what a way to start the show, right?

i'm writing to get the depression out. i do this EVERY year on this day, around this time of romantic reflection. why the fuck shouldn't this year be any different.

how does the story go? oh yeah... fat and single. whine, moan, piss about about being too weird and undesirable, die alone. the end.

abridged version.

and the commentary on this often told tale of woe? probably my own fault, don't make an effort, missed opportunities, no opportunities, blah blah blee blah.

and yet, here we are, rehashing it. between the lines, however, are two very simple truths. 1, i don't know how to romance, period. all i have is hollywood, books and porn. these piss poor sources would have me hard pressed to ever have a genuine relationship. 2, i have impossible standards. yeah, me, the fat weirdo chick has high standards. i want that hero, that hottie, that sterling stud, that prince charming who doesn't exist. hollywood and fairy tales tells me he's real, so who am i to question the universe, right? oh, wait, that was addressed one point prior to this one.

there are, i suppose, other extenuating circumstances. one being i don't attract what i want. certainly not for lack of trying! WHEN i do go out, where people go with the potential to meet other people, i do my damnedest to do it right. i try to look nice, be sociably, maybe a little flirty. but never get any bites. just, in my fun little head what i believe to be, pity politeness.

"yeah, that chick was nice, kinda cool."

"yeah, but would you fuck her?"

"fuck no dude! just... NO."

this is talk in my head. but clearly it must be taking place on some level. 'cause, i'm still single, right? what i do attract, you couldn't pay me enough to be seen in public with. 'nuff said on that topic. *see high standards, above* damn you hollywood, you fucked me again!

in addition to not getting the nods i want, ultimately i know, i'm just to weird. were i to find a guy that digs me and wants in on this world, once he learns my interests, obsessions and secrets, it won't be long before he's like 'fuck this, i can NOT deal. you're fucking crazy lady.' and he would be right. i'm not right, y'all. and while it is somewhat my claim to fame and what i most dearly identify with, it don't exactly have the men beating down the door.

which, i'm painfully ok with. i'm not shedding tears this year. i'm not heartsick and mopey. i'm just kind of... numb. that's not purely true, otherwise we wouldn't be on this little written adventure. what the fuck i am though, is more accurately... done. i am finished, complete. i can no longer give fucks. it hurts a little to say it, but i'm feeling it's true with each keystroke. i'm fucking tired if hoping, believing, dreaming for real love. it ain't finding me, i ain't looking. so i guess we're done here. there is just no connect.

please don't take this the wrong way. this is not angry bitter single girl bashing love or romance. i KNOW love is real and romance ain't quite dead yet. i have seen it in people i know and love. but for THIS fat weirdo girl, it... it's not happening. that tear ALMOST wanted to fall, lol. but it won't. i'm just dealing, and will continue to do so. certain scenarios cross my mind as grim and unhappy consequences of this death of desire for a relationship. but, it is what the fuck it is. can't be changed or helped. and that's part of the dealing too.

there it goes, that tear did manage to wriggle its way out. but only one, and its the last. i can't be bothered to care any more. i just want to live with only the hope of a new day and nothing else. this is a funeral, a chance to say goodbye, and let go.

let the Cataclysm begin...