Look Busy

I want to be accepted. And at times I have been. Only briefly. And I can only guess at how purely.

Acceptance feels like how christmastime is supposed to feel, like being given a gift that stirs the primal loins. It feels like love and love–and electric touches–and fire melting cinnamon into faint hints of pine poured over a caramel gingerbread cookie dunked in mulled wine and stuffed into a warm and gently undulating vagina garnished with a sprig of freshly clipped holly.

We all want, ultimately, to be accepted–infatuated over–as the case may be. The key? Wanted-ness. France. And to be on the "in" instead of "out." Even America wants French approval. Does it not?

And it seems that we are only given glimpses of this acceptance. Of ourselves, we are untolerating. But this is inherent in those of us who are self-aware. Those who want to better themselves, and challenge themselves to do so. So how can we expect others, with much higher and exacting standards, to let us in?

We can pretend.