Lest you drown in this syrup-filled entry, let me warn you to back out now while you still have the chance. I mean, for me to steel myself and relive this mushy gushy subject is already way, way out of character. So if it doesn't bother you, allow me to indulge in this diatribe on the gray and complicated subject of love. Breathe easy, it's just for this entry. I don't intend to drown you with mush from here on out.
I am not in love. I repeat. I've been stuck in the borderline countless of times but love, in all its pure and simple glory, seems to have eluded me even at this age. An idealistic hopeless romantic always at the edge of romance but who never really got there - yep, that's me. Am I not such a pitiful person? As high as my pride is, I still pity myself in this department. Well sometimes. In other times, I just go through the motions of living with a no-care attitude, wishing for the rest of the world to just STFU (sorry for the abbreviated expletive) and leave me alone. I mean, who cares if I grow old a spinster, right? It's my problem, anyway. Why do I have to lower my standards just so I can run around town with a boy toy in tow? Do I really need a man to be with me until the end of my days? Seriously, my brain's getting numb trying to grasp the whole situation.
Is it me or does love hate me? Please give me the chance to put things in perspective.
