Textphish

I have decided, after an afternoon spent staring in a jaded sort of way at my ash tray, to temporarily give the fuck up on love. I’m tired of searching for it, and I’m tired of wishing it would happen. I’m tired of looking at happy couples giggling on the streets, holding hands–I’m happy they have found each other, but I really don’t feel like watching them. I’m tired of aching, I’m tired of yearning, all that poop.

From this moment on, I am currently The Bachelorette, and I have a huge anxious feeling telling me that I’m going to stay this way. Poor self-esteem cannot combat this decision, as the moderators of that part of my brain are on permanent hiatus.

I am a zombie. Rawr.

I don’t know why I’ve been feeling so anxious lately. I’ve this feeling that the world is so small and cramped, with not enough room for me to actually be the person I’d like to be. I feel as though the future is so precious that it could break at any moment; I feel trapped in a small space and my claustrophobia is immense. I have been alone in my life before, but this is ridiculous. I’m not sure what the universe wants from me. I’m doing what I can.

I hate to admit to the fact that I am more sexually frustrated than a closeted gay man about to accept his vows for priesthood. I miss a warm bed, a comforting hand, a goodnight kiss. I miss wrapping my arm around someone who wants me to wrap my arm around them.

I’ve everything I’ve ever wanted–a running car, heat in the winter, a roof over my head and a job to pay bills–just one thing more, just one, and I’ll never complain again. Seriously.

Eh.

Sort of.