that’s what love is, some societal ideal based in myths and legends, I think I’d rather a good book, a good show, some good food. I don’t want to love because I’m supposed to, I want to love because I have no choice to. I want to fall in love so unconditionally that the thought of a life without that love is repulsive, like the meatloaf my ex’s mom made that one time that I just couldn’t bring myself to eat, even to be polite.

And I am fickle. I can’t even keep my hair the same color for long, much less look the same person in the eye, every day, until the sun goes supernova.

And what happens if and when I find someone who asks me to put the things I can’t do without away? Emily, the action figures go in the box, with the comics, your notebooks, your silly ideals, and the steel toed combat boots from Americorps. Stay, stay with me, that cause can have another, you weren’t making much of a difference anyways.

In this moment, it is so very easy to say “kick ’em to the curb, girl, NO ONE is that important.” But I think back to when I was 14 and a boy told me my Birds of Prey poster was stupid and that I needed a tan. I didn’t tell him to fuck off, I didn’t tell him to take a hike, I didn’t tell him that the Birds of Prey would kick his sorry ass if he lived on Earth 1. I looked up tanning creams and got burned in more ways than one.

What do I want? I want a love like Amanda Fucking Palmer and Neil capital N Gaiman capital G, two artists who exist as two awesome individuals with two individual careers and fans, but exist together as one couple that love each other and inspire each other and read or sing at each others shows, who accidentally write songs or albums or books for each other and then call each other twits when they don’t quite connect the dots. I want someone who understands just enough to love me but not enough that I stop surprising them. Someone who will make a lifetime goal, an art of trying to get to know me, because I am still young enough to believe that I am that interesting, that special, that much of a mystery.