Wanting Isn't Having, Needing Isn't Getting

Me: I feel fat today.

Mr. S: You have pretty eyes.

* * * * * *

Mr. S: How are you today?

Me: Depressed, but slogging through.

Mr. S: Why?

Me: Death by a thousand nibbles.

Mr. S: *nibble*

* * * * * *

I wonder if it's time to step away a bit from this blog. My original intent was to chronicle my pathetic attempts at connection with the world . . . lately, though, my posting has become more and more sporadic because there simply isn't anything to post.

I have no energy for reaching out. There are no more Mr. Marines, or Lawboys, or anyone else waiting in the wings. Just getting through the day takes what little give-a-shit I have, and then carves off a sliver of my soul for additional satisfaction. I am consumed by daydreams of love and tenderness, someone to caress my cheek or stroke my hair. Someone with a little give-a-shit to spare in my direction. Behind every business call, every conversation, every moment, I am just inches from crying. Hysterical, soul-wracking tears.

Tears for what never was, what never will be.

Somehow through this emotional (and financial) maelstrom I am supposed to reach out? To "date"? To "enjoy" myself? Relief these days consists of laying very still in a dark room. Realistically, what do I have to gain by putting myself through the dating wringer? I am a deeply broken woman. Wanting isn't having, needing isn't getting. Persistence, in this case, is unlikely to payoff.

My angst has been said, phrased and rephrased over the months with all it's pseudo-teenaged unoriginality. It can't be fixed, this angst of mine. The perfect Catch-22: a little love, a little give-a-shit is the salve I need, and yet so long as I need it as badly as I do none will deem me worthy to receive it.

Time to immerse myself in blackness.