I hate mushiness that crops up in this general order of existence. Okay that’s a lie. I do secretly enjoy it, but I am terribly, terribly embarrassed to admit it, even to myself. How I have pined for all those exceedingly romantic, unrealistic moments to crop up in my very own life each time I have read ridiculously passion filled verse from the numerous romance novels that crowd my bookshelf or sighed with utter longing and desire each time I view an nakedly endearing moment between two lost, lonely soul craving for love at its finest in the numerous chick-flicks that I have watched time and again in great secrecy.
Dates are important. Birthday’s, birth anniversaries, death anniversaries, random encounters with perfect strangers who remain just that or sometimes manifest into something more are all days that play a monumental role in shaping our lives. Whether we choose to admit it or not, we are all enslaved to these days, they are absolutely pivotal to our existence. If they haven’t materialized yet then we wistfully long for them in our most private and intimate thoughts, even if we are in denial about them in public view.
August 1st is one such day in my life. Yeah, I know it is a ways away and normally the thought wouldn’t as much as cross my mind if I was engaged in a tormenting or time consuming endeavor, but since life is trudging along at its own lazy, meandering pace, I am suddenly left with a little more free time during the day than advised for a well balanced existence, which gives me the unnecessary opportunity to ponder about the ghosts of my past and think about all things melancholy. The empty mind is indeed the devils workshop, or in my case the killer of all thoughts remotely happy, after all isn’t tragedy oh so poetic?
Normally I am not the fatefully self-deprecating types. Sure, I do it time and again because it is fun and in my most witty moments, it even draws a few laughs from those appreciative of a scathing sense of humor, but for the most part, I would like to consider myself to be a poised, well-balanced human being. I love myself too damn much to ever have the audacity to end my own life, however trifle or trite it may seem, even to me.
Everyone is allowed to go through a bad patch, as am I, it’s all a part and parcel of what some wise asses term as growing up. In my weakest moments I have gone through bouts of self pity and acerbic loathing, which I have done infinitely well to mask from the rest of the world. The deep sadness that sometimes plagues my soul never lasts more than a few days, okay sometimes maybe a few months, but no longer than that. No matter how hard I try, it is extremely difficult to kill that self assured girl that lies somewhere within. Sounds like a great mantra to save yourself from going completely mental, but it is also a sure fire way to single-handedly destroy any vestige of a love life one might have once possessed. I mean let’s be honest here, most men prefer the damsel in distress, the woman ridden with trepidation and mental imbalance is far more alluring than someone who seems infinitely capable of handling her own business.
Most men have a God complex, I have it too. In more ways than one I sometimes feel like the messiah, specifically placed on this planet to bring salvation to all poor bastards that need a shoulder to cry on. This makes me an excellent friend, but a horrible girlfriend. When ever a life altering implication threatens my mostly regular existence, I prefer to retreat within myself and solve all crises at my own accord and pace. No self respecting knight in a snazzy Armani suit could possibly tolerate the thought of his “girl” being completely adequate and adept at cleaning up her own mess.
Men who tell you they prefer independent, strong women are terrible liars, sure they may appreciate the beauty of it from afar, can even clearly comprehend the merits of having such a person in their lives, but the neutral, third person perspective is a lot more fathomable when it is non-applicable to your own situation. When such a person does enter their life, it is more than enough to make them feel infinitely inadequate and terribly helpless and run off to the next dim-witted bimbo that needs help lifting her mammoth suitcase into her carousel at the nearest large airport.
This long, seemingly meaningless rant does have a purpose. I have carried my own large suitcases for way too long. The result of which I will be single for two whole years August 1st. Normally, I wouldn’t feel so overwhelmingly sentimental about it, actually I’m really not, but then ever so often you see something or someone in particular that trigger those long dormant fairy-tale fantasies that leave you breathless with an unexpected pang of longing.
Celebration doesn’t really require any real legitimate reason. People engage in all sorts of carousal for the silliest reasons, so I figure I should take this with a stride, swallow the overwhelming sense of hopelessness with a tight, clenched smile and gulp down a few vodka tonics and forget how pathetic I feel in a much occasioned drunken stupor.
It all seems like a hilarious, cruel, unfair joke, since I don’t even feel the compelling need to date on most days. All I want is a regular stress-busting romp in the sack three times a week, no questions asked. I guess some of the seemingly easy quests are the hardest to execute.