I'm not diseased. I'm not cursed. I'm not even sad and miserable.
I'm single.
And no matter what anyone tells you (especially my mom with her desperate fixation on grandchildren), I do make an effort. I take this apparent defect very seriously.
Boy troubles
Granted, I started late - preferring to read and write stories in high school over actual living. But once in college, I quickly "found" a boyfriend, and he instantly conferred upon me the status of "good wife material."
The facts that I neither actively sought him out nor wished to settle down forever with the first James Dean-wannabe I met, seemed immaterial to everyone.
And I found his presumption about our future charming, until I discovered "wife material" meant he expected me to sit quietly by while he screwed around with non-wives.
I instantly dumped him. Do you blame me?
From there, I fell seriously for the bad boy, then the crazy boy and then the most-intelligent, most-popular boy.
I ended up in a long-term, verbally abusive, co-dependent, tortured romance with a pretentious philosopher who showed lots of promise.
It took several years to learn that promise doesn't get me help with the laundry.
Determined to do better, I gritted my teeth and sallied forth into the single Seattle scene.
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