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.

In which I am easily distracted

I want to write a book.
Now this isn’t any shocking news. Anyone who knows me would nod at this statement, as it’s something I say quite frequently.
Over the years, I’ve wanted to write many books. Some of them I’ve even started! There have been superheroes (always superheroes), haunted boarding schools, mundane creatures that are mythical beings in disguise, precocious children, musings on my father’s childhood in Colombia, childhood bedtime stories, and melodramatic self reflections (this might be one of those). But as soon as someone says, “hey that sounds like a good idea!”, it seems like my brain has moved on to a new story.
But this book, or potential book, is the one my mind wanders back to whenever I lack inspiration or hit a wall. I wish I could say it’s the grand superpowered epic that’s been stewing in my brain since I was a six year old little girl who thought a super heroine named Super E defending a city called CoCoville was a good idea, but it’s not. It’s even more embarrassing. It’s the sort of thing that if I ever actually wrote, I envision future fans of my work (I know, pretentious much?) discovering in horror, like finding out Sir Arthur Conan Doyle believed in fairies, or that your favorite comic writer/author did Tijuana bibles back in the day.
Every once in a while, pen in hand, I have the urge to write an “every boy who did me wrong” rant, delving into every relationship I’ve ever had and why they fell through. In my daydreams, I experience enlightenment through Taylor Swift like public humiliation for all of the guys in my life, discover what I’m looking for, and reaffirm to myself that I don’t HAVE to be looking for anything.
The characters in question would all be referred to as “boys”, in direct conflict with the anger I express whenever someone refers to me as a “girl”. I’ll have you know that I’ve had my Quincenera, that I can vote, AND I buy bras at Victoria’s Secret, thank you very much!
Oh, and all of the boys would be included, from the crush in preschool to the latest tragedy. They’d all read the book, learn the error of their ways, and become better people for it. It’s practically a public service. Their partners would probably thank me!
This is all a prime example of an “Emilyism”. This is where someone knows something is a bad idea but they either do it anyways or try to convince themselves that it’s a great idea! It’s that moment when you know the answer to a question was just given, but you’ve already forgotten so you ask for it again. Or when you have no idea how to navigate the metro in an unfamiliar city but decide that you’ll “probably” be able to figure it out, ending up having a panic attack before you do.
Maybe these things just happen to me.
But isn’t it the most human thing to think ourselves, our lives so interesting that OF COURSE others would love to read/watch/know allllll about it? Isn’t that the basis for reality TV, autobiographies, blogs, and YouTube?
My name is Emily Roldan and I am not nearly as interesting as I think I am. In the time it took you to read this, you probably could have mastered that metro, tracked down an antique Tijuana bible, or written the outline for an angry rant.
Have a nice day.