Swan Song (Or the One in Which I Kind Of Lose It a Little Bit)

"The sausage grinder kept on turning robotically, unaware that George had lost his hand."

This is one of the 10 "beginning sentences" I jotted down during an exercise at my creative writing group's first meeting tonight. Because it was our inaugural gathering, the coordinator Reb fittingly had us focus on story beginnings. My other sentences made references to snow crunching under boot steps, the knarled hands of time and cabbage leaves unfurling in the sunshine; frankly they weren't very good.

I think I was having a hard time getting into it because my mind was stuck on endings. John Swan e-mailed today with what I had hoped to be a proposition for a meeting time and place tonight, but instead I got a brave and touching note telling me that he wanted to give things with an ex-girlfriend one more try. Nothing was set in stone, he said, but John Swan felt it best not to have me swim in his already muddy romantic waters—i.e. no action for 123Valerie tonight.

On an entirely objective human-to-human level, I applaud his honesty and his willingness to give love another shot. It's hard to find a person with whom you both want to play video games and have sex. I'm happy that his heart gets a second chance.

But, you know, the emotional, Aries part of me keeps thinking, "It's well and good that John Swan gets a second chance and all—he's a great guy—but why can't I even get a first chance with him or ANYONE? I'm a great gal."

Before Cupid starts dishing out second helpings, I'd like a big ole' heap of love on my plate. I'd even settle for a side of like. It seems only fair.

Normally, a "Better luck next time, champ" self-pep talk is all I'd need to snap out of it, but #1Laura observed that my love life has taken more than its fair share of abuse these last few months. Need I mention Roommate Jeremy or 567Devin? No, I probably don't need to, but that won't stop me. Wankers. Dirty Moles. (Kirstin and Bonita, that was for you.)

Part of me always goes back to the deep, dark cavern of despair that nags, "Well, if you'd only lose 10 pounds or maybe if you hadn't been so forward or perhaps if you didn't ask him for his fingernail clippings to start a shrine, he wouldn't have entertained the idea of an ex-girlfriend."

The rational part of me can put it in perspective and say, "123Valerie, you spent a total of 13 hours with John Swan. His decision to try and rekindle a past romance has nothing to do with you. Your body is lovely, your honest sexuality is welcomed and anybody would love to have a shrine built in their honor. (Just be sure to ask permission before getting the vial of blood first, though.)"

And the simple fact is that I am happy for John Swan because it is easy to be happy for good, honest, attractive people who have mad bedroom skillz. But, for once in my flipping life, I'd like to enter into a "normal" relationship with someone who likes me back without the complication of a recent unresolved relationship, a distant girlfriend "who just doesn't understand me like you do, 123Valerie," a jealous ex-wife, money problems, health problems, sexual dysfunction problems, a bedroom in their parent's basement, severe commitment phobia, a burning desire to get married TOMORROW because "I love you more than life itself 123Valerie," mixed signals, wrong signals, burned-out turn signals, a broken heart, shattered dreams or bad breath. Just once. That's all I need.

Why is it so hard to find someone else like me—a good, attractive person who just wants another good, attractive person to spend some of their time with? To enhance their life, not take it over. To eat pizza in front of the TV with, meet for drinks after work and have crazy, wild sex in the hallway with.

My pretties, I fear I'm reaching the end of my rope here. I'm not asking for much. I don't need a ring, a promise or to meet the parents. I just want someone to enjoy and care for and think about. No more salty bastards, or spineless, scaredy cat pushover nerds or really wonderful guys with ex-girlfriends. Perhaps I am asking for the impossible.




Another of my beginning sentences: "She kissed him under the moonlight and thought of days to come." Well, hell. It's not as good as the sausage grinder sentence, but I'd certainly prefer this kind of a start.

In the Comments section, can you tell me about a horrific relationship you've had so that I might want one a little less? The winner gets their choice of eating pizza in front of the TV, meeting for drinks or having crazy, wild sex with me.