/who knew/

I am: Isaac Asimov One of the most prolific writers in history, on any imaginable subject. Cared little for art but created lasting and memorable tales.

Which science fiction writer are you?

Red Blood- Chad VanGaalen

At the risk of turning my blog into a rip off of the Bridgette Jones diary, I’ve had two very scarring dates in the last five days or so. The most memorable of the two, was the one that I actually had the best time in a long time with any male, and got my heart good and smashed the next day with. I’ll spare you the gory details, but there’s nothing like being told that “you’re absolutely amazing beautiful person within,” but that my physical looks are something insurmountable.  I’m not amazing enough, apparently. And the stupid part is, I can make myself fatter, I can make myself skinnier…but that’s it. I can’t change anything else. So, yeah, enter the possibility of soul-sucking depression. However, though I count myself as much more jaded than before– much much much more jaded– yeah, actually I’m just jaded. I can’t believe I was such a sucker. But then again, I really liked him, and he really liked me. He was amazing to talk to, and I loved hanging out with him, and he apparently really liked hanging out with me, despite not being able to get over the fact that he was “crushed” at how unattractive I was. And he still wants to be friends, but I’m kind of like, “oh yeah…so this is what it’s going to be like for me now?”

Maybe, for when we hang out, he’ll buy me a little leash and collar that says, “my cute lil’ hunchback hop-a-long.”

It’s so funny and still strangely sad, because I’ve lived my life knowing that moments like these were inevitable, and that I should brace myself for them, because they will occur, but god damn, it’s a fucking sick feeling to have re-occurringly. I know I’m a good person, and believe it or not, I’m pretty fucking comfortable with my bag of misshapen bones (I do  need some exercise, admittedly), but to have this scared thought that I’m never going to be good enough for other good people, no matter how hard I may try (which, believe it or not, I do try), as opposed to the stupid idiots I’m more than capable of attracting apparently, is bothersome.

In fact, if this scenerio was to repeat itself again, for the sixth time in my life, that motherfuckers gonads are going to be in danger. All things considered, there is something to say about brutal honesty though, I suppose. He felt pretty bad that he’d “discovered” this quirk about himself (which is really a piss poor way of saying that he’d projected upon my personality that “obviously” I’d be good looking) on our date. But yeah….that really doesn’t help or inspire me in any way whatsoever. So, you, the douche of the week–you’re not welcome for that fucking epiphany on my behalf.  Have I saved face yet? Can I stop now? Ha.