I’m Single Again
I have a confession to make: I’m single. Yes, again.
Now, I realize many of you may be furrowing your brow and looking up at the blog title, wondering if you are in the right place and thinking, uh, when was she not single?
Rest assured, you’re not crazy (or maybe you are – but not because of this). If you’re a new-ish reader (say, under a year) you probably didn’t dig back far enough to where I blogged about my relationship with Tom (and I’m terribly offended).
I did write about him in the beginning, but after a while, it just started to feel… wrong. Telling the world every gory detail about your random date with the pit stains and visible earwax is one thing, but writing about your boyfriend is a whole other ball of wax. So for the last year or so, my relationship was off limits.
But if you’re a longtime reader, you know all about Tom. Well, we broke up. Again. It’s been a little while since it happened, but to be honest, we were in a “it’s complicated” phase for a while. I wasn’t sure what was happening so I just kept mum about the whole deal. Truth be told, I was a little embarrassed. I mean, we’d broken up before. And I’ve never been that girl who breaks up and gets back together with the same dude all the time like some kind of confused adolescent. I used to give my friends so much shit for that. Boy, do I feel dumb.
But it’s been a few months now and I’m fairly certain the fat lady has sung. Which reminds me, will Adele be on hiatus now that she’s preggers?
I’ve been handling it well. I mean, breakups suck no matter how you slice it, but I’m not suicidal and I don’t hate him. In fact, we’re friends. Like, actually friends, not just in-theory friends. I won’t be writing about the dirty deets, because some things are just sacred (or better served up cold at an indistinct point in the distant future).
But honestly, I’m good, y’all.
I have not been on any dates since then, and the mere thought of it, as ever, makes me want to projectile vomit out my nose. I am unable to fully express the extent to which I loathe dating. I’d rather marry a wildly famous, closeted gay Scientologist then birth his demon child and call it Suri and put her in hooker-ho shoes while I whore both me and the kid out to the paparazzi in the hopes that my career will take off like Nicole Kidman’s did only to discover that five years later everyone has completely lost respect for me and still knows that I’m a terrible actress.
And I really don’t want to do that.
Nevertheless, in a moment of weakness, I’ve joined a dating site. And you know what this means, don’t you?
More crap date stories! Holla!