Friday, 3 July 2009

My romanticised and impossible ideal

I've been reading "Love letters of Great Men" and from what I can take from it is that no matter how "Great" the man, he is open to have his flaws too. The most common is adultery, promises that cannot be kept, a love that is merely infatuation, a longing for what cannot be had.

Whilst judging these love struck fools and feeling increasingly cynical and bitter about love itself, I began to question what qualities I look for within a significant other. I say signifcant other loosely, because first thing first: If and when I get into a relationship, the other cannot be overwhelmingly significant. I will not devote myself so completely to another man or woman.

Physically, I need someone where I will happily feel the need to ravage them in a animalistic manner. I am not shallow, by no means are looks essential, but this is my ideal partner, so there. Ha. I would like someone with a strong jaw line, mezmerizing eyes with a quirky twist in their features that you just can't put your finger on. Someone who is just a tad taller than me, who aren't as thin as me. Broad, almost. With manly, manly arms. A collarbone that juts out, and you can see the different angles of it. I love a good collarbone.

Now the important parts, the parts that will make this person perfect to me: The personality. Essentially the only thing that is worth anything in this world. You could have all the money in the world, you could be so very well educated, eloquent, but if you have a terrible personality, you are rich in nothing. That is how I feel.
He will listen. That's the most important thing. He will listen to what is being said, he would listen to music with a particuarly kind ear, he would have a taste for critisism and a sarcastic bite. He will not be venomous. This poor, perfect soul will know perfectly how to handle my neurotic mannarisms, my undeniable and unnecessary need to pick holes in everything. They would appreicate great literature, and they must at least like one Sex Pistols song that isn't "God Save The Queen", "Pretty Vacant, or, "Anarchy in the UK".

If I drink too much, they wont judge, they will be drinking with me, and finding it funny to collect traffic cones on the way home. If I ever chose to pick up a cigarette with them, they would let me smoke, and kiss my nicotine lips regardless. They would have a taste for the real beauty of life. They would like french cinema, cult classics and be able to sit and watch at least two of "Spaced," "Black Books", "Peep Show", "The Office", "Buffy The Vampire Slayer," "Extras", or "Hollyoaks". This is a must.

They will understand that I am a creature that cannot be contained through a relationship, and let me run about, declaring how I need to spread my wings, explore other horizons, before getting myself into a mess and flying straight back to them again. Someone who will, essentially, just humour me. Lord knows I need that.

They will not take the piss out of me, although that is easily done. They would prefer a night in, drinking red wine with me, discussing various Philosophical debates, Art and Literature.
The will be faithful, they will be clever, The will be broody, dark, troubled souls that are so tortured that they are beyond salavation. I will be infatuated with their trauma. I usually am.

Of course, apart from the last two sentences no man I have ever met in my young years have ever lived up to my ridiculously high expectations. This is why I am single. This is why I am happy to be single. No man will ever live up to what I expect of them to be. They would have to have the wit of Oscar Wilde, the intelligence of Stephen Fry, The lustful good looks of Billie Joe Armstrong, The insanity of Clara Bow (We can't forget the females here), the unpredictability of Sid Vicious, the raw magnetisim of Russell Brand and the exoticness of Noel Feilding.

Of course, this is what I want, so by default I will go with the complete opposite. To someone who is nothing but terrible for me, and destroys me bit by bit with their beauty. Typical, really.

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