An old friend recently asked me for my thoughts on love and romance for a documentary he’s filming about the concept of joy. He explains the premise a lot better than I can, so… I won’t even bother. But, what a terrifying question to be asked at the tail end of what was a mess of a year for me romantically. I pretty much spent the latter half of it heartbroken. Let me amend that last statement. Not necessarily heartbroken, but whatever you call unironically listening to A LOT of Taylor Swift. As an aside, the words “Blank Space is my life,” are ones I don’t intend on ever repeating.
Basically, I’ve always been the girl that loves to hate love. I gravitate towards it, yet I reject it. I oftentimes find it vomit inducing, but count The Notebook as one of my favorite movies. I don’t think I’ll ever find it again, but I inadvertently keep searching for it anyhow. I just can’t make up my mind. And I’ve never been able to. I don’t think my feelings will evolve when I’m a little bit older, a little bit wiser and a little bit less jaded.
Simply put, my thoughts on love, much like love itself, make absolutely no sense. Ask me about my personal life and I’m a cynic through and through. I’ll never find the right guy. I’m gonna end up alone. I might as well start the cat collection now. Yet, when it comes to the lives of others, I’m a hopeless romantic. I’ve molded myself into an expert on the subject, spouting advice to female friends as if this whole “love” thing comes naturally to me. But in reality, I’ve only dated two guys in my 27 years. One was an 8-year relationship that encapsulated most of my 20s and the other can best be described as a 7-night stand. The most that each of these experiences had in common was that both guys worked at Publix. So when trying to form thoughts on love and romance, the most I can come up with is that it should not be looked for in the aisles of a grocery store.