Type? Oh! Negative.

Recently, someone asked me what turns me on.  I found this inquiry too complicated to respond to with any accuracy.  You see, what I like and what I consider my "type" continues to grow as I do.  And it becomes more simple and more indescribable as time goes on.

Here is my response:

"What turns me on is something that is neither quantifiable nor qualifiable. Chemistry is simply magic. If I were to name the things that make me like other human beings, it would take pages. The same likely goes for those qualities which I dislike.

I am a ridiculously lucky person, in spite of a series of tragedies. I am too smart for my own good, so I make stupid choices to spite myself. I am talented, but modesty is my best quality.

I cannot fit myself into some kind of special box that illustrates who I am or the person I might become. But you are welcome to get to know me despite my facts, foibles, failures and fortitudes. Just don't expect something so simple as an explanation of what my turn ons are. Life is far too complex for that."

What is my type?  Oh, you know, your typical responsible-irresponsible-handsome, but not too pretty- tattooed, but clean-cut-intelligent without being nerdy-dorky without play WOW-athletic without playing professionally-funny without making me feel like a joke-sweetheart without being a total pussy-kind of dude.  Good luck.  Because I could go on and on.

What does he like?  The music I do and the movements I follow.  What does he love?  Being in my presence and being kind to others.  What does he keep?  Sentimental treasures, but not secrets from me.  What does he need?  Me, but not in a desperate way.  Why do I waste my time?  Because I think he's out there, as much in need of my presence as I am of his.

Is he a "he?"  I don't know.  Some of the best dreams I have dictate otherwise.  But still he haunts me.  Ripping off my clothes, tearing at my heart.

And time flies as I sit here staring into this vast digital world.  I wonder if I'm wasting it waiting for him to say all the right things.  To wear the right cloak.  To laugh at my jokes.  To pull my heart strings.  To tell me everything.  But I've got nothing better to do.  Except be myself. 

What's your type?  Oh, is it me?  Fuck it. 

I see a little of me in every one of you.  And maybe that's what makes you so worthwhile to me: ME. 

I get you.  I understand you.  I love you.  Because, in some way, you are me and I am you. 

Yet you all remain so totally different from who it is that I am, that you're still worth getting to know on some level.  Because I'm totally my type, once I get to know me.  And so are you.