I don’t believe in love at first sight. I’m so easily distracted when I see hot guys, that chances are if I did fall in love instantly, I’d run him over with a truck. And if we are to base this on trial and error from the past, my history shows that every man I did fall in love with at first sight usually ended up being disposed of rather quickly and those I said I’d never date in a million years ended up in my bedroom. There are, of course, exceptions to the rule. I once saw a guy walking into a nightclub and decided I wanted him. It’s not so weird though given the week before I had written a long list of everything I wanted in a man (most notably that he should be a filmmaker with dark curly hair and speak fluent French) and this man fit the bill. Not that I could have known that when he walked in the door, but maybe I was psychic? Or maybe I created him if it is true we create our reality? However, the time I said I wanted to marry an American millionaire I ended up with two, none of whom I married. I simultaneously asked for my soul mate and the problem was probably that my soul mate wasn’t a millionaire. Yet. I can only hope he’s become one since.
Sometimes when I feel bad about my non-existent love life and my past escapades I retort to reading Sex and the City quotes, because if I fucked up at least I will be sure to remember Samantha fucked a lot more. That could, potentially, be seen as a depressing fact as well though, in which case I have to bring out chocolate to see things in another light. Chocolate, however, is not well-known for its sense of humor. For that you might need to grab a bottle of wine.
If the wine makes you sentimental, instead of giggly, it will remind you that the reason you dated fucked up men is because you were fucked up. This means you are suddenly overcome by an urge to work on your beloved business as a form of escapism, as it will remind you that there is passion in your life, even if it doesn’t come with an orgasm. If you really can’t get your head out of the gutter you pick up a cheap novel about ever lasting romance and convince yourself that if the fifty year old heroine who suffers from a lot more psychological issues than you manages to find some hot dude who swears his undying love to her, so will you. You try to disregard the fact that the book was written by a woman and has more illogical flaws to the storyline than any writer/director could possibly ignore. Especially the fact that the man in the story is hot, nice and faithful.
Then, suddenly, it dawns on you that you’ve become a sarcastic bitch to cover up the fact that your favorite feel good movie is “We Bought a Zoo” because Matt Damon as a single dad is utterly irresistible and your dream of having the perfect family is completely illogical when looking at your past endeavors in the dating field. So you decide to write a new list of what you want in a man that starts with “He gets me and he loves me…” and ends with “P.S. he can also dance and he does have a six-pack” “P.P.S. He’s not an addict, criminal, psychologically unstable, manic depressive, prone to snoring, bad in bed, living in a different country or with his mother permanently, fucking anyone I know, unfaithful, or prone to any other potentially damaging thing.”
It sucks having a gooey heart, protected by walls of sarcasm three stories high, doesn’t it? It sucks even more trying to let go of the walls and be like “Here I am. Matt Damon fantasies and all.”