Dissecting The Intelligentleman, And What We Found

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Love is the ultimate syndrome: a conglomeration of symptoms that are ultimately harmful to a human being, if exposed for too long. Blame it on emotion, the metaphorical membrane that supposedly intertwines through every universe and binds them together. In my opinion, emotion only ravages, and ironically, is what stands between a successful and unsuccessful union. This is not to suggest that one can not experience happiness whilst in a relationship. Internal emotions are acceptable, and encouraged, but an attempt to extend and impose them on to others is illogical, and futile. Empathy is a theoretical concept. To love another is nonsensical, particularly because love doesn't appear to have any fixed definition. Perhaps, if one was to describe love, it would be as "what one feels for another, esp. positive". To clarify - for those who are wondering what the difference between radiating and withholding (or closed circuit) emotions, is - love should be known as a heavy portmanteau of sustaining emotions, which are able to be clearly recognized and sourced by the individual. Or rather, love should be logical, not emotional; a choice, not a current.

For those who remain, a personal description shall follow. Mind you, it shall not meander or linger around specifics, because I don't fancy holding the equivalent of a bright neon "Stalk Me" placard above my rather gargantuan, and very shootable, head. Writing this, I fancy future occasions in which you and I will lounge by the fire, recalling our youth in a whiny, nostalgic croon, and I so desperately want to emit a sporadic gasp from you as I unveil a secret you haven't yet heard. Lastly, I solemnly swear not to use this as an opportunity to regurgitate a diagnosis (in your own words, as the assignment sheet once said), italicizing the key words, I have Narrow Obsessions and am Awkward Socially, etcetera.

I was labelled with a mundane name at birth, with no relevance to the squirming infant that had emerged. In Earth-years, I am seventeen. I agree with the cliche: "Love" knows no boundaries, in my experience, people mature at different rates (when they want to, basically, which is mostly never). I would be comfortably with anyone between the age of ten and dead, because sexual relations don't factor into the equation. If not technically asexual, I consider myself a moral antisexualist. However, I am totally against eternal chastity of any kind (except regarding alcohol and other drugs), and if given a rational reason to reconsider, could be coerced. I operate in extremes - it's generally all or nothing (although, I doubt anyone has half-sex, for that matter). Back to the maturity issue - I don't mean to imply that I'm unbearably earnest. My favorite philosophical conversation is the one in which all involved laughing at the beginning, middle, and end - not a scene involving perturbed glances and much beard stroking. Those who I cannot tolerate are the monkeys gibbering "la la la I don't wanna think it gimme a head-ache!" and covering their ears to protect a withering brain. Indeed, I consider myself the consummate blend of intelligence and immaturity (I may wind up dating my vainglorious self when this is over...don't worry, I'm often confused as to whether or not I'm joking, too). I enjoy the playtimes of childhood: tag, hide-and-go-seek, murder-in-the-dark, and handball. I still play handball for at least an hour a day when possible, and often leave my younger cousins panting with exhaustion and begging for a drink-break. On a seriouser (curiouser, why not seriouser?) note, I am a voracious reader. If books were candy I would devour them after reading, to fulfill the metaphor. If a deranged librarian held me at gunpoint and demanded my three favorite authors, I would stammer the following: Philip K. Dick, B.S. Johnson, and Thomas Pynchon, but only to preserve my existence. They are often superseded, with the exception of PKD, who will remain monarch for a long time, yet. It's taken me seventeen years to discover science-fiction (I was originally a fantasy lad, which is an entirely alternate universe), and I am currently machine-gunning through all the sci-fi I can grasp. As with most fans of a craft, I imitate with the hope of achieving splendor. I may be delusional, but it's an enjoyable affliction.

My temporal location could be useful, perhaps. Assuming we inhabit the same universe, a meeting is at the very precipice of coincidence. Brisbane, Australia, is the enclosure they've allocated me to for observation (keep your hands out of the cage at all times...it's been known to feign sleep), although I'm yet to arrive. The next decad or so should see me in the concrete jungle, among the other rats (you can distinguish me by sleeker fur, and sharper teeth). Despair isn't necessary, though: I won't completely ignore anyone who is bizarre enough to desire my company in cyberspace (you shall occupy approximately 16% of my attention). This is where corniness seeps in - for a "serious" relationship to function, the creature should be near me for this embarrassing reason: no matter how stoic I seem, I crave...hugs. Cease snickering, or at least allow me room to join in. Indeed, I can become comfortable enough with someone to tolerate, nay, even demand, a hug. It's a rare phenomenon: scientists devote their lives to studying it. And...the nights get cold...and...I want someone...to hold me! For the extra warmth a body requires, of course. In the summer, you can begone, banished to your inferior mattress.

The issue with time: inevitably, it spawns boredom. Do I want a permanent union, to die in someone else's arms? I shudder at the pervasive thought - corpses should be kept separate. A relationship should be the celebration of freedom and individuality, not the signing off of these virtues to another. When the fun is gone, so should I be. I give a decent partnership ten years, but it could last longer, if you're a crafty demon at heart. Anyhow, I hope to die young - maybe we'll die together after an apocalyptic bout of handball. One more note: polyamory. Dismiss the whole "soulmate" sham - it's a decision, not destiny. Love can be directed at numerous targets, from the same source. Forget jealousy, the more love the better, correct? I don't advocate those who use polyamory as an excuse to have sex orgies, and I don't consider it the same as cheating, it's consensual. Nevertheless, I seriously doubt two people will ever desire me at the same time, so it shouldn't become an issue.

If a character from the future is reading this, I congratulate you on your endurance. As you can tell, I unintentionally lied: I meandered, I meandered bad. If you can appreciate wafflers, the lines of communication are open, from now until forever.