Have you ever wondered about my love life?

This is it.

I'm just going to copy and paste the article here so you'll actually read it. If I put it as a link, I know no one will.

I Love You. I’m Hungry, Let’s Get Something to Eat…
By AMY VAN VUUREN

Fuck unrequited love.

The gnawing. The possessive desperation. The ache of unknowing, worsened only by the slow-dying thud of knowing for sure. The over-commercialized but no less real feeling that you will die, you will just DIE.

Now before we go on, let me clarify whom I’m talking about here, for the sake of the ‘piece’. I am not talking about those poor sods that sit scribbling over spell check nightmare love letters, little devotee tears pooling in their love-lacquered eyes. Spewing forth all the emotions (every little itty-bitty one) from their mussed-up heads down to their radiating feet, only to be so callously rejected with an inarticulate, “Um I just don’t see you that way.” Oh no. This is the case of the sadder. Whoever is in the path of this gushing love. The withstander of the adoration.

I am talking about me. (Or you if you feel the need to implant yourself into the story to enjoy it).

But the poor sods, I hear you puzzling, with that head tilt and bottom lip stuck out, “Are the ‘lovers’ not the ones who deserve our consideration, our condolence?” Shit no! No sympathy need be shared. They’ve got love in their hearts and fire in their bellies! Enough emotion to pen seven moleskine journals in one summery park afternoon! They are living the goddamn dream! Beloved me on the other hand…

Well, I may be that dream, but I am certainly not living it.

And this proves to be a pickle.

Because, well, although the initial splash of ego-boost is rather glorious, the incessant run of saccharine words get old and soggy and all that is left has gone rather dry and sticky and is peeling off around my eyelids.

And it is around this point that you start to wonder about your admirer. You are uncertain of their sanity. You scrutinize the loss of lucidity in their glassy, idolising eyes. You doubt their downright sensibleness. Your gorgeous, brilliant amazingness has become… their crazy. Squinting at yourself in the mirror you try to understand. You are quite passable. Pretty even, in the right light. You are intelligent and can make a decent joke. You have ‘style’. But… no, it’s not quite possible, this extent of adulation, you think, fingering the light hairs around your belly button that may even be in need of a pluck if you gave a bit of a fuck. Uneasiness pools as expectations grow. Anxiety swells. Your unsettled tummy balloons with apprehension as you realize that no one is as excellent as the woman that is being described to you as yourself. Bloody hell, you don’t even flush the toilet after making a pee anymore!

Love, you conclude, has turned the boy mad.

But still, you question yourself. Your reasons. Your doubt. Your straightforward ‘no’. This silly man’s obsession has now made you challenge your legitimate feelings. He believes it is because you are not ready. You are frightened of intimacy because of your childhood rejections. You aren’t allowing yourself to love. Maybe now is not the right time but… it will be.

The interrogation begins:

Should I..?

Could it..?

Maybe..?

A chance..?

Just high standards..?

No.

No.

No.

No.

Yes, but God won’t be happy if you settle for less.

There are sit-down talks. (They are tiresome.) There are separations. (They don’t last.) There are tears. (They aren’t yours.) There are awkward reconciliations. (They are selfish and stunted.) There are ultimatums. (I thought we weren’t in a relationship here?)

The friendship that you thought somewhat durable is now not only showing fault lines but has actually collapsed quite completely beneath you, and you are left hunched on the passionless heap, your unimpressed hand squashed into your unimpressed face. You have to prudently back the fuck out, it seems, because your charming presence is just too much for your admirer to bear. The real you must withdraw just a little bit; not talk about your body or your feelings on your pseudo bisexuality and definitely no song-playing with lyrics that can be misconstrued as a hidden message, no mention of any actual or possible past/present/future conquests and especially no passing comment on that guy in the next car’s beard. (This is if you care of course. You could do nothing and just be AWESOME.)

Another lover gained. Another buddy lost.

End it all now! Take me back take us back let’s be friends and confidantes and eat sandwiches together and speak about everything our jobs our imaginary careers that book we should write together how this film is so kak who we’d like to kiss how that girl looks like that weird one from that thing about my itchy skin allergy that no isn’t contagious where we should go next Sunday afternoon how I don’t like that one friend of yours about how boss nineties movies are about how cool the word boss is why isn’t it used anymore let’s bring it back that you prefer my hair reddish now that it’s dark how that Nandos by your house has really gone downhill why this sort of music is even made should we get tickets for that thing you never wear your glasses anymore is that shirt new weren’t we supposed to be doing something tonight instead of just sitting here in your house.

End it all.

Because all we talk about now… Is us.

And it’s killing me.

The worst of it is this boy’s outpouring of tumultuous passion, this jet stream of lust, his grand proclamations of perennial love that are beautiful and inspiring and are sometimes too much but sometimes just right are just a constant, torturous reminder that You. Just. Aren’t. Feeling. Anything.

Wait a minute… Hold the phone. Could it be…? Wait, here it comes… It’s coming! An epiphany! My epiphany! Do my ratty feelings on this whole subject all just mean that I… dear me, I… just want… to love..?

Of course! Should I just give in then? Just go for it? Oh, to requite! The pleasure! The cheek-numbing joy! The mind-deadening, brain-fucking bliss! How easy it all seems! How happy we would be! You are quite lovely really… We could move past my insecurities, we would be the most beautiful couple. We would go to braais together and all our friends would shake their heads and smile and say Ah we knew it and we would get an apartment after a few years and we could even eventually get married and have little kid-lings of ourselves who would have the best taste in music because we’d make them that way and we could grow old together and watch our granddaughter get married and then we would die, happy, sighing in each others arms, spent from our magical life, because that was what is and always was meant to be.

…

But, um… I just don’t see you that way.

If you're wondering, I found it on Thought Catalog, my new crack.