post valentines ire

I am single.

No, this is not a desperate cry for any and every male within a hundred mile radius to come and alleviate this condition. It is simply the statement of a rather obvious fact. Frankly speaking, if you aren't geekishly adorable, and into books, art, and rock'n roll, I'd appreciate it very much if you stayed right where you are.

This post is not about my need for a boyfriend, but rather my need to have people stop telling me about theirs. Everyone is turning me into their emotional toilet. Case in point, a good friend of mine has come to the point where the only thing she wants to talk to me about is the newly found love of her life and all the drama entailed in this discovery. He's so handsome. He's so sweet. He's so hot. He's so god damn wonderful. alternated with: I'm not sure about the relationship. I have these insecurities. Is he manipulating the situation? Repeated non-stop until my brain shrivells into a tiny little dried up prune and falls out my abused ear. Up until this point I really enjoyed spending time with this girl. Right now she's just bugging me to death.

Sadly that last statement was an exaggeration. And I say sadly because if she actually did literally bug me to death, and I died, I wouldn't have to put up with her yapping anymore.

I used to think that I was a wonderful friend and would take joy in any of my friends conquests in the uncharted (for me anyway) dimensions of boy-girl relationships. Barring recent circumstances, I was. But now, the sight of my love drunk peers inspires much loathing, blood lust and thoughts of genocide, within me. Blood and gore running through the streets, literally painting the town red. That is the color of love after all.

In light of this, it seems that a change to the first statement of this blog post is in order...


I am a bitter single.
...
A very, very bitter single...