Thinking about love and romance, sex and horniness, expectations and realities. Not looking good, really.
First is my rather profound body image. If I were a cigar, I would be a Robusto. If I were a whale, I would be a big whale. If I were a building, I would collapse under my own weight. To summarize, I am what is classified as morbidly obese, which (as fitting as that is) is not really attractive to anyone but hungry polar bears.
The second, and probably more important, is my own depression. Attitude is huge, and mine is not exactly positive. I pretty much want to hide all the time now, and when I do get out and about, I am very self-conscious.
I am the only one that can do anything at all about those things. Which is so unfair, I wanna be able to blame somebody else.
But I don't have hot goth babes clamoring at my backdoor for that brand of dark love that only I can provide. The Swedish Bikini team has failed yet again to materialize at my domicile, and just in general the dating thing hasn't been working out so well.
And spring is here. Spring, the time when a young man's fancy turns to thoughts of love, and a middle-aged guy's fancy turns toward hot tubbing with scantily-clad college girls and Naked Jell-O Twister.
Chances are mighty slim that I'm going to be spending any real quality nekkid time in the near future, and I'm not in a place financially to be affording hookers and blow, or even a visit to a strip club or friendly massage parlor.
So my birthday is Friday. Plans have spiraled from getting a hotel room with a hot tub down to having a party at the house to pretty much just staying home and watching DVDs and drinking a beer or two. I may have to go out and carouse just on general principle, but I think there must be the appreciation of woman-flesh sometime during the weekend.
You know, I've tried being a nice guy. It doesn't really do anything for me.