Damn it. It's Raining Again.

Literally. It's May, and it's still raining. I live in California damnit! This is not what I paid for.

Grumpy.

And so... Some truths:

I hate my body. It betrays me on a daily basis. Not flat out abandonment, which clearly would be unforgiveable (and would actually merit the complaints I am launching here), but moreso, in its continuing undercutting subterfuge. It has no self control. It wants and it wants and it wants. And follows with it taking, taking, taking. My mind seemingly having lost the control to will my body to do anything. It is full-scale mutiny. More porcine, ursine and bovine by the day. Just want to be rid of this lumbering feeling.

I am officially uncomfortable about returning to my apartment. Bad mojo all around. I want to live on my own. I am afraid of saying so.

I have a friend that wants to reconnect. I fear speaking with her directly, as I fear my compulsion to tell her exactly how much the betrayal of her disavowing me as her friend six months ago because she just couldn't "deal" with me and my issues anymore, hurt me. I would then have to tell her that I am exactly the same as I was then, and that I am not all that sold on the idea of her basically pulling off another friendship drive-by on me.

I know that I don't have a boyfriend because I am a mess. I know this is for the best because "mess" is not exactly the adjective that feeds into "everlasting and eternal bliss." Generally, it is not a word found in most wedding ceremonies and/or other public declararation of love. There is a reason for that. Bottom line, however, is that I will always be a mess. Always have been, always will be. There it is. So, does this mean that short of 24 hour to 3 week stints here and there, I will always be alone? Most likely.

Not such a fan of procreation, at least for myself at this point in my life, but I also fear that I will become one of these women in their mid-30's who must foray down to genetic Wall Street to make a foray from that certain Bank that even now no one wants to talk about in polite company. And why? Just so that I can make sure that I don't die alone. Somehow I never envisioned that my family photo would involve myself, my child, and the paternal test-tube. Although to give her her due, my mother did. Ever since that fateful summer when I was 19 when I came home from college and she took my hand, looked into my eyes, and said that she would love me no matter what, and that if I had to go to a sperm bank/use artificial insemination to give her grandchildren, that would be fine. This of course was followed up five years later with a frantic phone call during an 60 Minutes special on television where she made me promise that no matter what I would not wait till I was 50 to have babies, and that I would start concentrating a lot harder on having babies "soon" because "every day that goes by, you have less eggs." Somehow the fact that I was unmarried and that the female reproductive system has always worked on a 30 day swing did not seem to faze her.

All of this melodrama has always caused me to wonder why my mother was on such a procreation-kick with me. Especially given that I have four siblings, all of whom are presumably fertile and who generally have better luck with the opposite sex than I do. However, it occurs to me that in my mother's eyes it is best if I fulfill her jonesing for grandchildren, as (1) it is less expensive for me to be the breeder amongst her children, as I could conceivably support said grandbabies (which given the deadbeat nature of a testtube, I would definitely have to do), and (2) she may in fact believe me to be the least insane of her children. And that, in fact, she may be right. Frightening. Truly. One starts to feel bad for her with such a dearth of viable opportunities.

I am almost thirty years old and I have never been in love. Well, not with a person. I have been in love with a lot of ideas of people. I was in love with an idea of a person for four years who was in love with an idea of me. It does not bode well when you are both involved in a relationship with figments of your imagination. Can someone see me as I am - mood swings, slight-ADD, neurotic to the bone, not-so-cute, smart, self-supporting, way cynical, awfully jaded, funny on occasion, pretty good at filling silences - and love me? Just like that? Just as important, can I see them just as they are - pedestal removed, eye-level, clear and present - and love them as well? Just like that? I don't know if either or both are possible.

At this point, I have forgotten what infatuation is like. I have vague recollections of what it is like on my end. But the memories are dusty and crumbling fast. Can one's ability to have romantic feelings atrophy away and die?

What is so intoxicating about wanting someone who doesn't want you? Is it the chase? Is it the pain? Is it the control that the wanting will never be a relationship?