So I have this innate fear of being hurt. Emotionally. It is an overpowering, all-consuming, brain hijacking fear. It's a tiny little person in my brain telling me to run run run for my life from whatever fantastic boy is unfortunate enough to fall for me in some way, rather than let myself fall deeper into a chasm of vulnerability. At times I can overrule the little guy, my logic convincing me to stay, at which point he becomes enraged, like an angry drunk leprechaun, and everyone knows you don't mess with THEM. For purposes of revenge, he then walks (skips, whistling irish folk tunes) around my brain, poking at things and messing with my neurotransmitters and redirecting my synapses and I begin to act like a terrible, awful version of myself, until the vulnerability-threatening situation, i.e. fantastic boy love interest, has dispersed, i.e. ran for his life in the opposite direction without looking back, stepping all over my heart as he goes.


I hate that shitty midget, and yet I continue to feed him a consistent stream of assumption-based suspicions, fatalistic predictions and unrealistic expectations. He grows fat and lazy on this diet and sometimes naps for days on end, at which point my thought processes temporarily clear, like an unexpected sunny day in the middle of a rainy streak. Happiness inevitably ensues, which would undoubtedly infuriate my parasitic midget... were he conscious anyway. And yet inevitably he, once fully digested and little pot-belly growling, awakes from hibernation and I, in my cyclical fashion, give in to his demands without resistence. At times his appetite is insatiable and, in an effort to quiet his whining (ringing in my ears), I create imaginary tales of fantastic boy's infidelity, which keep us both up late into the early morning, though I am the only one that engages in borderline obessesive cellphone checking (Is this thing working? Is the volume on? I must not have service. Do I have service? I hate Verizon!). The leprechaun watches soccer and has a beer.

If David Beckham does not become hurt or disfigured at some point during the game, the dwarf again returns to terrorizing me, though at this point I have probably slipped into some sort of tortured sleep. Midgets hate David Beckham. Once home, the fantastic boy and object of my once normal affection will then either be coldly ignored or savagely attacked (with an outporing of emotions, though I imagine the leprechaun would prefer phsyical violence). Much crying follows. This scene has the potential to repeat itself often, depending upon the resilience of the other contributing party, but the result is always the same: visions of an amazing guy walking out the (proverbial) door, the midget whistling Oh Danny Boy, and my heart and hopes mercilessly crumbled.

I now find myself in the company of an entirely fantastic, and fairly resilient, awesome awesome guy. He is truly a fantastic boy. The leprechaun hates him. He is good at soccer, which I suspect is at the root of the midget disapproval. Needless to say, I do not wish to repeat the behaviors which have previously hindered me. I have attempted to paralyze the little monster with overdoses of ice cream, though he simply receives an incurable sugar high and becomes uncontrollable, running endless circles in my head (brain freeze).

I really really don't want to push this one away. I love his company. Love it. I want to let myself be vulnerable. I want to risk his hurting me in the future, if he would, if it means more time to spend in the present. I want to experience more nights staying up way too late, talking about (insert random subject here), more amazing sex and more crazy after-bar drives home, more movies on couches and make-outs in stairwells, and many more mornings waking up in total peace and totally enveloped in his arms.

Apparently, I need to kill my fear-inducing, happiness-sabotaging leprechaun.

Suggestions graciously accepted.