Sunday, May 11, 2008

"Fuck off, you're not the man!" - the British fellow playing Rosenberg (about rejection).

I would like nothing more than to win the battle with my demons of neuroticism and my patron saints of overthink. Perhaps it IS me who is making me miserable and no one else.

But I would like to also proclaim, in a bratty, horrible, selfish, non-perspectived way that so far, I have THE WORST romantic track record OF WHICH I HAVE EVER HEARD. I just have bad luck. It has little to do with neuroticism, or a lack of the risks that I work so hard to take thereby quelling my head demons to a point when even they can root for Me until I inevitably get shot down Again.

After almost 24 years of the seat to my left being empty, of game-playing and women's magazine aggression and energies poured down the drain, my impetus to get back on the horse is really starting to wane and I don't know what to do about it.

Would you really be able to stop worrying about it, if you were me?? Really?!

I don't know what's with the question marks. This post is pointless and I'll probably delete it within 24 hours. If you reply, I'll probably write something like, "I've had it worse than you!" And you'll get mad and rightly so because who am I to assume.

So, forgive me if I just can't be the picture of ruddy-cheeked optimism anymore. I'm not 16. I'm not 18. I'm not 21. This is getting kind of scary.