This mixed bag of adventures has placed into a man I could have wrapped around my finger just by opening my mouth. There's a certain charm to knowing that if I tried, I could have just about any man that I wanted. And somehow, I hardly ever care. I am almost twenty three years old. Shouldn't I care more about the way my hair falls in the morning, and how many calls have shown up on my missed list? My mother wants me set up, and I feel like she's relating her own experiences of meeting the person she would marry (my father, of course) around the age that I am now.

I remember long ago that she once told me that twenty three was the happiest year of her life. Even if that thought has changed in the years since, at one point in time, she considered my soon to be age her happiest. It's obvious she wishes the same for me, but I'm not interested. My time will be spent blundering over the falls and laughing when I get bruised. (Yes, apparently I'm a masochist).

Even after going on a few dates, closing the door to my room and cutting out all the noise and the heavy current of the city awakens me more than the prospect of a man. I certainly would have a difficult time living in any non-modern era.