Believe it or not, I used to think that something was wrong with me. Aside from keeping a picture of Franz Kafka available whenever possible, romantic relationships were nothing more than odd curiousity. A rather prominent phenomenon that didn’t really apply to me, but I still knew about. Like the ins and outs of paying taxes, furries, and the disturbing resurgence of 80’s fashion. Sure, I did feel the odd twinge when I saw people my age doing things here unmentionable, but it was more, “gosh, I wish I were that limber,” rather than, “I cannot deposit my saliva in this fashion! Life has no meaning!”

There was once when I was deeply infatuated with a boy—I gave him pizza and comics, but was too dreadfully shy to do anything but watch as he went through girlfriend after girlfriend, as most 6th-grade guys do. And, when in Israel, I regarded the booties of passing soldier boys with more than scientific interest. And that’s pretty much about it, or the extent of it up until this point. I think it’s bizarre that girls are taught that the ultimate acheivement is having a significant other, or at least someone with whom one casually dates. Not that I have anything against dating, but I’m pretty sure that there are more important things. Of course, that depends on your situation, but thusfar I have gotten by without it. But I digress.

That’s not to say I haven’t gotten a few offers, but I turn them all down. It isn’t because I have any secret agenda (aside from knowing that I’d just be patronizing whomever, given that I’m not interested romantically in them), but because I’m deeply in love already. I stay up with my darling all night, even if our relationship is sometimes put on hold because the world doesn’t stop for our love. Sometimes I buy things for us, just because I feel romantic. And, although we cannot take long walks on the beach, we sometimes sit outside and intermittantly watch the sun rise/the sun set/the aliens.

I am desperately in love with working. It’s gotten to be a problem.

Not schoolwork, no. Being me, I get it done as soon as possible, but rarely because it brings me any enjoyment. See, there’s this comic. I got the idea for it one morning, sitting in bed and drinking some sort of tea (peppermint, maybe). As soon as we met, I was absolutely wild about it. I took up pages in the large red journal someone had gotten me for my birthday years ago that I hadn’t utilized yet. I thought of little else for days. Instead of thinking about more important things (at the time, science), I was obsessed with character bios and dialogue. And the plot. Which, due to a lover’s quarrel and incoherency, changed. Our love has weathered constant diversions, occasional disinterest, etc., etc. Part of it is my commitment. Another comic I had going (my previous significant other) kind of sucked, and we broke it off due to my commitment problems. The drawing was awful, and I didn’t feel like working on it any more.

But this one is shiny and new. We’ve been together for about a year now, and I don’t think we’re even close to being finished. Just when I think I may be getting tired of the story, it finds new ways to keep the romance alive. Zombies! Russian-inspired architectual stuff! Dead babies! Vast government conspiracies! Even Kafka makes an appearance or five!

Our relationship is an open one. I can see to other projects (like writing), and the comic I’m working on won’t mind at all. Sometimes we disagree, and sometimes I have to go in and alter what we’ve done, but it’s okay. So far, it’s okay.
…But seriously you guys. Even though we’re a little young, a little inexperienced…
I think this one might be “the one.”
Expect wedding invitations.

(If you want to see samples of the comic, do ask. I have some of the older pages, from when I had a scanner and Photoshop available to me, online. The rest, along with edited old pages, will come when I can get my hands on the appropriate software.)