- Cute boy: I'm Christian.
- Me: (just because he's Christian doesn't mean that he's not gay!)
- Him: I'm going to be on co-op next Fall!
- Me: (what's a little distance in the face of our love?)
- Him: While I think that gay civil unions should be legal, I don't think that churches should be forced to perform gay marriages. I'm also frustrated by the fact that when I say that, people call me a bigot.
- Me: (it's OK! He can still be closeted! [Actually, closeted guys are the hottest])
- Him: Well, I first got into Christianity because there was that really cute girl...
- Me: (God damn it)
You’re depressed. You’re depressed because you know that you’re a colossal fuck-up. You bombed your midterms. You haven’t been to class in days. Or is it weeks. Who can keep track anymore. You haven’t spoken to a soul in days. You hear your roommates whisper behind your back. You see them shaking their heads. When your mom calls, you let it ring, as you stare blankly up at the ceiling, until she, too, gives up.
You’re out of love. But then again, you never really felt love, have you. You will never have the passion felt by Romeo and Juliet, the fidelity Penelope has towards Odysseus, or the numerous boyfriends Taylor Swift has. The closest you’ve gotten to “love” was that boy in high school who once chased after you, panting and sweating, asking you incredulously: “how could you leave your laptop on that table again?” At the time, you “loved” the concern in his eyes – but now you know that what you’ve mistaken for concern was just pity. And what you felt towards him at the time wasn’t love or lust or even a “crush” – after all, your mom was right when she said that you didn’t have the capacity to love – it was just desperation. You were desperate for that white knight to save you, to hold you, and to tell you that you are beautiful and sexy. (OK so maybe there was a little bit of lust involved)
You’re frightened. Oh no, you are not frightened of the future or your mortality or anything normal people are frightened of. You’re frightened of the fact that you know you can make all of this pain go away if you really wanted to, if you really tried. But you’re frightened of what would happen if you did that. Would that be “happiness.” And would that “happiness” makes you happy.
Finally, you’re furious.
Because no matter how much emotion you poured into writing this, no matter how much you hint at your lesbian friend on tumblr to read this (shouldn’t lesbians understand feelings the most), and no matter how many times you’ve refreshed this, there are still no likes and there are still no reblogs. The “notes” are as empty as the light in those bastards’ eyes once you hunt them all down.