What is it that I want to write about?

Him? Haven't the last hundred or so pages been sufficient? When do I get to stop? I'm so done after that last "episode". So done.

Sigh.

It's unfair, you know, how all of those books and movies that I've spent so much time on are misleading. And untrue. And fake. And a sham. Love doesn't happen that way. No one sees you across a crowded room and chases you. No one starts off as an irritant or sparing partner and suddenly becomes the love of your life.

Have I given up? At 34, hanging up my gloves? Oh, I want to. But obviously this pen is making a fool of me. I want it. I want love. I want a relationship. I just doubt that I will find it. I'm different. And it's not because I'm fat and it's not because I've been depressed for so long. I'm just different. Why oh why can I not just go down that same basic path that everyone else seems to be on? Different is lonely. Strength is lonely. Is there anyone out there for me? Anywhere? There must be. How can I find him? Why the fuck do I care, for shit's sake? It's all a joke. Fucking love. My ass. It's heartache and tears and doubt and miscommunication. And faking orgasms and compromise. It's conforming and giving up who you are.

Who needs it? Put in another movie and crack open that tub of ice cream and move on already. Sigh.