To Love Or Not to Fuck
by C E Hoffman
My skull is abounding with cliches.
Today (most days, every day!) I feel un-right regarding romance.
I don’t function on the same wavelength as society suggests I should. My ideas of dating, sex, love, and emotional attachment can merit an eyebrow raise from even the most open-minded human (and I’m not just talking about my polyamorous feelings).
I don’t get upset about the same things people get upset about and I don’t heal in the same way or at the same speed other people do, and this makes it hard for me to relate to my partner(s).
You’d think someone so (allegedly) sensitive as me would understand that people can’t get over things quite as quickly as I can. (Do I even get over them; do I just repress?)
Sometimes I fret there’s something the doctors didn’t catch- something seriously wrong with me.
I don’t want to be a woman who is defined by her relationships (or lack thereof) and cringe to find myself tracing my steps back to that maddening merry-go-round.
Yet I can’t deny how much these affairs (literal or otherwise) influence me.
My writing thrives whenever I’m faced with sexual liaison, amorous impulse, should-have-seen-it-coming heartbreak. Some of my best works (whether poems, songs, novels or flash fiction slop) are inspired by people I’ve loved or longed for.
I’m not saying all this as if I’m the only creative soul to experience it. I know most (if not all?) writers require a muse outside of themselves.
Yet I wonder if I subconsciously set myself up for emotional torment just so I’ll have something to write about.