Spinster Rant v. 1.7

There’s something to be said for having some banal hope in the perchance event of some fate-esque encounter. There’s something more to be said for taking a person “as is”: to see a person standing before you, and not their hidden agenda’s, false pretenses, the glory that they could be, or the shit they once were. However, in each context there seems to be on fatalistic flaw—the overexposure of the fleshy self to compound fractures of heart ache, disillusionment, self-loathing, and despair. So I guess the true question is, when do you expose yourself? When do you take that giant leap of faith and garnish whatever aspiration you have for a less lonely future and plunge, head first, into something that is about as finite as the notion of quantum? This question, seemingly the root of all that brings life to relationships, is something I have failed to master. Countless times I’ve mistaken the kind words and overt advances of a guy to be an adequate assurance of potentially taking the plunge, and just as I dip my toes into the vast and eerie water of emotion, I find that I am merely dipping further into the black hole of the nothingness that has consummated itself into my love life. So, this begs the question: why do men do this? Why do they spout of pleasantries and create the false hope that perhaps, just this once, someone genuinely likes you, when in reality it’s just the guy inflating his ego further into some inconsequential bar story about how he got some chick to do something? Why make the effort to place a girl periodically on the proverbial pedestal, only to dethrone her in the instance of someone more pleasant and worthwhile? For lack of better phrasing, I’m tired of being the fallback girl—the one where when no one else seems to be paying attention or gratuitously undertaking to inflate the ego, I come into the picture—and for the life of me I can’t understand why I seem to skulk so effortlessly and without hesitation into such positions. And as I bask in the atrocious glory of relationships past, and my fantastic future of loneliness and solitude, I can’t help but hate myself and not the assholes who so haphazardly use me to boost their ego. Here I sit, not the victim of these supposedly malicious actions, but my own emotional murder--for it is my fault that I take these statements to be true, and it is my fault I let them affect me. It is my fault I have let them degrade whatever self worth I have ever had into the nothingness sitting here pointlessly ranting. The worst, however, is that I have let these situations and scenario’s exacerbate to the point now where I am leery of all, and everything about is me is paltry and cold.