You Were Warned.

So let me just say right now that if you value yourself at all you will not continue reading this. Because it's going to be long and rambling and, above all, angry. Because I am pissed. You can tell when my sentences get all fragmented that something else is going to get fragmented, and it'll probably be a bowl or someone's skull, if that someone were foolhardy enough to mess with me right now.

Yesterday I was taking a break from killing zombies and looking through my blog when Mango's roommate Maaron glanced over.

"What is that?" he asked.
"Uhm, my blog."
"I know that," he said, "but what's the point? Do people even read it?"

Now, if he had been a zombie asking that sort of impertinent question, I would have blown his head off with a trench gun. But since he has a soul (as far as I know) and his flesh isn't decaying off his body, I just gave him a dirty look.

"Uh, yes."
"Please," he continued, blithely unaware of the imminent danger he was in, "how many? Like five people?"
"EXCUSE ME," I replied, "MORE LIKE EIGHT."

But that's not the point (it's not why I'm mad now either). The point is that I don't know why I was all defending the readership of my blog. I mean clearly I think it's cool when people read what I write, but mostly I'm writing because I have this slightly neurotic fear that I'll forget everything if I don't write it down. Like I only have snapshots of memory from elementary school and that freaks me the eff out because come on, I'm 21 and I can't remember the third grade? Yeah. Thus my little self-prescribed mission to preserve my youth on blogspot. I hope this website has good technicians or whatever because if it ever crashes and wipes everything out there goes my entire past, and I don't think they'd want that on their hands. I'm like an android.

Jesus, where was I?

Anyway, what this post really is about is love. More specifically, about how love sucks and/or doesn't exist. Okay, I told you not to read this. If you're going to start crying you should really just leave now. I'm pretty sure it's all downhill from here.

When I was little I had this totally concrete idea about my perfect guy. In middle school I had it down to the color of his eyes (green; grey was also acceptable), his family background (he was an orphan or estranged from his parents), and of course, his personality. He was this total tough guy, kind of a thug actually. He would be sarcastic and a little mean and very in control. I think I read too many gang novels where, you know, that one nice girl could turn a gangster into a doting boyfriend and upstanding citizen. Anyway, now that I'm older I realize that my 'perfect guy' in middle school would, in real life, have with several warehouses full of baggage and probably be borderline abusive.

So that went out the window and I was kind of left to drift. I dated guys I would never have imagined myself with, mostly guys I couldn't see a future with. And I didn't really mind at all. I mean, if I had met that one guy with whom I could (god forbid) see children or wedding bells (hopefully not in that order), I probably would have driven the relationship straight into the ground using only the sheer force of my temper. It's kind of my specialty.

As it is, though, no prince has ridden up waving an obscenely large emerald ring and promising to cook for me for the rest of our lives (never using onions, eggplant or raw tomatoes, of course), bring me wet cloths when I'm sick or tell me my singing is cute and not horrendous.

So thanks to his taking his sweet time, I'm left to fend for myself out in the dating world. And it sucks. First of all, I'm not a real big dater. I kind of hate it, actually. Dates bore me, and plus they're kind of awkward because you know it's a date, and it's so hard to get to know someone when you're alternately wondering if you are making a good impression and when you can go home and put on your sweats. It's much better when you like someone, and you know they like you, and then you do something silly together like make root beer floats and have an Arrested Development marathon. In your sweats.

Okay, so I'm a loser, but I'm a comfortable loser. So that's one reason I'm mad. Because I have the sneaking suspicion that I'm a grown-up now, and I'm eventually going to have to go on grown-up dates, and I hate that.

And you know what else I hate? And I'm not saying this applies to me personally right now or anything but GOD I HATE IT IT MAKES ME SO MAD. Sorry, it just came out. I hate it when you can't be with someone who you want to be with.

Like, if I were Rachel McAdams in The Notebook and my parents dragged me out of town and I didn't hear from Ryan Gosling for seven years I would have razed the town of Savannah or New York or wherever she was (actually, it was New York for college and then Savannah, where she was getting ready to be married. Have I mentioned it's my favorite movie?) Or if I were Nicole Kidman and I had to pretend I didn't love Ewan McGregor anymore because I had tuberculosis or "consumption" or whatever, I would've torn the windmill right off of the Moulin Rouge.

But sometimes it's not an obstacle as easily overcome as protective parents or a fatal illness. Sometimes it's more than that, or less than that, or (in what I'd imagine to be the worst cases) the other person. And there's nothing you can do about that. Because no matter how many major metropolitan cities you threaten to destroy, you can't make that person like you, or at least not enough to take you out for ice cream or watch Titanic with you on rainy nights, I'm pretty sure. To be honest, you'll probably just scare him/her off further with your displays of violence. You should really get your anger problems checked out. But enough about you. Back to me.

So yeah, I'm angry today. It's one of those days where it doesn't really feel like things work out for good people, or that no matter how compassionate, sympathetic, helpful, optimistic and well-dressed you try to be, life is going to kick you in the face with a muddy boot and then leave your doors open on its way out so that a fly gets in and you can't open the windows to let it escape because it's pouring outside (that's how the boot got muddy) but you're not fast enough to kill it, probably because you are still recovering from that attack on your face, which, by the way, is probably going to leave a scar that will have kids calling you "Harry Potter" for the rest of your life. Yeah, one of those days.