Uninspired Writing about Romance
It’s amusing how my romantic life resembles watching paint dry.
A year ago, Jon, a Harvard Law Professor, relentlessly called me every night before bed, seeking my attention. I cherished our conversations, and for a while, I dared to believe I was falling in love. Jonathan would often prod me, asking, “Don’t you desire something real, Kelly? Genuine love? A family?”
His words struck a chord, but then he disappeared. It’s ironic how he painted a picture of love that I knew I’d never attain. Love, perhaps only found in the companionship of a dog or through the maze of self-love advocated by self-help gurus and yet I’m here finishing the edits on a romance novel.
Isn’t it Ironic, don’t ya’ think? A little too ironic, I really ‘do’ think.
Or perhaps those morning coffees with my friend Rich, a man deeply entrenched in his own trauma, hardly able to greet any woman. As I sit there, listening to his woes, I grow weary. Maybe it was with him that I hoped to find a semblance of the childhood idealism, envisioning myself across from a man who genuinely respected me, sharing morning coffee. But that’s likely just wishful thinking.
Instead, I’m dealing with a trial attorney who drifts in and out of my life, seeking information on how to connect with gay men. He’s not interested in me; he just craves gay men. Apparently, he feels the need to date women to justify his desire to be with another man.
Wasting time. I don’t get time back. I told him today, why bother me? Just go pursue what you want; you don’t need anyone’s approval and we have never met. The disparity between these two educated men is astounding.
For heaven’s sake, all I want is to be in the desert and left alone. I avoid dating for a reason, I steer clear of dating apps, and I refrain from contacting ex-boyfriends. Can’t they all see that none of them fulfill what I truly desire? And have never asked me what I want to begin with.
It’s all about “theirs”: their needs, their desires, their wants — fine, go fulfill them elsewhere. I refuse to be part of your narrative. I’m certain there’s another woman out there content to play the role of a silent instrument. I’m exhausted from being treated like your tool. You can all indulge yourselves. To me, you’re nothing more than human ashtrays now, undeserving of even a flick of my Marlboro from my lips.
