Every day, the pressure to hook up gets both worse and better. Sometimes, I want to fall in love, to be beheld, to be HELD so badly that remembering “the one(s? Really, just one.) that got away” physically hurts. But then I remember desperation was never a good look for me (though I pull off blatantly stalkeresque quite well), and that I am actually, SHOCKINGLY, happy as I am, with this life: about to start work, life full of friends, voice on the mend, happy with my body (despite it not being skinny), and moving forward into exciting new territory.
I think of romantic love increasingly as a blessed bonus, a happy addition to a life lived fruitfully and in the pursuit of the Great Lover of my soul. Maybe it’ll come. Maybe it won’t. (Have a feeling it might come in the not-too-distant, not-too-close future; I like men FAAAAR too much for it not too, LOL.). Whatever happens, I’m sure I’ll be well-loved.
(Not to say that applicants aren’t welcome…? KIDDING. KIDDING I’M
NOT GOING TO PIMP MYSELF ON MY OWN BLOG!)
(I have Facebook for that.)
(OKAY I’LL STOP. DIGGING A GRAVE HERE.)