It seems incredible now, but I once thought the notion of intentional families was a simple one. Who wouldn’t want a family actively chosen from people whom you love and who love you with their whole heart instead of some of those conflicted fuck-ups we are saddled with by blood and/or marriage?
My madness for you would drown out all other considerations in my life, those that I also burn for, those whom I would die for. It’s better that I sink into my other preoccupations, tasks which don’t leave me breathless and wondering how I would survive without you.
I hunger for more validation. More than being embraced by his family, which I am. More than us all being accepted by my friends, which we are. I hunger for the type of validation that marriage brings.
This is mental fucking. And it’s fucking mental.
When I was at my all-girls school my biology teacher blew a condom up like a balloon and brandished it in front of our faces. “Never let him tell you it isn’t big enough.” She shouted. Those of us close enough to smell the spermicide, tittered nervously and gazed at her admiringly. This was cutting edge sex education. Those of …