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Why I will never be happy.

Looking at the date of this, a date burned into my memory as the Best Day Ever (so far) and re-reading it, all I can think is: man, I wish I had a blog crush.

I will die alone, and unhappy.

I can have all the happiness in real life (and I am pretty happy, I sayeth with a modest shrug and blush), and still want a blog crush. When was the last time I read a truly awesome blog post that was not by TL (who won't date me anyway, because we are too heteronormative and I am too socialist for her)? When was the last time I read something inspiring that I did not buy from a bookstore? Why does no one write letters anymore?

And yet, life is more than words. It is almost everything but words. It is action, and feeling. I should remember that.

My expectations of love and romance are always changing and being compromised to fit the limitations and realities of life. I can be 90% happy, 5% neurotically insecure and wondering when I'll be breaking out the Cowboy Junkies, and 5% always wondering if this is it, whatever "it" means that day--the end, or the beginning.

But, at the end of the day, no matter what I do to ruin my own happiness, I am pretty glad that there is happiness that could be messed up. That I haven't totally destroyed it yet is pretty remarkable.

In any case, this is not an argument for settling. Fuck that shit.

Full post as published by Law and Letters on March 06, 2008 (boomark / email).