Which is to say, if you see me at my worst and stick around, you've penetrated the ozone layer to my heart. You're forever logged in (a post on that one, yeah?). 

I remember, being 22 and in the company of this man-child. I had harboured the desire to do him in the backseat of his car (a friend recently reminded me of that, and boy, was I shocked at my tenacity) before we became friends. I recall us sitting in the same wretched car when this happened. We had stopped at a traffic signal and I was looking out of the window, hungover out of my mind. Dressed in pyjamas and a t-shirt, I was every bit nonchalant when he looked at me and pointed out, "Can you please get rid of your moustache? You have more facial hair than me. Also, what sort of clothes are these anyway? Why won't you wear formals to college? We only wear formals at our college."

Something changed that day. I decidedly stopped giving fucks to people other than me. This, from a woman, who coordinated her lingerie daily despite studying in an all-girls school and college with close to no semblance of a relationship with a boy/man. He'd hit the wrong nerve. My moustache wasn't the only thing I got rid off that week. 

I've come a long way since. 

I've loved men for their brashness. I have been in love with their way with words. And, their words. I have looked at them in rapture. I've seen them articulate using their hands. Staring at their long fingers, I have stood next to them completely enamoured. I have been in awe of their obstinacy. I have held them tight, after letting them down. I've been there after I've been gone. I've seen them and had my fair share of knowing them. Knowing what makes their heart giddy and what makes them fall in love. I know them, much as how I know how veins carry oxygen in the blood to the heart. I know some of them better than I know myself. It's a curse, truly. 

However, my only regret to this day is, I don't understand them. Maybe it's because I am not wired like them. Men are like the jigsaw puzzle that you receive as a birthday present, which you don't sign up for. Aged 6, all the pieces lost in the living room was probably the first time I experienced anxiety and OCD almost simultaneously. Men, to me, are the lost pieces of the puzzle, I discovered before I saw the larger grid. Almost, always, they stick out oddly and I lose my patience, and prematurely, end my quest to discover them in entirety.