The heat intensifies with my lonesome tendencies, and I fear palpitation from innocently brushing arms with a stranger. But when I find myself in a stranger’s bed (or a wineshop, a car, a park) the thrill is missing. I am a stereotype, a masochistic statistic. I am becoming the 20-something-sleeping-around-to-stave-off-boredom. I am an archetype that’s been romanticized to death. Save the romance, it’s greed and it’s hunger and it’s pure boredom. These men become gold. Thread after thread of secret affairs solidify into a piece of treasure, Like 14 karat chain necklaces that get tangled into an unfixable knot of links and claw clasps. I carry it in my strut and that is exciting. My walk is confidently direct at 3 in the morning. In the summer, when the heat is outside and not in my bed, I am unsatisfied. Yet when the promise of romance approaches, I allow myself to make poor decisions out of fear. So I make a different poor decision to get me through the next hour.