Alex

Love is indistinguishable from insanity. Someone else said that, but I don't recall who.

He is a very good storyteller. He shares his memories with me as affectionate narratives - they are dramatic and emotional. He uses the tales he tells to give meaning to his life, to validate his ongoing journey in this world.

You can tell he is a happy person, and when he speaks you get the sense that he genuinely enjoys life. There is a fondness in his tone when he talks about old friends, past romances and rivalries. He truly likes people, he trusts them, he is amused by them. People are experiences to be had, stories waiting to be told, and lessons to be learned.

And then there is the confidence with which he carries himself. His whole demeanor radiates something profound - ease and comfort. This is all part of his charm. He is conventionally attractive in every sense. A muscular frame, a bright smile, a sharp wit.

He's the kind of person someone like me is afraid of, in awe of, even jealous of, but never compatible with. His ease of existence is foreign to me. I want that ease he exudes, I want that comfort and sense of self-worth, but by nature I won't achieve it.

Oh, how I idealize the men I fall for. See above.

It started with Chad, really. I created a Chad-like character in my mind which I frequently worshiped. His struggles were tragic - his hardships made him somehow wise, superior and mature. His wrecked home life made him this mysterious and deep creature. To an extent, some of this was true. He was sad, mostly. He was thin, dorky, just well enough adjusted to achieve in school. He was an artist. He was truly a wonderful person… he just didn't really sit upon the pedestal which I put him. I crowned him the Prince of Tragedy, the King of Emotion, the one true Artist.

Next was Mike. I truly went off the deep end for this one. In reality, Mike was a stoner who knew how to use his words. His mom was the hippie type so she probably ate organic kale and religiously took her vegan vitamins while she was pregnant, and then read and sang to him nightly once he was born - babies treated as such grow into adults who are relatively smart and able to navigate life with at least a basic level of success. When I got a hold of him... I painted a very dramatic picture. He was cool, he was deviant. He was from the city. His experiences with drugs, women and people from all backgrounds made him as clever as a boy his age could have ever been. He was intelligent in the way that he knew how the world worked and he knew how to manipulate life to his advantage. Believe it or not, he also had a tragic affliction - his addiction to not one vice, but to them all. Back to reality for one moment - he really was an addict with a hint of narcissism or sociopathy, but I'm no psychology expert so I could not tell you for sure. In my 17-year-old projection machine of a mind, though, his addictions to women, weed, pills and lying made him vulnerable and deeply troubled - maybe he even needed someone to help him, fix him… maybe he even needed me.