I am a single woman. Free as a bird. No strings attached. Woo, feminism and hear me roar and let me burn that bra. No man for me! My bathroom is so clean!
It sucks, and I don’t care if all the militants are getting the vapors, I am being honest. I am lonely as hell, and after over two years (YEARS) of being single, I have had just about enough of it. I’m not the random hookup kind of gal, (not that there’s anything wrong with that, it’s just not my bag, man) and since I don’t have any friends in the area, I don’t so much…leave my apartment. Ever. I have awesome, tremendous, fiercely loved friends, don’t get me wrong, and I’d waltz through blazing fires for any of them, but there’s not a one of them who could just randomly come over for a cup of coffee and a bad movie. Not an option. Yeah. Suck.
“So go out!” my friends wail. “Meet people! Do things! Stop spending eleventy million hours on the internet every day and go interact with actual people!” Well, this is easier said than done. For one, where the hell do I go? My whole adult life, the only social venues I have utilized are friends’ houses and bars. And I am not allowed to go to bars anymore, in case you haven’t heard. I have crippling social anxiety, and the concept of New People terrifies me. No new people! Only people who have read the dossier regarding Mah Crazy: Let Me Show You It! For I am vair, vair uninterested in having to carefully reveal the dramz to anyone new. I have a feeling it would end with “and then he ran away like his dick was on fire.”
And to be honest, I was really destroyed by my last breakup. I’m not going to trust a new person for a really long time. There are also other factors of acursed circumstance that the internet doesn’t get to hear, but yeah, going out and finding a local cat to start the awkward beginning-dating thing? Eeesh. Not really interested, thanks.
I can just picture my personal ad now:
“SWF seeks SM for possible LTR. Enjoys tv, playing on the internet, yarn, and coffee. SM must be open to mental illness, addiction recovery, arts and crafts addiction, pop-culture obsession, random goofiness, clumsiness, and cleaning up after barfy cats. Please have a job, your own apartment, a wicked sense of humor, and a bank account of your very own. No man-children, meanies, or frattys, please. Email only, the phone gives me anxiety attacks.”
Woo, buddy, they’d be knocking down the door! Not that I’d ever place a personal ad. I have been on one (1) personal-ad date in my life, about five years ago. It was awful. But not in the way you probably guess. Nope, he was gorgeous, talented, funny, smart, (did I mention gorgeous?) and, drum roll…HE DIDN’T LIKE ME. Oh, that’s just GRAND. So no. No personal ads.
(At this point, my friend cuparfyfe is eating his own face and screaming at the computer screen about how all I do is self-sabotage and dig my own grave re: relationships. He is…not wrong.)
So what the hell is my point, for the love of God’s argyle socks? What was the reasoning for this blithering rant, when clearly I am not actually going to DO anything about this situation other than point at myself and howl “UNLOVABLE!!! MENTALLY DISEASED!!! RUN AWAY!!!”
My point is that fucking eHarmony dot com should not use a dude who resembles Zippy the Pinhead in their commercials to motivate me to “find my match.” Do NOT call me, Zippy. And tell JoJo the Dogface Boy he doesn’t have to bother either. I’ll just play some Facebook Scrabble with my beloved, if not geographically convienient friends and knit more hats for the cats.