Massacre

There is a feeling of helplessness that comes with the realization that you have been manipulated; when someone beautiful uses you apparently just to inflate their own feeling of self-worth, and you blithely play along because she’s beautiful and she is showing you attention.

The Storyteller hurt me deeply, surprisingly so.  Tonight, she had a date stand her up and called on me to fill in the void.  Most of the night was silly fun, but the end of the night blew chunks all over my perceptions.   I don’t think she meant to hurt me, but her actions and words led me on, and it was not just my own rose-colored glasses seeing what they wanted this time.  While I thought my attitude was easy-going and cavalier concerning her, that the idea of dating me and other guys was fine, the truth was that everything about her had wormed its way into the same old places where attraction breeds romantic feelings, and those feelings made me believe the impossible… that a beautiful woman would think anything more of me than just a friend.  It happened against my best efforts to the contrary.  Old habits don’t die, they resurrect precisely when you least need them.

I am such a fool.  At this point in my life, you would think I could finally accept the reality that I will never be with someone.  Yet, I keep pursuing this ridiculous goal as if it matters.  Everyone has their own version of Waterloo, and pursuing a relationship is mine.  I royally screwed up the only one that even came close.  It’s the ultimate idiot’s tale, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. (Thanks, Bill Shakespeare)

Other people accept this reality with grace and dignity, and live fulfilling lives.  Not me, oh no!  I must rage against the dying of the light like the pathetic, lovesick jackass I am.

Sometimes I really wish the romantic part of my heart would shrivel.

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