Let me try to put this on for a minute here.  Let me try being the "hopeless romantic."  I'm being romantic toward you, but I'm not hoping you'll like it or want to return the gesture.  I'm being romantic toward you, but I'm not hoping it leads to more romance between us.

No no no.  This isn't right.  I DO HOPE!  I hope that if I'm romantic with you, you want it, and enjoy it.   I hope if I'm romantic toward you, it makes you want to be romantic with me too.  If I slip into dream world about our future, I hope you'll willingly join me.  Even if it means we talk about things we'll only ever talk about (not likely with me though, I usually only talk about things I intend to do, unless I'm intoxicated.  Then I might be a bit more lofty in my conversations.)  

Anyway, back to the point.  Why be a hopeless romantic?  I'm so hopeful in my romance.  Is that my problem?  Is the answer being hopeless?  If there's no hope, there's no expectation, there's no let down?  Well then how come I always see sad, single hopeless romantics?  Oh, oh ... they aren't sad about being single!  They're sad about the economy!  Of course.

What about being the helpless romantic?  I can get that one.  Not being able to help yourself when it comes to romance … I've met people like that.  I've met people who can't help but be romantic no matter who they are with, whether they just met them or have been madly in love with the person for years.  I'm not like that myself, it takes me a little bit to build romantic feelings toward someone.  It takes me a little bit to trust that if I'm romantic with someone, they won't just reject it.  That's because, one time I wrote a poem to someone I loved and I thought it was rather good.  I thought for sure they'd love it, and then they told me not to write them stuff like that anymore.  So I don't do stuff like that anymore … romantic gestures that are, or could be, hopeless.  If I'm sure you won't like it, I won't do it.  If there's doubt, I'll consider my odds and go with the best bet.  If I know you'll like it … good chance I'm going for it.

As for those who proudly call themselves hopeless romantics,  I don't get it.  Why don't you have hope?  Where is your hope?  Did someone take it away?  Did you never have it?  Do you have it with some people but not with others?  And if so, then why bother with the ones you don't have hope for? 

If you've made it this far, you deserve to know the rest …

The reason for this is … I've been having these, um, feelings lately.  I can't control them.  I don't want them.  They're terribly inconvenient, but I can't get rid of them.  I've been feeling, terribly … romantic.  OH GOD!  WASH IT OFF!  It's just, it's bad timing.  I don't have time or energy to be romantic.  It seems to be all I want though.  But the thing is … I don't want it if it's hopeless.  I don't want to be hopeless about it, nor do I want anyone who will be hopeless about their romance with me.  I want someone to look at me with nothing but hope for love and romance and a future … because when I find someone I can comfortably be romantic with, that's how I'll look at them.

I'm trying to reconcile this desire for a romantic partner with the idea of hopeless romance … because, everyone thinks hopeless romantics are so … romantic.  Which brings me back to square one.  Why?  Why is it called hopeless romance?  What is hopeless about it?  Should it be hopeless?  Isn't hopeless romance when some poor sap is doing romantic things for an unrequited love that won't reciprocate?

Can't I be a hopeful romantic?  Wouldn't everyone prefer that?  I mean, think about it—if you're doing romantic stuff for someone, aren't you hoping it's going to make them happy, if not make them totally swoon?  And if someone does something romantic for you, wouldn't you prefer there was some intent behind it?  Like the intent to make you happy or draw you two closer together?  Why would you want someone who has no hope for you doing something romantic for you?  The only reason I could imagine someone would want romantic gestures from someone totally hopeless is because they're a jerk.  Why else would someone want romantic gestures from someone who has no reason to believe they'll be reciprocated?

Hopeful, my friends.  It is my word for 2009.  And hopeful romance is the phrase.  It is the only kind of romance I'll want or accept in the New Year.  I'm full of hope that everything I do in romance and life in general will be filled with, well, hope.  Hope and intent.  I'm full of hope for meaning and good intent in the lives of all those I know and love in 2009, because I think 2008 left a lot of unfinished business for many of us.  So when you do that thing you do when the clock strikes 12 and leaves 2008 but a memory, be hopeful, be optimistic, have good faith and intent for what ever is ahead because the last thing any of us need right now, is to be hopeless.

Christianity seemed full of hypocrisy and Jews got made fun of too much, so I took the next logical step into Wicca.  I couldn't wait to hop on my broomstick and fly or wiggle my nose and make someone appear or disappear!  I couldn't wait to touch my index fingers together to stop time (ok, I know that one was supposed to be an alien power, but I figured it had to be a Wiccan alien.)  I wondered why more people weren't Wiccan.  Why wouldn't everyone  want to control their universes?  Why wouldn't everyone want to have their heart's desire love them back or be able to turn their teacher into a frog?  Were the Salem Witch Trials really still scaring people away from Wicca some 300 years later?

I suppose that's where my interest in the Wiccan religion was piqued, after learning about the Salem Witch Trials.  It all seemed so fitting.  I had already been accused of being a witch a number of times for a number of reasons prior to my research and interest, so I felt a kinship to the Salem Witches.  I had been accused of being a witch in elementary school because my accuser wasn't allowed to say "bitch."  I had been accused of being a witch in the 7^th grade for wearing black nail polish, and I had been accused of being a witch because I was so ugly.  Also, a boy once tried to drown me in a pool, but I floated back up, so you know, clearly that meant something. 

Had these children manifested my future Wiccan religion?  Had I just heard it so many times, I decided to believe it and just become what they made of me?  Was it my Wizard of Oz obsession?  Was it an excuse for my black clothes, nails and lipstick because no one in my town knew what goth was yet?  What ever it was, I finally decided I was going to own it.  If they thought I was a witch, so be it.  At least I was different.

The next time my dad dropped me off at the Oxford Valley Mall, I strutted into Hot Topic in my black bomber jacket, black shirt, black skirt, black fishnets and black combat boots.  I bought a book on Wiccan religion, some black candles, incense and some black lipstick.  I was excited about my purchases.  I couldn't wait to get home, crack open those books and learn to control the universe!  That night, I locked myself in my bedroom, lit some candles and started reading.

I was disappointed when I finished the book and there wasn't a single spell!  No weird ingredients to gather, no rhyming chants to recite … what kind of book was this?  Festivals?  Solstices?  I thought I got a book for witches not hippies!  Never one to give up easy, I marched my black ass back in to Hot Topic and got another book.  This time I made sure there were some motherfuckin' spells.

After carelessly skimming through the book and ignoring the other, more reasonable book's warnings against "black magic" and trying to manipulate people with "witchcraft" and what a joke all that was … I got ready for my first spell.

So, the unsuspecting bloke, we'll call him "Bret" since I never actually dated a Bret and I love Flight of the Conchords, had broken my heart a couple of weeks prior to my new found Wiccanism.  In retrospect, he was a bad choice because there were far hotter guys I could have picked if I had known this spell was actually going to work, but as it was, Bret had dumped me and had a hot new girlfriend.   At 15, pride is obviously more important than love.  What is love at 15? 

love (luhv) – noun

..        1. something your family forces you to express to them.

..        2. something you confuse with infatuation when you see someone hot.

..        3. something you confuse with arousal after you get your first hand job.

The book told me I needed an alter to perform the spell at.  Um, hey, Dad … Can I have some money?  It's for an, um, alter.  Yeah, for my room.  I just um, I want to pray a lot.  I figured that wouldn't go over well and would invite questions I wasn't prepared to answer, so I looked around for things I could use to create a makeshift alter.  My dresser was covered in shit that my floor was too full to accommodate so that was no good.  I went to the closet.  Clothes and shoes were strewn about everywhere but nothing fit for an alter.  The answer, as it was, happened to be under my bed.  Part of the plastic shelves I had no use for lay under there in pieces.   I shoved the plastic cylinder legs into their holes and placed the little plastic white table upright under my window.  It was perfect for kneeling at.  I had my alter. 

Sadly, the only ingredient for this spell was an item the person owned.  No frog's breath, no hamster toe, no eye of newt, no finger nail clippings.  Any of those would have been far more fun to gather than trying to get "something he owned."  What the fuck was I going to do, steal his car?  I thought, Oh man, Bret won't even talk to me.  How am I supposed to get something he's owned?  This posed a challenge until a couple of days later while searching through my disaster of a room for my mood ring, I found Bret's expired pool membership ID.  He'd let me have it when we were dating because his picture was on it and at the time I had no pictures of him.

I shut and locked my bedroom door.  I knelt down at the alter.  I opened the book.  I lit the candles and incense and I placed his picture in the center of the alter … well his community pool ID, but what ever.  I began reciting my ridiculous rhyming chant:

"Make it so by the power of three; Bring my lost love back to me," over and over again.

I focused.  I stared at his picture.  I chanted.  I thought about the good times we shared.  I focused.  I stared at his picture.  I chanted.  I closed my eyes.  I focused.  I chanted.  I imagined us together again.  I focused.  I chanted.

Really, all Wicca is, is Buddhism plus The Secret.

When my ritual was over, I blew out the candles and let the incense burn itself out.  I left Bret's picture there on the alter in the middle of everything and I went to sleep.

The next morning I grabbed Bret's picture from the alter before I left for school in case my dad did an impromptu inspection of my room.  I didn't want him to see my shrine to Bret.  After all, it wasn't meant to be a shrine.  It was my alter.  It was my spell.  A shrine, of course, would be ridiculous.

I went to school and everything was as it had been the day before.  Bret and his girlfriend were happy as ever and I was still heartbroken.  Who would have guessed?  Shocker, the spell didn't work.  Yet another religion had let me down.  I began to run through some more options in my head.  Buddhism?  No.  I don't want to be bald and fat.  Hinduism?  Too many layers and I can't draw the cool stuff on the hands.  Islam?  Too much praying and fasting.  I was back to the spiritual drawing board. 

For days I'd pondered my new found religion and what I might have done wrong to make it not work for me.  Was I not really focused during the chant?  Did I not believe hard enough?  No, I did believe.  I did believe!  Maybe I needed a more personal item than his community pool membership ID, something he'd actually cared about.  Dare I try the spell again?  What consequences might that employ?  I might screw up and turn him into a snake or a mongoose or something. 

Then, one night, after what seemed like an eternity and a millisecond all at once, Bret called.  Now remember, these are the days before cell phones and caller ID.  I answered my phone blindly.  When I heard Bret's voice on the other end, I damn near had a heart attack.  I began frantically pacing about my room picking things up as if he could see it and I should hide the mess.

Oh, hi.   Hey Bret.

Yeah.  I'm good.  How are you?

Um, oh, nothing.  Well, I mean, I've been busy, but not right now so I can talk what's up? 

And then he told me.  He missed me.  He felt terrible because he realized he'd made a big mistake in dumping me.  He wasn't happy with his new girlfriend and she was nowhere near as cool as I was.  I stared, in shock, at my alter.  The half burned black candles, their wax stuck to and staining the white plastic, intermixing with incense ashes as the sticks and wicks hang, charred and shriveled in dishonor.  It was Bret calling with the message I'd hoped and chanted for.  I'd successfully cast a spell!  I was a real witch! 

Bret and I didn't see much of each other in school because we were in different grades and our high school was huge, but we carried our reconciliation on over the phone for about a week.  He'd invite me over but I wasn't the type of girl to hook up with someone else's boyfriend (at the time—but that's another story.)  These were honorable times in my life.  If we were going to get back together, we were going to do it right.  He'd have to break up with that ho and commit to me.  He said he'd do it.  I looked to my books and alter, and thought about casting another spell to expedite this reconciliation, but I held out.  The spell was working; I had to give it time to come to full fruition.

The day finally came when Bret dumped his girlfriend and we got back together, but something wasn't right.  Bret was different and I didn't feel the overwhelming sense of joy I'd envisioned when I had manifested this moment in my mind's eye.  I felt cheated.  I felt robbed.  I felt so ridiculous about the whole thing at times that I thought someone put him up to it to make a fool of me—but the thing was, I hadn't told anyone I'd cast a spell on Bret to get him back.  There was no joy in looking into his pretty blue eyes anymore.  There were no butterflies when we kissed.  He didn't really love me.  I tricked him.  It wasn't rewarding at all. 

I tried to be happy that I had Bret back, and found a working religion to boot!  But alas, I was unfulfilled.  If being a witch meant that no one in my life was going to be sincere anymore and everyone would just operate under some spell, I wanted none of it.  I had a flashback of the whole lying lesson I'd learned when I was in the third grade.  I realized that the lesson I learned also worked the other way around; I'd rather hate someone for who they are then love them for something they're not.

There was no way any of this was right.  While you might think, "Well, duh, you were performing witchcraft!" at the time the fact Bret had a totally skewed view of me was what gave it away.  I mean, after all, he'd used the word "cool" to describe me, which couldn't have been further from the truth back then.  He had gone from liking me during our first relationship to practically being obsessed with me in our second one.  Now, maybe the girl he dated in between cheated on him or something awful to make him possessive and jealous, or maybe this had something to do with the Wiccan Rule of Three, as it seemed he loved me three times as much as before!  Ugh, I couldn't deal.  I didn't love him three times as much as before, so I found myself at a crux: What do I do with this monster I've created?

I stared at my alter.

By this point, I had actually become afraid.  Had I harnessed some power in the universe I wasn't ready for or had no business with?  I wanted to undo the spell, but I was afraid of that magic number three.  He might hate me three times as much as he loves me, and that would be just terrible.  Eventually I gave up on the whole mess.  I dumped Bret fair and square like—no magic, no spells, just high school styles, over the phone.  He begged and pleaded and tried to talk me out of it, but I stuck to my guns.  Then, it seemed almost as magically as I'd gotten Bret to love me again, I'd gotten him to disappear. 

Over the next few years, every once in a blue moon I'd run into a friend of Bret's that would tell me he never got over me.  About three (there it is again) years after the whole fiasco, I ran into Bret himself.  We were stunned at the sight of each other.  We quickly and briefly rekindled our relationship with three times the passion (not love) as we'd ever had before.  Spending time with Bret again was quite literally orgasmic (a first for us as a couple seeing as how we never got that far at 15.)   This third reunion, three years later, was three times as great as our last relationship, and three times as short.  The most important thing, however, is that we had closure (just once) and it was all we needed.

If you try to tell me it wasn't witchcraft, I won't argue it one way or the other, but I will say: Be careful what you wish you for, it comes back to you three times as intense as what you put out, and you probably aren't ready for it.  Maybe you should try a more passive religion, like Agnosticism. 

Oh hey, before you go, do you know where I can find a genie or a magic lamp?