Welcome To the Island of Unwanted Toys
Let's face it: when it comes to the game of Dating, I am a number one dud!
*Go, run while you still have a chance! It's too late for me, save yourself!*
I wasn't really fooling anyone anyway. I'm just not very good at this. I over-think, over-analyze, and over-assume myself to ultimate doom. And if I finally do decide to give away my heart, it's absolutely impossible for me to take it back, even after it's been beaten up, thrown aside, smashed against the wall, stepped on, run over by a truck or two, and then shoved down the garbage disposal for good measure. I'm always perfectly willing to put myself through it again and again; all it takes is some measly morsel of self-serving attention from the object of my affection. Arf, arf, arf.
I'm told that I'm supposed to be comfortable in my own skin. After all, it's the only tailored couture I will ever own. The funny thing is: I'm realizing that I am comfortable with who I am. I like the me that I am, all the quirks and reasons and flaws that make me unique and charming. The problem is that my skin doesn't seem to belong in any world other than that of my own solitary confinement.
I don't belong in the fairy tale world of "happily ever after". I don't belong in the small, backwoods, close-minded world of the south. I don't belong in the comfortable, classy, wholesome world of upper-class suburbia. I don't belong in the hip, trendy, urban world of city life. I'm too young for the life of a late 30-something and too old for the life of an early 20-something. I'm uncomfortable in the world of expensive furniture and unhealthy respect for cars and I'm uncomfortable in the world of bankruptcy and bus passes. I'm not passion and love songs and I'm not practicality and companionship. I'm a misfit in the church and a misfit outside of it. I'd run and hide on the Island of Unwanted Toys, but just like Rudolph, I'd still be a misfit among the misfits. Because contrary to popular belief, I'm no Stepford. You can't just turn me off, reprogram me, and start me up again.
And I can't seem to get anything right. Whatever role I play seems to be the wrong one. The part I'm playing right now probably would have worked better for Mr. E. And the part I played with him would have probably been a lot more fun for Mr. Brightside.
He's right: I am damaged goods. I'm broken beyond repair. I'm a hopeless mess. I have nothing to offer to anyone, except my physical body. And I'm unwilling to even offer that right now....
Dating, rebounding, flirting, trolling... it all seems empty and meaningless. I'm afraid to be hurt any more than I have been, but I'm also afraid that in my effort to protect myself I'll inadvertently do to someone else the exact same painful thing that was done to me.
And back to the first question I ever posed in this journal: Why do I keep doing this? What am I getting out of this besides more and more cynical?
And is it fair to others for me to keep putting myself out there when I know that it's completely useless?
*Go, run while you still have a chance! It's too late for me, save yourself!*
I wasn't really fooling anyone anyway. I'm just not very good at this. I over-think, over-analyze, and over-assume myself to ultimate doom. And if I finally do decide to give away my heart, it's absolutely impossible for me to take it back, even after it's been beaten up, thrown aside, smashed against the wall, stepped on, run over by a truck or two, and then shoved down the garbage disposal for good measure. I'm always perfectly willing to put myself through it again and again; all it takes is some measly morsel of self-serving attention from the object of my affection. Arf, arf, arf.
I'm told that I'm supposed to be comfortable in my own skin. After all, it's the only tailored couture I will ever own. The funny thing is: I'm realizing that I am comfortable with who I am. I like the me that I am, all the quirks and reasons and flaws that make me unique and charming. The problem is that my skin doesn't seem to belong in any world other than that of my own solitary confinement.
I don't belong in the fairy tale world of "happily ever after". I don't belong in the small, backwoods, close-minded world of the south. I don't belong in the comfortable, classy, wholesome world of upper-class suburbia. I don't belong in the hip, trendy, urban world of city life. I'm too young for the life of a late 30-something and too old for the life of an early 20-something. I'm uncomfortable in the world of expensive furniture and unhealthy respect for cars and I'm uncomfortable in the world of bankruptcy and bus passes. I'm not passion and love songs and I'm not practicality and companionship. I'm a misfit in the church and a misfit outside of it. I'd run and hide on the Island of Unwanted Toys, but just like Rudolph, I'd still be a misfit among the misfits. Because contrary to popular belief, I'm no Stepford. You can't just turn me off, reprogram me, and start me up again.
And I can't seem to get anything right. Whatever role I play seems to be the wrong one. The part I'm playing right now probably would have worked better for Mr. E. And the part I played with him would have probably been a lot more fun for Mr. Brightside.
He's right: I am damaged goods. I'm broken beyond repair. I'm a hopeless mess. I have nothing to offer to anyone, except my physical body. And I'm unwilling to even offer that right now....
Dating, rebounding, flirting, trolling... it all seems empty and meaningless. I'm afraid to be hurt any more than I have been, but I'm also afraid that in my effort to protect myself I'll inadvertently do to someone else the exact same painful thing that was done to me.
And back to the first question I ever posed in this journal: Why do I keep doing this? What am I getting out of this besides more and more cynical?
And is it fair to others for me to keep putting myself out there when I know that it's completely useless?