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oops. again.

September 14, 2013

A real blog shouldn’t be about one’s self, I once read. I agreed. Already, I’ve made this post about me. See what I did there?

Tonight, and from now on, it’s all about me. I don’t want it to be this way. If I did, I wouldn’t bother posting here about how I’m shutting myself off from everyone permanently. I wish it didn’t have to be this way.

I have chosen the life I live. It’s a good life. I am lonely, but I wouldn’t ever trade what I have. I want a partner. I want to be loved. But I will never, ever sacrifice the companionship and bond I share with my animals. I will never be sorry for the choices I’ve made.

No. There is one choice I would take back. If I could take back ever falling in love, any of the times I have, I’d take it back. I don’t want to ever feel this kind of pain again.

I live a beautiful life, but tonight, I caught a glimpse of how my actions right now appear to even the kindest of strangers: I am unloved. 

And even though some people think I’m interesting when they meet me, they can see quickly I will never be enough to deserve the partner I always had dreamed of.

I’m selfish. I know this about myself. I’m not trying to say it just so I’ll look like a good guy, if a self-denigrating one. No. I mean I actually understand how goddamn self-centered I am, and I’m putting it all out there. My life is too  goddamn short to not live my life happily without the complication of trying to be what someone else wants me to be.

Tomorrow, “too little, too late” will text me. He’ll apologize. I’ll pretend I don’t know that he’s still lying to me about our “relationship.” Fuck that. There is no relationship. Or you know what? He won’t text… or he’ll text to finally grow the balls to just tell me how I’ll never be enough.

I wanted to be loved by a partner who truly loved ME. I wanted the impossible. I’ve compromised for too long to keep changing for others like a damn metamorph from Star Trek: The Next Generation. I’m living for me, and that comes with accepting that in doing so, I will never be loved. I refuse to regret that. I’m done pretending like it’s possible. 

From now on, it’s just me. Me and the animals and the craziness of every day with them, crazier still and yet somehow less complicated  at the same time.

I’ve made up my mind. He will always be too little too late, if at all. I will always be too much. I will always be selfish. If I can’t fix myself after 30 years, it isn’t going to happen. 

So I’ll embrace my selfishness instead. I don’t know if it sounds better or worse to call it hedonism. I’d like to call this stage of it, at least, self-preservation. It’s a lie, but it makes me sounds like I’m less of a  complete asshole. I’ll take what I can get.

I want to be better than this. But I’m tired of fighting what’s real: I cannot be loved.

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From → fiction, rants

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