It really shouldn't matter to you.

Deleted a helluva lot of posts that had to do with the person I once was. I don't want reminders of that. I've been a lot more positive and level-headed (I was giggly and immature, a glass of lemonade). I'm still a scattered mess, but I am finally moving forward (baby steps, tottering in a vaguely northward direction).

I don't know if anyone actually ever reads this and to be honest, I don't really care if they do. My words (strung along prettily like pearls in a necklace) will soon be forgotten to myself. Nothing is indelible, not even the ink smearing my skin in a few choice locations (UV rays from the sun triggering reactions that break down the chemicals in the ink, fading them into grey whirls).

I am neither a poet nor a writer. I am a dreamer. I live on castles of air made on a foundation of ocean mist and heady smoke rings. My arms are scarred from past hurts. I am at heart, a survivor.

This is a rant.

I am not a victim of my circumstances. I am, despite them. I am not of them.

I have been tested and found wanting when it comes to my Emotional Quotient levels. On the other hand, the last time I took an IQ test, I scored a 133. Do not treat me like an idiot just because I don't understand your social cues. Walk me slowly through things.

I support the QUILTBAG (the utterly new fab name for LGBTQ) community and their need for rights. I am being deliberately ambiguous here because. Well. I have very good reasons.

I am the star of my own story. I save myself. I also have a fantastically huge ego in contrast with my currently crap self-esteem, and it's all for the best if you don't try to understand me.

I like taekwondo. A lot. I currently hold a second dan blackbelt in it. Yes, fairly common. I have five medals for sparring and two for taeguek. When I was younger (angrier, more aggressive, prone to trouble), it was the quiet and authoritative voice of my master that stilled my impulses. To you, and to the rest of the world, it may be a farce of a martial art (I could agree; I never cringed more than when I watched the Olympics). But all I can say is that taekwondo is divided into three branches roughly: traditional taekwondo, sports taekwondo and... combat taekwondo (somehow, this involves nunchucks- I literally have a pair of practice nunchucks hanging behind my room door...).

(I am, however, a complete failure at completing ninjutsu. My bokken and tanto lie in my room, watchful and dusty but unforgotten.)

I have a hang up over being called 'pretty' or 'beautiful' or... Just anything relating to my looks, in general. I tense up when someone compliments me on the way I look (not that it happens often, mind you) and I tend to change the subject. This has nothing to do with self-esteem and everything to do with past situations. Don't take my lack of acceptance for a lack of manners. Again, I would thank you to stop trying to comprehend the way I work.

Sometimes, I actually do feel that I look good. This one, I'll have to attribute to my bigender tendencies.

Which brings us squarely back to the genderqueer post I meant it this to be.

Gender and sexuality are inherently fluid. Neither are mutually exclusive to the other and may be completely unrelated. Stop assuming what I am.

And for now, that is all I have to say about the matter. That was supposed to be the focal point of this entire post, but my thoughts have once again gone awry (playing hide-and-seek in a unfamiliar location of their own devising; I cannot grasp hold of them and they slip past the gaps between my fingers).

This has somehow turned into a ramble.

Lately, the subject of love has weighed heavy upon my mind.

Odd.
Why?
Because I have never fallen in love before.
But didn't you...?
I did. But the point still stands. I have never fallen in love before.

Limerence is my fair friend. Infatuation, a comfortable ally. Love? Agape, eros, and above all, romantic, no. I can't say that I have.

Let us start at the beginning. I am a dreamer, yes. But a cynical one. I watch the ending of dreams with my eyes wide open, living in reality, coexisting (one foot in a world of my own, the other firmly attached to the destruction of this universe). Jaded. World-weary.

I do not dream of Prince Charming on his stately stallion stealing strong, steady heartbeats from my chest. My thoughts are not full of the knight in shining armour, lance strategically placed steadfast at the side of his stabled steed. (All alliteration produced out of boredom; I am bored bored bored bored bored)

It could also be said that I have been replaying Wonderland by Natalia Kills (a guilty pleasure and one of my favourite songs). Dark and grim.

In all honesty, I understand that aromantics exist. In all probability, I could be one of them. I'm not sure.

An aromantic is a person who lacks the instinctive need to create an emotional attachment to someone in a romantic sense.

This would normally be a good thing since I really don't like having visible weaknesses except that I would like to one day fall in love (negation: I am not an aromantic). A dizzy, headlong rush, adrenaline shooting through my veins, intoxicating my mind and body the way only a chemical can.

Or so I've been told.

It's almost 3AM and I have better things to do. Screw it.