Moral fiber

I am questioning it. Questioning my newest brand of ethics.

I have this blog as a cathartic sort of thing. But really, all the gory details of my life, my liasons, are not shared, are toned down. True story dear readers, you're not getting all of the details.

You're not getting the parts where I begin to wonder whether I'm turning into a monster. A home-wrecking, friend screw-er over, looking-for-trouble monster.

It's all fun and games until I start thinking back over the last couple of months. Start a mental tally. A tally of all the boys and all the ways I have lied and cheated and not followed the rules. There are rules, you know.

All the lining up of men and all of my insecurities and my need to line up men. Why do I line up men? What is this constant need to create difficulties and obstacles and awkward encounters? Why do I frequently find myself playing the game What-percentage-of-boys-have-I-kissed-in-this-room/in-my-phonebook/in-this-city? The number typically hovers around 82%.

Let's talk numbers. Or let's not.

It's not even about the numbers. I'm over the numbers. Numbers don't bother me so much. It's the morality card. The who-may-I-be-screwing-over? card. Just because I don't care about numbers and percentages of rooms and the lining up of men, just because I'm boy crazy, it doesn't matter. Kissing doesn't kill, but I do wonder if all this kissing is at the expense of others.