A Note To You, My STI-Crossed Lover

For some, love is painfully elusive. I’d often listen to accounts of other people falling in love and as a single girl it drove me insane with jealousy. When you are single, you are single on your own. You are a singular single. Your enthusiasm for ever finding that perfect romance steadily declines as the realisation that every other member of the human race is attached becomes increasingly lucid.

Without warning, you’ve changed all of that for me. Thanks to you, I am able to see the world as lovers see it; the weather is warmer, the grass is greener and the muggers are more merciful. Just as a string of ill-suited boyfriends and unfortunate encounters with sarcastically-programmed dating site applications had left me feeling delicate and dejected, you lifted my spirits to the moon. I cannot eat and I cannot sleep, only hopelessly think of you.

Now, I know what you’re going to say. I know it’s complicated. It always is with guys who lack a third dimension. But I’m not expecting miracles here.  Simply to hear you utter those three magical words, to have them gently kiss my ears, would help to satiate my thirst for you.

I know you are capable of loving me, for you have the sweetest heart. Not in the literal sense because you don’t have any organs. But this does little to faze me. Organs are highly overrated and your ability to withstand toilet deprivation for longer than 30 minutes without your bladder threatening to explode truly makes you a king among men.

But I digress. I digress from telling you how wonderful you are. How you make me smile. How you have the most attractive eyes and the most kissable lips. How your vulnerability makes me want to hold you in my arms and protect you from harm. How you are the most wonderful father – oh how I wish you would stop doubting your abilities as a father. You are too hard on yourself, sweetheart. If people were to kick up a fuss every time I got a kid run over by a car or kidnapped by a maniacal serial killer, then I’d be pretty darn red-faced right about now.

To touch you would be beautiful. To caress you would be divine. But instead I feel frustrated because you hold your dimension like you hold your toilet and this, my love, means we can never be.

You are my romantic tragedy.