Are you a pedophile?

Let's talk about love, the inevitable topic I have been dreading due to the absence of experience and, well, the lack thereof. Which I also assume, you, the dear reader is any better than I. You're probably alone, by yourself, as lonely as having gay crushes, Hillary's merkins, or your hip dips can be. All this to explain artistically and in a politically confusing manner that you're single, you get the gist.

Mind you (in all honesty), a touch-deprived monk would have a better analysis of what love is than yours truly, but let's face it, sugar. All you have got is me and your moderately impressive mid-jawline, so let's make this work, shall we?

I used to have a skewed perception of it - love, specifically the type that exists between a man and a woman. What led you to believe otherwise? Hmm? You perv! I'm talking about romantic relationships, or as I would like to call it, the good old "tuchus to tuchus" kindle. I just didn't understand how people can latch on to a passing being— a being subjected to die, get sick, stumble on a pebble, and somehow break a joint. A person that might have a missing toe or, worse yet, an untreated fungal infection that has lasted for decades. I didn't get it and I still don't. But people are weird, we are weird. We find fragility cute. We see a person stutter to get through a sentence, and for some reason we take that as a compliment. The sentence in question might be 'you're ugly,' but we don't care. We are too self-involved to see past the speech impediment, which we so readily presume is due to our presence.

Delusion 1: "Did you notice how nervous he was around me?"

Delusion 2: "Why, darling, that's just the telltale sign of love!"

Me, but with a 'functioning' reality filter: "Or...or perhaps, in a more pessimistic scenario, the poor fellow is battling anxiety. He is actually genetically predisposed to hate you and humanity at large. So, de-stress your breasts, please."

Oh, love! I fell into a bit of a pickle, regardless of my complaints. I saw a weak one—the kind that you can push into a ditch with no effort, the type that makes you question if they've learned how to properly walk, the darn adorably incapable type. And I stumbled a little myself. I did some unspeakable things, like buying sunscreen because he was blinding to watch. My skin was on fire, my pants turned to ash—you know, the usual stuff. So this will not come off as a surprise, when I say I absolutely despised this feeling, as well as the person that's causing it. It was turning me into something that I abhorred —a nurturer, a mom. This is not like me. My aspirations were quite different, you see. I wished to be a glorified financial benefactor, aka sugar 'mami' at best and a champion of mediocrity at my worst. I wanted to throw money at my problems and watch them grow into buildings, or at the very least into poorly constructed BBLs. But in the words of the wise Mother Jada, "I have been entangled." I have been caught. I spiraled into a dilemma, fell into the quagmire of my existence. This. Can't. Be. The embarrassment from the consecutive thoughts that were running through my mind overwhelmed me. I toyed with the idea of buying a cookbook, tenderly patting his back if need be, and worst of all, caring for him, just... being a good person—yuck, all the while also wanting to engage in the act of the naked tango, the age-old pubic dance. Sooo.. here lies my concern, for How is this duality explainable and normal to many? How is caring for your significant other as if they were a child and wanting to bed them a joyful experience to most? And as the title prevails, how do you not feel like a pedophile whenever you're in love?

P.S. Remember, this is all made up! So, unless you're offering constructive criticism (or really delicious cookies), please refrain from adding your own unsettling twist to an already perfectly odd story.