Now that I got the self-pity out of my system, I can honestly say I don’t care if homeskillet ever calls me or not. He was hanging all over me all throughout the movie, and we’d only just met that day, so. I think he was the creepy one. At any rate, I’m certainly not calling him, and I’m not afraid I’ll miss anything if I never hear from him again. Next!
However, I need to, I guess, retract my earlier statements. Or maybe not my statements, but my attitude. I made it all sound so serious. It’s not that serious. I’m not that hopeless, and I don’t sit around ruminating on this crap and writing depressing, emo blog entries about it. I waxed depressing about it because I thought I was supposed to, not because I thought it mattered. Then I laughed at myself, because I was completely ridiculous.
Listen, kids: Romance is not a race. You don't accrue Frequent Dater Miles with every swipe of your Love Card. You don't need to buy boyfriends in bulk.
Goodnight.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Boyfriend vs. Puppy
This may be TMI, but I’m pretty sure my breasts have ESP. Tonight at the movie, whenever my date’s hand came dangerously close, my tits knew it. Soon as I sat down in the theater, he snaked his arm around me and told me he likes to cuddle. I didn’t mind too much (although I wouldn’t have said anything even if I did, because I’m shy and insecure and will tolerate a lot up to a certain point). Last time a guy put his arm around me like that, I was eighteen. Yeah, six years ago.
After the movie, in the car, I went to kiss his cheek, but he jumped the gun a bit and kissed me on the mouth. And I said—aloud—“Ew.”
As you can probably tell, I don’t have any dealings with men, at all. All throughout my teen years, boys told me I was ugly and called me names. I learned by the age of thirteen that no one would ever look twice at me. And now, at 24, I’m not the ugly duckling who grew into a swan; I’m not the beautiful invisible girl. I’m the ugly duckling who grew into an ugly duck; I’m the just-plain-invisible girl. I’m not Emily Dickinson, who would hold conversations with her visitors from behind a closed door; I have no visitors and I talk to myself. I’m not the spinning girl on the pavement like Katie Jane Garside; she’s wild and beautiful and I’m no such spectacle. I could say I’m only half a person, but then I’d be able to relate to Morrissey, and I have no such luck. He’s awfully famous; for his incurable depression and funny haircut, if for nothing else. Or maybe he’s depressed because of his funny haircut. But now I’m getting off track. I learned by the age of 13 that no one would ever look twice at me, and now, at 24, that is my truth. No one has ever looked twice at me. In all honesty, I don’t see why anyone should.
So. If I go out with this fellow again, is it just because I think it’ll be a cold day in hell before another man notices that I exist? I mean, I can’t attract men, and how many coworkers have 25 year-old sons? At this point, do I even want relationships? Do I even want to date? Do I even want a boyfriend? Wouldn’t I rather have a puppy? Am I just going through these hoops so that, when I’m 50, I can say that I tried? Do I really give a rat’s ass, or am I just humoring everyone who keeps telling me that I ought to give a rat’s ass?
If I were still seeing my therapist, I do believe she would say that, at the very least, I should want to get laid.
After the movie, in the car, I went to kiss his cheek, but he jumped the gun a bit and kissed me on the mouth. And I said—aloud—“Ew.”
As you can probably tell, I don’t have any dealings with men, at all. All throughout my teen years, boys told me I was ugly and called me names. I learned by the age of thirteen that no one would ever look twice at me. And now, at 24, I’m not the ugly duckling who grew into a swan; I’m not the beautiful invisible girl. I’m the ugly duckling who grew into an ugly duck; I’m the just-plain-invisible girl. I’m not Emily Dickinson, who would hold conversations with her visitors from behind a closed door; I have no visitors and I talk to myself. I’m not the spinning girl on the pavement like Katie Jane Garside; she’s wild and beautiful and I’m no such spectacle. I could say I’m only half a person, but then I’d be able to relate to Morrissey, and I have no such luck. He’s awfully famous; for his incurable depression and funny haircut, if for nothing else. Or maybe he’s depressed because of his funny haircut. But now I’m getting off track. I learned by the age of 13 that no one would ever look twice at me, and now, at 24, that is my truth. No one has ever looked twice at me. In all honesty, I don’t see why anyone should.
So. If I go out with this fellow again, is it just because I think it’ll be a cold day in hell before another man notices that I exist? I mean, I can’t attract men, and how many coworkers have 25 year-old sons? At this point, do I even want relationships? Do I even want to date? Do I even want a boyfriend? Wouldn’t I rather have a puppy? Am I just going through these hoops so that, when I’m 50, I can say that I tried? Do I really give a rat’s ass, or am I just humoring everyone who keeps telling me that I ought to give a rat’s ass?
If I were still seeing my therapist, I do believe she would say that, at the very least, I should want to get laid.
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