Let's start with the fact that I'm hardly putting anything out here. Then, when I do, it's recipes. That's cool. I love to cook, and I write it all down anyway. Might as well post the good ones. But do people really read my blog for the recipes? I doubt it. At best, the recipes are a tide-you-over thing. Correct me if I'm wrong.
Waaaaay back when, when this spot wasn't boring, I was lonely. I put out a lot of little stories about my past love life and the love lives that were hit and miss. Mostly miss, with high points that stick with me to this day. Sprinkled around those stories were other parts of my life; my love of chick flicks, the whole "I'm shy" thing, food, the kids, religion, vacations, etc. Once things got rolling, the comments were pretty evenly doled out, but I'm pretty sure I know what people really liked to read about. To be honest, that's what I love to write about.
If you're not familiar with Blogger (which is the whole "web thing" that creates, manages, and displays the blog site you're reading right now), it's got a screen that displays and manages all your draft blog posts, so you can work on them as you see fit, then publish when ready. I've got 41 draft blog posts. Many are recipes that need formatting, there are a few fitness or nutrition related blogs that will probably never see the light of day, and then there are lots of little interesting blog starts that immediately stopped, probably never to be finished. They are too personal and too new. I don't want to hurt anybody and I don't want to have girls that I date signing release forms, either...
I'm going to have to come to terms with things and turn this blog around. I can write non-boring stuff! I promise. I really want to write again, and not just about cooking.
Forgive the weird phrasing of this next statement, but I'm about to say that I have passion. That's something that someone says about you, you don't usually say it about yourself. But, I'm alone here, with no one to egg on to say it for me.
I have passion. I have passion to put things down in writing. I feel passionate about many things; love, food, cooking, romance, chick flicks, sex, honor, scents, women, etc. There are huge overlaps here. There are ancillary topics that I could include, but by and large, they all come back to that short list. The list could be far shorter if you distill it waaaay down. Women. As the phrase goes, "All roads lead to Rome" (except for the ones that never got finished because some guy stopped to say hi to a woman). Women.
Does it all come down to that? No. But, mostly. For most guys. We all have other interests, of course. We're allowed. Science fiction's not going to attract a lot of chicks, but I read it and watch it. Some guys like the Stooges. There's math. Dungeons & Dragons. Should I continue?
But, the reality of things is that most guys live for women (or a woman (singular) if he's civilized). They are the driving force, subconsciously or consciously of a man's actions.
I'm not sure where I'm going with this... It's taking it's own path.
On Sunday, I met this woman at a Starbucks. She was from the other side of the country and leaving that very afternoon. We talked for over four hours, including a little walk next door for lunch (a girl's gotta eat) before she had to leave. Instant and intense connection. It was like Before Sunrise, but without the coolness of Paris. Instead of everyone around us in Paris seemingly ceasing to exist, leaving us alone with each other, we had the people at Pasta Bravo and Starbucks.
I like to like someone, and to be a huge pussy about it, I like the feeling that I've met someone wonderful. Someone who could be the perfect girl for me (as if there could be just one). Perfect girls are rare, but the ones I can't have are often really perfect. So perfect. I'm sure time would change that, but first date perfect and early relationship perfect is something to always remember and cherish.
When Sunday Girl and I said goodbye, we just basically said goodbye. We'd talked a lot and probably avoided all sorts of things that were irrelevant to our four hour relationship. Before she left, she told me that I was quietly and mysteriously confident, and the way I talked to my friends made her want to know me.
This was sort of a shocker to me, but in the last few months, I have been called similar things before. I've never felt confident before, but I suppose I'm there. This is pretty much the first time in my life. A far cry from how shy and self-conscious I've felt all my life.
I'm pretty much done. I want to be able to ramble again. Spill my guts. Tell my stories. I'm not sure what drove me over the edge to write this. There's been true heartache, lust, and love that I could write about before Sunday. In fact, Sunday didn't have any of those things. Maybe that's the key. I saw and felt potential, but we didn't hurt. There was melancholy that night and the next day, but everything is good. It will always be a fond memory. The word "fond" doesn't seem very intense. So much for the passion I'm claiming.