This Time Around, I’m Not Taking A Chance On Love

I’m here to tell everyone to stop taking a chance. Save yourself the embarrassment. It’s too late for me.

Embarrassment is my muse. It’s the only elixir I ever return with to write about. I don’t have these grand stories of romance and love lost, all I have are failed attempts and myself. So this time, I’m not going to put myself out there. I’m not going to take a chance. I’m not going to take that leap of faith. I’m not going to make something happen. If I do, I’ll just be let down and made to feel like an idiot. Then I’ll come home and sulk about it in some meaningless essay that he’ll never read.

Although embarrassment is my muse, I’m still not a hundred percent comfortable with the feeling.

What I’ve learned is that it’s never them, it’s always me. I always miss my window of opportunity. I love ignoring the signs or passing it off for something else in my head and then later when I really take a step back and understand what happened, I do my best to rectify the situation. Trying to jump on the opportunity that was once there. As one can see, this revelation usually occurs when it’s too late.

What comes next is a half-assed attempt at a romantic comedy type situation I dreamt up in my head. I build the prospect up, get myself excited over nothing, and I make a fool of myself. It’s a pattern I know too well.

I’m so good at actually believing something can happen when it’s too late.

See, this time around, I’m just going to ignore my feelings. I will not validate my happiness or the thought of happiness. I’m going to laugh my feelings off, just like I try to laugh my failed attempts off. I will sweep what I feel under the rug and act like nothing mattered to me in the first place. 

All the books, all the movies, all my friends, all the lied to people will say how important it is to go for it. “You never know how it’s going to turn out unless you try.” True. For all I know, it’s not too late and I’m only making the situation worse by procrastinating but I find comfort in knowing that at least this time around, there’s no chance of me hating myself in the end.

Just think of all the sleep I will potentially get when I’m not busy cringing in bed over my failed attempts.

So you’ll go about your life, and I’ll go about mine and nothing will ever happen and I’m totally okay with it. I am totally, one thousand percent, okie dokie with the prospect of never ever being more than strangers. I am so okay with it. You don’t even know how okay I am with us never working out. I’m telling you, it’s all good over here. Eventually, if I lie to myself enough, and convince myself that it wouldn’t have worked out anyway, I won’t feel a thing. I’ll just go numb. This is the way to live life; satisfactory.

Anyway, living life and feeling nothing is far better than living life and feeling everything.