It has been a regular pastime of mine to moan about why people don't like me. It always seems to me that humans whose company I'm more fond of than not end up treating me as though I had life-threatening communicable diseases, and it has never yet failed to send me crying to my bed in agonies of whys and what's wrong with mes.
Over the last month, however, my standard state of despairing acceptance has been challenged by a number of romantic overtures. The actual, concrete number, from people who have actually met me in three dimensions is two, but the total, based on various vibes, and including the unofficial and unspoken, numbers closer to five. Naturally, the T urges me most strongly to disregard the promptings of my 'female intuition' on the grounds that it doesn't really exist, but I BEG TO DIFFER, T merely because now I have proof that AT LEAST TWO of those promptings weren't so awry after all...
Funnily enough, the two kind gentlemen who've asked me out to dinner and given me dizzying (because they are unprecedented, you see) compliments on my looks and interestingness are both of the kind I would have run a mile from in other circumstances. Players, in fact. And they asked me! Me! I am exhilarated, and flattered, and convinced, once and for all, that there is NOTHING ABSOLUTELY WRONG WITH ME BESIDES THE INABILITY TO CHOOSE A GOOD JOB.
The only sad part is that I am not really interested in these nice boys; though they are both smart, and funny, and talented, and really rather good looking. And while I go around in a happy haze thinking thank god someone actually *likes* me, i can't help but notice the minuscule part of my brain that's going, so why doesn't *he*? why doesn't *he*??
Oh, well. So the story goes. When this fever's gone I hope to be less delirious.
And use fewer italics; but that's not a promise, so don't count on it.
:)
Over the last month, however, my standard state of despairing acceptance has been challenged by a number of romantic overtures. The actual, concrete number, from people who have actually met me in three dimensions is two, but the total, based on various vibes, and including the unofficial and unspoken, numbers closer to five. Naturally, the T urges me most strongly to disregard the promptings of my 'female intuition' on the grounds that it doesn't really exist, but I BEG TO DIFFER, T merely because now I have proof that AT LEAST TWO of those promptings weren't so awry after all...
Funnily enough, the two kind gentlemen who've asked me out to dinner and given me dizzying (because they are unprecedented, you see) compliments on my looks and interestingness are both of the kind I would have run a mile from in other circumstances. Players, in fact. And they asked me! Me! I am exhilarated, and flattered, and convinced, once and for all, that there is NOTHING ABSOLUTELY WRONG WITH ME BESIDES THE INABILITY TO CHOOSE A GOOD JOB.
The only sad part is that I am not really interested in these nice boys; though they are both smart, and funny, and talented, and really rather good looking. And while I go around in a happy haze thinking thank god someone actually *likes* me, i can't help but notice the minuscule part of my brain that's going, so why doesn't *he*? why doesn't *he*??
Oh, well. So the story goes. When this fever's gone I hope to be less delirious.
And use fewer italics; but that's not a promise, so don't count on it.
:)
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