fated to pretend.

I am exhausted. I spent most of my night tossing and turning between lynard skynard lyrics and the obnoxious sound of my dog snoring. I was hot, I was restless - I couldn't flip the switch. As expected, the clarity of my thoughts became muted and I found myself wandering between impatience and insanity. (I really wish that I could leash these things, I feel I would be a more sound individual if I could just contain the high strung ideas that bounce around my head. Unfortunately for me, no such thing exists.) But in my madness I did come to one very solid realization: I am a product of my generation (how cliche!). I am pickled by the media and have a very unrealistic perception of the logistics of life. I think about point A and point B and spend little to no time calculating the distance between the two. I demand instant gratification; if I do not see results immediately I throw a fit and dictate blame. I wish that these little annoyances of my life could be bottled up and tossed into the waves. How simple would growing up be if the shitty things that make you crazy could just be shipped off to sea - fantastic, right? Too fucking bad.

At 2am I started picking apart love. Love is such a ridiculous thing to be wasting your sleep on. Except that I can't stop turning that thought - smoothing it over, pulling it to pieces, rebuilding its structure - I have given up and decided that I never will understand it. It came and I let it consume me: like locusts to a field I was devoured and left with ashes. Ashes that somehow are supposed to build my morale and prepare me for the next conquest of l.o.v.e I became stupid, made outlandish sacrifices and somehow went from being one very sane, very put together woman into my current state: the medusa haired potato lady. (I use this analogy because somewhere there is a large breasted woman laughing her ass off. Picture the potato that you seemingly forgot about until that day you rediscovered it growing tentacles under the sink. That is what I became this year - the spud covered woman that was left to her own craziness and demise. Pathetic.) So what happens next?

I feel so jilted - where is my Rhett Butler? Where is the man that comes and envelopes me in affection and adoration? And where the HELL is the man that thinks my childish giggle is cute and my high strung personality is fascinating? (I imagine that he somehow got lost in translation - his plane was delayed from Hollywood, I know he sends his apologies.) I guess these lessons in life are mandatory - 23 isn't supposed to yield a love of epic proportion. It is the age of learning these ridiculous rules and building that absurd thing my parents refer to as "character". At 23, I am expected to fall on my face and bear the scarlet letter of a shattered heart. Apparently it is a right of passage. Apparently cynicism is common in women of my character - apparently we are just tra-la-la-laing (thanks Jordan) through life on a magic carpet that will never land on the door step of any single/eligible twenty something man. No, this carpet just kicks me off into the wasteland of unavailable, unattainable, and completely commitment phobic men. (They're all really just frat boys dolled up in suits and ties) I really need to get my hands on a better flight itinerary.