Oh god, oh dear god. I’m going to die alone, says the twenty-year old exuding word vomit from behind the safety-wall of plastic keys and pixels and Google Chrome and Cranberries-themed Pandora playlists

I’m going to die alone, she mutters, not surrounded by cats as every self-pitying female laments in her qualms to go with a glass of wine (box of Franzia?), but by ladies who wove back her hair when she fell to rock bottom, by men who gave her quick, friendly pats on both shoulders and voiced their faith in her strength. Words of promise were uttered but never once was promise delivered, she mourns from the bottom of a pit of self-pitying cynicism.

There’s a type, some sort of it quotient that drives women mad in a particular man, woman, significant other. A highly credible internet time-burning article claims that chocolate not only boosts sex drive, but that it in fact mimics the feeling of love itself; bite after bite, this is love.

She’s going to die alone, she mutters once again, her mother spearheading the memorial and waving banners that summon you, you, and you; friends of friends and acquaintances of those friends because the world is weeping in your loss, she’d say, everyone loves you too much. 

A death by too much love, alas love that was never met from both directions. Bite.

In high school English, her teacher used to draw calculated diagrams of romance in Victorian Literature, the way eye contact between two individuals attracted to one another would be a gravitational pull of communication more powerful than the tectonic plates themselves. That’s what constitutes romance, isn’t it? Locked visions, locked thoughts, unison. Novelist Chuck Palahniuk once said something along the lines of that those who love you, and those who you love, never quite align.

She says I’ve seen Victorian eye sex though, as English teachers and giggly nervous tenth graders called it.  Relationships and mutual love manifested in ways other than airy, flavorless Skinny Cow wafers because Hershey’s was sabotaging the slender waistline that he– that purely hypothetical he— could hypothetically love so much. I’ve seen shoulders squeezed and embraced and lips locked and hope explode and I wonder, just wonder, why crazy old Chuck was right about me and nobody else.

And ultimately she laments dying loved, surrounded by instilled faith vaporizing from the upper left ribcage cavities of those who loved her, and the lovers of her lovers, and even their lovers too, and their hope and faith in her could rise to the heavens but it would remain meretricious, flimsy verbose if in her passing, she had never understood how the Victorians did it anyways.

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Oh god, oh dear god. I’m going to

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