This will be the longest blog you have ever read. Abort.

The subject of "love" has been rearing its fat ugly head quite a lot for me lately.  I have no idea how a true functional relationship works. In fact, I'm hard pressed to even believe such a thing exists.  I understand that I am young.  This is not a 'woe-is-me-I'm-all-alone-the-walls-are-caving-in-on-me' blog. (or is it?)  I just need to express my less than enthusiastic outlook on this universal perceived normalcy of some sort of mind blowing, all emcompassing, everlasting romantic love.  Fuck that shit.

I've been accused on many occasions of putting up a "tough" facade. 

Not to get all psych-major on you or anything, but I've begun to understand why I am the way I am on the "acting tough" front. My younger years were pretty hectic and constantly dramatic. But somehow I had a way of always feeling like nothing was wrong because the conflict seemed to always surround other people in my family, not me. 

When I was really small the drama was between my parents. A fucking hideous relationship in every way. That right there is the underpinnings of all my misdoings on the subject of love I do believe. Past my dad leaving all I can remember is everything in the world revolving around my mom's miserable life. Everything was about her. She was the weepiest fucking sap of a human being I've ever seen, and my brother and I tended to her like a sick puppy. She was pathetic. And had men come in and out of the house like a motel. (poor example of love #2)

I could make this into a retarded memoir if I went on. But I'll summarize to the [worst] of my ability. My uncle living with us through my adolescence fucked me up. Which we'll call poor example of love #3. 

And then Joey.  Joey was my best friend. I never loved him, and I know that. Loved his obsession with me. Ate it up. I let him walk alll over me. And stayed with him because he loved me, and that was a scary thing to let go of.(#4)

When we broke up he told me that no one is going to care about me for the rest of my life like him. These were clearly just his stupid last words he had to get in. But I think the way that I am just forces me to believe it's true. And I know it's just a display of stupidly low self-esteem but somehow I can't rise above that. 

I can do nothing now but laugh at the fact that I was in fake-love for almost 6 years. I let that go on for SIX YEARS. For what? Attention. And now I can't shake that notion--that polluted idea that love is nothing more than filling holes and craving attention. (Those are emotional/philopsophical holes but in retrospect the pun is intended)

And I think the fact that the most prominent people who had a hand in the way that I grew up all had some variety of addiction as well has made it so that I don't think my own issues are worth anyone else's time. My biggest problem is that I've always cowered behind other people's shit, and I don't ever let my own out. I don't know if that makes me noble or a coward.  What I do know is that it makes me feel like shit.

I've just always had so much going on around me I've felt like I've been constantly in the background, and my problems would just annoy everybody who had bigger things going on. So I bottle an unbelievable amount inside of me.  (hence why I dump it semi-anonymously into the abyss that is the internet--my apologies.)

There.

These are all introspections I've made only in the past few weeks. You'd think it would have been obvious.

Now the thing that just bugs the shit out of me reading all that back, is that it all just sounds like someone else's sad fucking story.  Like it's been told hundreds of times out of someone else's sorry mouth.  I don't want it anymore.  But what are we if not just an eclectic storybook of ourselves?  I think it's just too fucking scary to let go of our pathetic stories, cause they're what we hold onto to trick ourselves into believing we are interesting.  Or that we have something to say.  Everyone is their own biggest fan, sitting on years and years of piled up stories.  No one else really wants to hear it. 

That said, let's keep talking about me, shall we?

I do feel alone, but I don't feel sorry for myself.  I am no more alone than any motherfucker who's lonely with another person.  I can't tell if I love myself too much or hate myself just enough to never, ever, want part of this man-made concept of love.

This has been a quintessential, existential explanation of my inability to love or be loved.  Consider this my personal ad.

:)