Why I will never be happy.

Looking at the date of this, a date burned into my memory as the Best Day Ever (so far) and re-reading it, all I can think is: man, I wish I had a blog crush.

I will die alone, and unhappy.

I can have all the happiness in real life (and I am pretty happy, I sayeth with a modest shrug and blush), and still want a blog crush. When was the last time I read a truly awesome blog post that was not by TL (who won't date me anyway, because we are too heteronormative and I am too socialist for her)? When was the last time I read something inspiring that I did not buy from a bookstore? Why does no one write letters anymore?

And yet, life is more than words. It is almost everything but words. It is action, and feeling. I should remember that.

My expectations of love and romance are always changing and being compromised to fit the limitations and realities of life. I can be 90% happy, 5% neurotically insecure and wondering when I'll be breaking out the Cowboy Junkies, and 5% always wondering if this is it, whatever "it" means that day--the end, or the beginning.

But, at the end of the day, no matter what I do to ruin my own happiness, I am pretty glad that there is happiness that could be messed up. That I haven't totally destroyed it yet is pretty remarkable.

In any case, this is not an argument for settling. Fuck that shit.