An Ode to Desperate Housewives

In the relatively recent past, I sat through one of the most important 1 hour and 24 minutes of my life...spent watching the season finale of Desperate Housewives.

Yes, I had been watching the series since Episode 1. And yes, I found it interesting enough to watch until the eighth season. And yes, it had been damn amazing.

So right now I feel that I am compelled to write about something that’s meant a lot to me in the latter half of my life thus far. 

Now that’s saying something, because this is the half where (1) I dabbled into drugs (you have to understand that I feel the need to brag about this, to make my life seem marginally exciting,. despite the laughable “amount” that barely had any effect on me), (2) discovered the thrill of loving liking boys and sleeping with the same, and (3) studied like fucking nuts (and now I have to stop trying to enumerate what I’ve done for what I call this latter half, because nothing else of relevance comes to mind).

The point is, through it all, I found time to slip in a few hours (actually that’s a lot of hours, if you add up eight seasons’ worth of 45-minute episodes) to find out what’s happening in Wisteria Lane. Even for the most part I thought I was the only person I knew watching it. And even if Andrew Van De Kamp’s appearances became few and far between.

So anyway. Cheers to Desperate Housewives--by turns absurd, whiny, and unnecessarily dramatic...very much not unlike me. And cheers to Robyn for looking like a man in this video below.

Self-destruction and transformation

I promised I'd write today. I owe this to myself: to write about happy moments I conveniently and often forget, in plain contrast to sorrow which would easily launch me into a writing frenzy.

So today I write, because I'm happy.

I find myself opening up again, completely trusting another person in a way I didn't think I could anymore.  Strange, isn't it? We promise ourselves we'll never love again after a great heartbreak. But once the dust has settled, we draw ourselves back to the search. Maybe it's the way we're wired--we're meant to love.

I'm happy, because I found someone similar yet different. In those differences I can't help but be fascinated in and be drawn to, while in the similarities I find comfort. It just fits. It all works.

But I'm holding my breath. If there's anything I learned from my recent failure, it's that you have to take a step back, look at the big picture, and occasionally pull yourself back to earth. I'm trying to be careful.

One of the ideas presented by Sabina Spielrein, an idea I discovered after watching A Dangerous Method, is that the human sexual drive is about self-destruction and losing one's self in another, but it is also capable of transformation.

As a hopeless romantic and as a person who truly believes sex is for two people who have feelings for each other, I can't help but think that here I am again: possibly in the path of self-destruction, but, at the same time, possibly at the edge of the love that counts.