Especially lately, my limbic system is easy to anticipate.
When I am not tending to the daily minutiae of housewifery, my brain and my heart conspire together to be madly in love with something or someone. If I don't have a particular target in mind, my mission becomes finding one. And heaven help my mark.
The last two months have included rabid interests over:
- Rap
- Jesse Dangerously
- Temporary tattoos
- Memoirs
- Boys in general
- Summertime TV
- McDonald's Monopoly
- Expressing myself honestly through creative means
I have taken each of these things to embarrassing limits; the public displays regarding the first three alone have been Mount Rushmore-worthy. And, to be frank, it has all felt so good.
Here is a piece of wisdom that has been ingrained in me: there are people who find a stable, even-keeled life to be unsettling. I wouldn't group myself in with that set, necessarily, but I do miss the emotional rollercoaster that my life is lacking. The grass is always greener, et cetera.
Because of that urge to create those highs and lows, I bury myself in learning rap lyrics and then jump to perform them before I'm ready. The tidal wave of my drool at the concert I attended wiped out tens of nerdcore fans. I seek out the saddest articles and the silliest YouTube videos. I'm desperate to cry until I snot or laugh until I throw up.
What I am saying is, I have turned into Bella riding motorcycles just to see Edward's face.
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