Signs of Maturity (I'm being petulant)

Today, I experienced rejection. It wasn't the first time, and it won't be the last. You'll say it means I'm doing something right. You'll say they're morons for not choosing me. You'll tell me something better is waiting for me. And you're right. But I still feel stung. And I'd much rather add this experience to my prized collection of excuses not to keep trying than summon the courage and motivation to believe you.

I'd also rather write something scathing and sarcastic on the social media sites of the people who were selected instead of me, and a lengthy and strongly worded letter to the one who rejected me, outlining in vivid detail precisely how moronic, how misguided, how tragic that decision was.

Luckily, I'm a mature adult. Meaning I've embarrassed myself enough times to know that what I perceive as righteous indignation is actually just hurt feelings. And I should probably calm down, nurse my pride, and try again tomorrow. But not before I publish this passive-aggressive post.

Vanity Charity

Do you ever feel like the secret to happiness is enough money for a new haircut, a new wardrobe, a personal trainer, and a tan?

If so, I'm accepting donations.

Hopeless Romance, continued

I'm not planning on getting married. Because it sounds like a trick. But if I were to get married, I would really like our first dance to be to this:

Love in the Time of Emo

I Love You But I've Chosen Darkness is the name of a band. They haven't released any new music since their first and only full length album in 2006, but they will forever be known as the group that inspired the thing I say to my cats when I lock them out of my room, or shove them off of my lap because I just want to watch American Horror Story without getting cat hair all over my sweatshirt.

I love you, but I've chosen darkness.

Is there any expression more magnificently emo, more self-indulgent and melodramatic, more utterly satisfying in its embittered absurdity?

As if love requires sunlight. As if sullen apathy and self-centered preoccupation weren't the very foundations of love itself. As if Romeo and Juliet were just a couple of short-sighted teenagers too young to understand the difference between true love and obsessive hormone-driven infatuation.

What is love if not the hood pulled over our faces, the dark-as-night trunk of a stolen car being driven by the kidnappers of our hearts? If not the door that separates you from the human you adore with all of your tiny kitty brain.

Love is darkness. Just ask my cats.  EMO <3 4EVR