Infatuate

I hate being infatuated. I hate feeling like my entire life's happiness hangs on a person's whim and fancy. Obviously that's not the case, but it sure feels like it. When you check your phone every couple of minutes, and when your heart skips a beat upon receiving a message, and skips twice upon seeing that the message is from the Object of desire.

You melt when the Object giggles and smiles, you are filled with warmth with the slightest of physical contact. Your bank account, sleep, and schedule need no management when you're with the Object.

This is when you've to, Stop Yourself. Any concessions made during courtship will come back and bite you in the ass. Surrender yourself utterly, and you might as well lie on the floor in front of the door and paint "welcome home" across your face.

Infatuation reminds me of who I am. It's comforting in a way, yet pathetic to know that after so many years, and after so many relationships, I'm still more or less, unchanged. I remember putting a lot effort crafting each text message, saying how much I miss, and/or love the Object of my affections. I remember not getting replies. I remember wondering whether the network was lagging, or whether the Object received my messages. I remember being utterly pathetic.

I won't deny that it still wrenches my heart to not get replies. But I get over it a lot quicker now. That's some improvement at least.