I don’t need ovaries, nor the monthly hemorrhaging that evolution has foisted upon me; this survival mechanism meant to perpetuate the species via progeny. I have not and will not ever experience life in my womb (apparently not even of the pleasurable, stimulating variety, if present is any indication of future). Even if i were young enough to bear children, I neither have the desire nor the likelihood of doing so as a lesbian who would never, by definition, sleep with a man, and could not fund the artificial process.

I don’t need that lizard brain interpretation of the ideal mate, that insures perpetuation of the species, either. Just one who is in harmony with my personal identity and who can incite the proper synaptic response when i look at her…

I don’t, then, need a sex drive…for it is a major irritant and a constant reminder that I have no special someone with whom to make love; nor any expectation that this will change anytime soon, considering my rather isolated existence due to geographical, automotive, financial, and personal preference constraints.

I don’t need another example of how the gene pool needs chlorine. Nor the dating pool, for that matter.

I don’t need another reminder of how inherently unlucky i seem to be. It’s not that I have lived a life of abject misery, or suffer from some chronic debilitating disease…but there is this overweening hum of monotony in my existence, for which i have no solution.* It’s not so much a depression, as an anhedonia–an inability (or maybe the lack of a reason) to feel joy. I rarely feel excited about anything, and when i do, it doesn’t seem sustainable in the face of the inevitable reminders that some disappointment will always come along to trump my satisfaction.

I don’t need the constant reminder that it is never MY TURN.

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*though, since writing this, i do believe the solution is to be found in my decision to relocate.

Digital Painting, “After You Go” (c) Kelli Jae Baeli