I feel like my biological clock is ticking. That feeling probably applies only to women, but nevertheless the urge to have children is becoming stronger now that spring is in full bloom. I think about sex most of the day lately. And I need a woman by my side. But they traditionally cannot commit to me. Reasons are unexplainable. One of them, with whom I was married, ran away to the jungle last year to study at an obscure university and wouldn’t promise that she would ever return. Before leaving she admitted that she never wanted to marry me in the first place. Another one says she doesn’t know what is upsetting her and causing her to doubt our relationship. It seems on the surface that perhaps she cannot figure out whether she wants to be with me. What does it all mean, what are women looking for? What I am doing wrong? A close friend of mine named Chrissy tells me that it is not only me per se who believes he is inept in forging relations, but perhaps about half the people in the world are screwed up in one way or another regarding the same tribulations. Sweetly sublime spring days are passing by, and the desire to procreate intensifies. But the women do not cooperate.
One reader of this blog wonders whether I am having an “emotional crisis” for writing about topics such as love and marriage, and that what I write is not necessarily “profound.” Well, perhaps being an emotional romantic is a kind of fault in this capitalist-driven world where financial security defines your place in society over and above your skill set, talent and personality. I cannot say for sure. And I certainly don’t know what defines the makings of a “profound” blog. After all, the term “blog” is a shortened moniker for “Web log,” basically an online journal on which one can write whatever comes across one’s mind at any time of the day or week. On this blog anything goes, profound or not.
Back to romance and breeding. I have pondered lately (though not taking myself very seriously) about going to a random village and taking my pick of the 18-20 year-old virgins running about. A friend of mine did that—actually his family members arranged a brief meeting whereby they visited the village mayor’s home and his supermodelesque daughter came into the room to set demitasses of coffee on the table before strolling out five seconds later. Soon after that the courtship started and eight months later it was party time, red apples galore. Their lovely but bashful daughter is two-and-a-half. I think they can help me. I only have two requirements basically—that she can dig Coltrane and she does not have a mustache. I will hopefully not have to worry about all the cooking, washing and cleaning in the house being done unless she turns out to be lazy and apathetic. In that case raising children with her would be out of the question. After some time lounging about in my apartment while letting the dirty dishes pile up and the overflowing trash bin reek she would probably start dreaming about picking mulberries from the 80-year-old tree in their garden which her great-grandfather planted so long ago, and collecting eggs in the chicken coop at dawn. Then bored beyond tears perhaps she would be off for the village using the money I gave her to buy some cheese and bread in order to catch a ride on the homebound minibus. At that point I would be back where I started. Tings. Here’s hoping good fortune and karma will come my way soon. Making babies will nevertheless have to wait.