Blackjack

Society proclaims me to be of age. An adult, it seems, for four months.

And yet I know I'm quite the opposite, utterly inchoate of matters carnal and practical. I am a mere dilettante in the theories and interests that so permeate my academia. An absolute infant when it comes to dealing with the opposite sex.

I have never been kissed. In keeping at arm's length men–and yes, men, because those that surround me are of other predilections or preferences–I do not know if it is to protect me from the hurt that rejection would bring, or the standards I long for are nigh too ideal. For the longest time, I've labored and hid under the impression of a conservative upbringing. There is that, yes–but it is not as constricting as I would have others believe.

I cannot keep the friendships I've held so dear. What worse can it be with a supposed man I might spend my life with? You say, date, what harm can it do? I reply, much. I can love far too easily.

Society calls me an adult. At heart, I'm still that naive little girl.