Yep. I'm in one of those moods. Read this at your peril.
I farking hate Valentine's Day. Hate it, hate it, hate it. With a (ahem) passion. I do NOT need my loserishness pointed out to me, even on a Hallmark holiday. (Did you know Hallmark was founded in my hometown? All the more reason to detest Mr. Hall for putting me through this annual hell.)
I have many, many friends. I am grateful for that and I do love them all dearly. One was sweet enough to stop by while I was out and tie a heart balloon and a bag of candy to my door, which actually made me cry. (Rule No. 1 of the Candace Club: At no time are you permitted to admit you possess a heart. But I get sappy every now and then anyway.)
Friends are great, but there are some roles they just can't fill. (Not unlike a cat can't hop in the car at 2 a.m. and run to Walmart for cold medicine. Though I bet a cat would look pretty funny in pajama pants and slippers on that run. :-D) The years pass more quickly all the time. I'm not that far from 50, and I'm alone still, and I just don't want to be 80 and not have anyone with a shared history to hang out in the nursing home with. But I haven't had any luck. Either we're "just friends" or they're batshit (like the idiot on Zoosk who put Rocco DiSpirito up as his profile picture) or they think I'm batshit (which happens to be true, but that's another post) or, or, or. It's fricking endless. Why does it have to be so hard? (See here for a taste of what I mean.)
I should have just bought a boatload of alcohol and toasted myself last night, but I went for chocolate instead. I end up just as mad at myself either way, considering the calorie splurge. I still sit here wondering what's wrong with me. I still don't manage to solve the problem, which, at this point, I assume somehow is me.
And now, I'm going to go curl up with the cat and a book. Which is the best I'm going to do for company. And round and round it goes, and if it stops before I come down with Alzheimer's, nobody knows.... :-\
Duncan Sheik, "That Says It All"