Maybe the world really *will* end in 2012 and then all of this will be moot

Well, here it is, 2012. I won’t go into my theory about how even-numbered years typically blow goats for me, and have since 1988, but I think that by telling you that I spent NYE alone, with Butters, watching a marathon of Breaking Bad (yes, about meth production), nomming  a shrimp casserole I made, and fell asleep before midnight should be all the evidence you need to draw your own conclusion about the state of my affairs.

I should also mention that a year ago yesterday, darling Brodkey and I decided to end our relationship. I resisted it at the time, but it was for the best. However, in the year since we split, I’ve experienced the Dating Year from Hell, replete with Ryan (“I thought you’d be thinner”), Bobby Darin (utter fucktard from South Carolina who could kiss the socks off a tree), Princeton (who wanted to stick something – anything – in an orifice of mine), and let’s not forget Captain Cock, who routinely pulled it out whenever the wind blew. This was all, of course, prior to Paolo. And considering our current status, I’m not too sure you should write him off as a success or not.

I just typed out the whole reason I’m in a snit about Paolo, but realized that it was tedious, boring, and in the end, doesn’t really matter. Just suffice it to say, I am sick of getting the shit end of every stick (except the sex stick) that comes along with us. I am growing weary, and I am not going to long be content with the status quo. I love Paolo, and in a lot of ways, we’re really good together. But I deserve more than he can give me at the moment. I deserve someone who acknowledges my birthday past a text message. I deserve someone I can go hang out with on the weekends, whose family comes to know about me, whose friends I meet. Who can come home and meet my parents.

Right now, dating sites (like diet programs) are flooded with well-intentioned people who are finally ready to shed the chunk and/or find The One. Part of me thinks that now would be an opportune time to get on and find someone who’s actually really ready to be in a real adult relationship. But the fact that I actually love and would miss Paolo is stopping me.

Well, there’s a second thing. I would rather be poked repeatedly in the asshole with a deer antler than have to go back on a bunch of blind dates. Hopefully the lessons I learned in 2011 would serve me well in 2012 – and I wouldn’t meet up with someone who had one blurry picture on OkStupid, or who was obsessed with whipping out his cock 17 times a day (and who also had a limp due to arthritis). And perhaps this Texas chick can go ahead and write off the Yankee with the grating accent who feels that it’s perfectly acceptable to comment on my motherfucking body type on date #2.

Yeah, you can learn a lot in a year. Just a little ol’ year – what a difference it makes.

Still, part of me wants to just hide – curl up in a ball – and hope that God drops Mr. Wonderful on my apartment, all wicked-witch type, just BOOM out of nowhere. Because I am beginning to lose hope, fast. For the first time in my life, I truly can see a sad and lonely future for myself, replete with living in an apartment forever and cat wrangling. Where I actually *name* my vibrator. Where I have more NYEs like this one where I fall asleep after eating pasta or whatever.

On New Year’s Day, however, I did meet up with some friends. One of them is terminally single, like me, and has been through some real assholes. Her faith is much stronger than mine, and she noted that she’d finally found peace about being unmarried. (She prays a lot. And asked me to go to church with her. I said churches scared me.)

Not that I don’t have a relationship with the Big G – I do. But if there’s some peace He could bestow upon me about being FUCKING ALONE, it hasn’t happened yet. Because I feel super unpeaceful. I feel like I’m living the wrong life. And it all comes back to the cyclical “I’m alone because I’m fat. But I’d rather find someone who loves me at this weight so that way I know they love me for real. But my chances of finding someone like that are slim to none. So I need to lose weight. But what if I do and then I meet someone and it’s all great and shit, and then I gain the weight back and they cheat on me or leave me. So I should stay fat.” I’ve yet to talk myself out of that rat’s nest of a rationalization.

Then I get pissed thinking about how much I love Paolo, how much he makes me laugh, how well we get along, how much we have in common and the stuff that we don’t have in common turns out to be comic relief. And if he weren’t beholden to Baby Mama, had a great job with insurance, a reliable car and his own place, then things would be groovy. And I think, “Those are really superficial reasons to not be with someone.” But then I look at the reality of our sitch and it’s just not working for me as much as I’d like.

Perhaps this needs to be the year of GET REAL.  Or not. Shit, I don’t know what this needs to be the year of. What I don’t want is to wake up in 2013, be 36 years old, weigh anywhere close to what I do now, and be as alone as I feel now. But when I think about the enormous effort I will have to make in order to change, I want to hide under a blanket and die. I have no energy to do anything except get through my abysmal workday. I am not motivated. I don’t have enough faith. I want something for nothing.

We’re not just talking about a wake up call. We’re talking about reversing what has been a lifelong trend for me, a lifelong approach to things. I avoid, procrastinate, talk myself into or out of things, am constantly tired, and would rather zone out and wait for things to happen. Those are character flaws. Those things have become who I am. Like I’ve said, when I lost all that weight years ago, I was in a fucking zone, and for the life of me, I don’t know what the impetus for it was. For the first time in my life, I was determined – both to lose weight and write my book.

I just feel “blah” about pretty much everything right now: my life, my job, my lovelife, my future. (Blows party horn, confetti comes out.)