Maybe it's late and I'm delirious... but I think there's some good stuff here
Being stuck in “Coupledom” is like being in a swimming pool where everyone else has rafts. To have a raft seems really cool, but then you realize the special freedom of swimming on your own. You do not have to worry about working with the raft, or finding crafty ways of navigating through the pool. Just you and your body do the swimming, and it’s a great feeling. Then again, when you’re not on the raft you always fear the fat kid who will inadvertently drift over top of you, causing you drown. This “fat kid on raft” scenario can be also referred to as your mother. These incidents are not frequent, but every once in a while you find yourself waking up in a cold sweat, trying to catch your breath, and then thanking God you are on land.
I do not want to mislead you. I do not live in coupledom. I’m that friend who always drinks too much and has to crash on your couch. Or, in classier terms, I’m that single friend everyone constantly invites to their ritzy dinner parties with free booze and good food (you may notice alcohol is a common theme in my survival in coupledom). These dinner parties are usually boring, but a bottomless wine glass and a fabulous pot roast manage to outweigh my original plans of staying in and watching reruns of Everybody Loves Raymond. Plus, I’d much rather accept their shameless pity in person than behind my back. Of course, this is purely hypothetical. No one actually throws dinner parties any more. The new trend is to sport your third wheel in the most public place imaginable. Rumor has it, it’s the new black.
Please, do NOT ask me if I want to join you and your beau on your dinner date. Especially if other couples will be there. I’d much rather you break both my kneecaps and then steal my wallet. At least then I’d still have my dignity.
Please, do NOT try to set me up with “this guy”. He’s probably got one of several problems ranging from uncontrollable body odor, an Oedipus complex, a desire to wear female lingerie, or straight up insanity. He’s probably crazy, and that’s why he agreed to be set up. I’m not crazy, and that’s why I refuse.
I understand your “other half” is a big part in your life. And I try my best to fake my interest just like I fake my orgasm when I decide to pity fuck your smelly “this guy” you insisted on setting me up with. Sometimes I can be utterly convincing, and other times, I’m just not on my game. However, just like the sex-dazed mamma’s boy, you never notice. But I, a clever witted young lass, do notice when you completely fake interest in my life. I’m sure details about my gym habits, shopping sprees and Ray Romano fetish do not interest you, but do you really think I piddle at the thought of your romantic candlelit whatever? Let’s just end this silly charade now.
I do not mind the thriving metropolis of singledom, but if you ask a member of coupledom, living in singledom is equivalent to living in Detroit. It’s dirty and dangerous. I am living with the likes of Eminem and James Earl Jones. You should not venture anywhere alone, always carry mace, and make sure to sleep with a knife under your pillow (which I always do anyway… I hate a one-night stand that overstays his welcome). I personally love to live dangerously, but those couples… they just don’t seem to understand.
I do not want to mislead you. I do not live in coupledom. I’m that friend who always drinks too much and has to crash on your couch. Or, in classier terms, I’m that single friend everyone constantly invites to their ritzy dinner parties with free booze and good food (you may notice alcohol is a common theme in my survival in coupledom). These dinner parties are usually boring, but a bottomless wine glass and a fabulous pot roast manage to outweigh my original plans of staying in and watching reruns of Everybody Loves Raymond. Plus, I’d much rather accept their shameless pity in person than behind my back. Of course, this is purely hypothetical. No one actually throws dinner parties any more. The new trend is to sport your third wheel in the most public place imaginable. Rumor has it, it’s the new black.
Please, do NOT ask me if I want to join you and your beau on your dinner date. Especially if other couples will be there. I’d much rather you break both my kneecaps and then steal my wallet. At least then I’d still have my dignity.
Please, do NOT try to set me up with “this guy”. He’s probably got one of several problems ranging from uncontrollable body odor, an Oedipus complex, a desire to wear female lingerie, or straight up insanity. He’s probably crazy, and that’s why he agreed to be set up. I’m not crazy, and that’s why I refuse.
I understand your “other half” is a big part in your life. And I try my best to fake my interest just like I fake my orgasm when I decide to pity fuck your smelly “this guy” you insisted on setting me up with. Sometimes I can be utterly convincing, and other times, I’m just not on my game. However, just like the sex-dazed mamma’s boy, you never notice. But I, a clever witted young lass, do notice when you completely fake interest in my life. I’m sure details about my gym habits, shopping sprees and Ray Romano fetish do not interest you, but do you really think I piddle at the thought of your romantic candlelit whatever? Let’s just end this silly charade now.
I do not mind the thriving metropolis of singledom, but if you ask a member of coupledom, living in singledom is equivalent to living in Detroit. It’s dirty and dangerous. I am living with the likes of Eminem and James Earl Jones. You should not venture anywhere alone, always carry mace, and make sure to sleep with a knife under your pillow (which I always do anyway… I hate a one-night stand that overstays his welcome). I personally love to live dangerously, but those couples… they just don’t seem to understand.