Bad-ass.

Matthew just left for the Navy.

And I didn’t cry. Because I’m bad-ass.

I didn’t say, ‘I love you too,’ either. Which I’m not sure if I should regret – maybe I should throw the guy a bone, but I’ve already explained that I find the sentence way too contrite. He knows I’m very, very fond of him, though, and to me, the two are synonymous. En plus, if I’d said it after all the rants I’ve just spewed forth here, I couldn’t live with myself. Not that I am terribly bothered about being a hypocrite – I love being a hypocrite. It means when you eventually give in and do whatever it is you’ve been so vehement about avoiding, it always feels so much better.

I suppose that’s why I like Z so much – he’s so inconsistent. When he’s alone or in a small group he’s sweet and easy-going, but in other social situations he’s angry and bad-tempered. Funny and intelligent in both, though. But he’s always saying one thing, then saying something else a few weeks later that will directly contradict it. I love it – it’s refreshing. So many people place emphasis and importance on being consistent – hypocrisy is held in contempt by the British public. It’s one of our few unquestionable social principles.

But anyway, I digress. I’ve come to a less-cynical-than-usual half-conclusion to my recent dilemma(s) regarding the whole love issue. Everyone thinks they know what love means – I’m sure, if asked, the definition would vary slightly from person to person, but regardless of what it actually means (or if it even exists in the conventional sense), everyone will agree that it is Something Significant. And so, if Matthew tells me he loves me, then I should accept that as something true, and reassuring, as if it were something I understand. Because he clearly does – he knows how he feels about me, and that love is something very significant, and he loves me.

So, awesome.