Going for the Gold

Sometimes I think too much.  Actually, I think too much all the time.  When I say think too much, I mean I make up fictional scenarios in my head, most of them more than a little insane, to help me understand whatever it is at the time that’s bothering me either in my personal or professional life.  But everyone does that, right?  Right?!  Whatever.  You know you do it too. 

Ahem.  Lately, I’ve been thinking about why I’m not attached to a significant other, and I’ve boiled it down to an answer that’s very simple, but maybe a little sad.

Love is a contest, and I have to win.

Actually, everything is a contest to me.  I’m very competitive, and if there’s a prize, I’ll kick your ass to get it.  The prize in love is the ultimate one, and therefore, failure is not an option.  I won’t enter the game unless I know there’s a good chance I can win.  And you can never be certain when it comes to the heart.

Unfortunately, in order to perpetrate my victory, I’ve created a permanent stalemate with the rest of the world.  I can’t let anyone attack my heart get close enough to me to feel anything because they might change their mind in the end and decide to leave me (what?! leave ME! preposterous!).  Since that would mean defeat for me, I can’t allow it to happen.  So, I’m alone except for a manwhore every now and then.

Don’t knock it.  After all the sex, you can order the manwhore to leave so he won’t hang around and eat all your food and put his feet all over the furniture and mess up your stuff.  You can’t really do that with a boyfriend or husband.

Of course, when I’m an old fart whose only sexercise comes from screwing the geriatric not-so-handyman down the street who’s still recovering from the broken hip he acquired from his last intimate encounter with a “lady”, I might wish I’d settled for simply placing in the Love Olympics instead of going for the gold.

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