: Guess who never called?
Today, just like every day, I realized that I am going to spend the rest of my life alone.
Men my age are either looking for Susie Homemaker or Susie Boozebag. They do not want a career-minded girl who wants to be called "Doctor" and not "Mommy," and they certainly do not want a girl who has never taken a drink in her life and prefers chocolate milk to martinis. They want someone who will vomit and pass out on their feet, or who will darn their socks. They do not want... me. They are seeking the girl next door or the tramp passed out at the bottom of the stairs, not the short little girl with the curly hair who owns mice and plays with sequins in her free time. With the exception of creepy boys who work at sewage plants and keep their dead mothers in the basement, everyone thinks that I am just plain strange and unsettling-that is, if they think of me at all.
I feel like I was born defective. I feel like I am not worth a bloody thing. I feel as if there is this inner light, this secret radiance, that most other girls have-and I do not. I feel like I am just plain wrong, inside and out.
I am just not pretty enough, not thin enough, not tall enough, not interesting enough, not amiable enough, not domestic enough. I am going to wind up just like my maternal figure, minus the divorce and child-a harsh, bitter, bossy, unhappy, masculine old spinster with no friends or hopes of romance.
Today, just like every day, I realized that I am going to spend the rest of my life alone.
Men my age are either looking for Susie Homemaker or Susie Boozebag. They do not want a career-minded girl who wants to be called "Doctor" and not "Mommy," and they certainly do not want a girl who has never taken a drink in her life and prefers chocolate milk to martinis. They want someone who will vomit and pass out on their feet, or who will darn their socks. They do not want... me. They are seeking the girl next door or the tramp passed out at the bottom of the stairs, not the short little girl with the curly hair who owns mice and plays with sequins in her free time. With the exception of creepy boys who work at sewage plants and keep their dead mothers in the basement, everyone thinks that I am just plain strange and unsettling-that is, if they think of me at all.
I feel like I was born defective. I feel like I am not worth a bloody thing. I feel as if there is this inner light, this secret radiance, that most other girls have-and I do not. I feel like I am just plain wrong, inside and out.
I am just not pretty enough, not thin enough, not tall enough, not interesting enough, not amiable enough, not domestic enough. I am going to wind up just like my maternal figure, minus the divorce and child-a harsh, bitter, bossy, unhappy, masculine old spinster with no friends or hopes of romance.