your love, your love, your love is my drug

Three.

There have been three boys.

Three boys that unknowingly unzipped something within me, along with my dress.

Six.

I was six years old when I first felt the kind of love that makes breathing impossible, purple a skin tone, and dreams include lots of sex and babies. Except I was six. So I probably dreamed less about things that involved possible cootie contamination and more about him rescuing me on the back of a unicorn and proposing to me with smelly erasers and kit-kats.

Adults can spew self-righteous truisms about not really knowing what love is all they want.

They’re fucking liars.

I was 6. And I was in love.

Eighteen

I was eighteen when I met a boy that made me disregard all social mores, flee my current beau, start quoting Shakespeare and catalyzed my transformation into some sort of flower-child pin-up hybrid. He also had me quite convinced that making out in the back room at work was an entirely constructive and acceptable way to spend your shift (he was right).

Twenty-Three

I’m 23. And I’m wickedly lucky to still be with a boy that makes me feel so good in an I want nothing more than to be bad kind of way.

And the other?

Well the other I am quite sure I can little hope to construct coherent sentences about beyond saying I fully subscribe to the notion that only unfulfilled love can be romantic.

The reason for these numbers? These summaries of my untamed heart?

I want to bottle this shit.

Because, honestly?

I can jump off a bridge with a rubber band attached. I can dye my hair purple. Or blue. Or pink. I can sky dive, sketch permanent and painful musings onto my skin, or amass an army of piercings. I can travel. and dance. and scream. I can drink from fountains in Rome and swim in seas in Malibu, eat ice cream in triple digit heat and fly down sno-cone like mountains. Jet-ski. Parasail. Mountain climb. Motorcycle. I can do anything I fucking want to.

But I can never replicate what those (3) boys made me feel.

But then again, I’ve never tried LSD.

So there’s that.

update:  on further review this sounds far too much like I’m sex-and-the-city-style-telling you the number of people i’ve slept with. to which i say: really? do you really think i’d include the 6-year-old-love-of-my-life on that list? and if i did start at 6, why the hell would i only be at 3? so many questions. the right answer? three. three is the number of boys i’ve fallen head over Louboutins for. regardless of physical escapades.

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~ by rubylocks on March 12, 2010.

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