I want to fuck the world, it seems.
I spend no time at all, weighing whether or not it is advantageous to admire and desire beauty in most forms; it is not a conscious lust I feel. I see, therefore I crave - Descartes may have mathematically deduced the "am," from the act of thinking, but I deduce that I feel.
I desire, therefore I am. I do not let death, dismemberment or a poor news day cycle my brain into the toilet of despair; hell, I don't even have a choice. I see a flowing motion of beauty and I stop dead and admire it. I'd make a lousy surgeon or sniper. A sashaying walk can interrupt my thought processes as thoroughly as a taser.
That's not an affectation or flirtation technique - I really am that pathetic and singular.
The closest I've come to simpatico is to find a woman who settled for rolling her eyes at my behavior - she doesn't chastise or criticize my actions. There would be no point if she did, and she and I both realize it. We are happy because we don't try to mold the other into some foreign object - I love what she is, and she gives me the same courtesy. I would say that about 99% of people don't do that - they claim to be open minded or accepting of the unusual, but are consumed by jealousy and possessive insecurity, and can't understand why they hate their lives and loves.