I’m lonely. Like, I’m so lonely that I’ve started a small animal shelter in the back seat of my Toyota. It’s only a raccoon right now, but I’m hoping to expand. I have my eye on the neighbor’s dog.
I’m so lonely I don’t even cast a shadow. That’s here just for show (gestures to spotlight shadow). You’re just here for show! (Screaming). Where were you YESTERDAY?!?!
I used to believe in love, but before that I used believe in God, so…
I’m pretty lonely. I’m so alone that it’s most of my last name. (Just add the ‘M’ for ‘ME!’) I’ve been alone for the lion’s share of 20 years, with 2 years is my longest relationship. So, I’m a master of loneliness. In my opinion, there are four levels:
LEVEL 1: “Gee, I wish that I had someone to share this with!” Or, as I like to think of it, “Youthful Optimism.” But, just give it time, three to five years alone, and those rosy cheeks and dimpled promises will wilt like daisies in the sun.
LEVEL 2: At two-to-four years alone, the light changes in your eyes and you begin to get desperate. I think it’s called ‘thirsty’ now, but they’re both just college speak for “so fucking horny that your ears are bleeding.” This is because your unused genitals are emitting a low-level hum, and it’s popped your eardrums, and now you’re partially deaf in both ears.
Regular sex will fix this right up, but, level 2, or as it will be now called, “I want it so bad you could put it in my ear,” is not the pinnacle of loneliness. Oh, no.
LEVEL 3: Ten years is 3,650 days. Ten years single is when you start questioning everything. That’s what you don’t hear about the fathers of Philosophy. They weren’t big thinkers, they were just really, really lonely, so lonely that they questioned their own existence. Ten years single is when you start wearing your steampunk cosplay every day. Or, as often as T-mobile corporate will allow.
It’s pretty ornate for a casual Friday, but your alter ego, Commander Cumulus Longfellow is part of who you ARE now. That’s the ugly hell of Level 3 loneliness. You ARE who you ARE, and you’re unprepared to change.
LEVEL 4: (Getting louder and louder…) After 10 years alone, the cute, ear-bleeding hum from level 2 has become audible to the people around you. Listen (slam mic into crotch while humming loudly). The existential crisis from level 3 has become full on nihilism- You don’t question who you are any more – you’re just marking off time until you’re NOT anything. You’ve given up on love, and even LIKE at this point. You have a Tinder, but it’s mainly to say bitchy things to well meaning strangers trying to get their genitals licked. They don’t know that idea of physical touch terrifies and intimdates you, and, now you’ve been alone THIS long, it actually causes you pain.
I know, I’m sorry.
Want to hear my vag hum again?
LEVEL 4 LONELINESS IS SIMPLY CALLED M’ALONE.
I want to address the label ‘Sapiosexual,’ which is a term for people who are interested in a person based on their intellect. There was a report this week, by Samantha Allen of the Daily Beast, that Sapiosexual isn’t a ‘legitimate’ sexuality. Her argument is that it doesn’t delineate between gender preference, and that mental aptitude is already a characteristic sought after in any mate, thus rendering it ‘redundant.’ I identify as Sapiosexual, and so I take issue with this. Sapiosexual, for me, supersedes gender. I can’t ‘get going’ without strong intellectual stimulation. So much so, that your genitals are less important for me than your brain function. It’s not like ‘I’m into smart men.’ It’s I’d rather fuck Elizabeth Warren than Forrest Gump. And, the next person who tells me that those are fictional characters gets punched in the dick. I’m not bisexual. I’m not into women; not about the vag at all, but what I AM into is grey matter. It’s okay with me if you don’t believe in it (Jesse Whitehead). Some people don’t believe that homosexuality is a thing. Some people still believe in love, hell, some people still believe in GOD.
I want to believe in God, but I also want to believe that it’s okay to scoop Nutella out of the big jar with my hand, and eat it like a honey bear.
I want to believe in God, but I don’t want to have to care that much about what other people are doing. It seems exhausting.
I want to believe in Jesus, but… what if they’re wrong, and I could have been coveting my neighbor’s wife and oxen this whole time? It’s too dangerous.
I want to believe in God, but I’m not a big, white, guy. And, so I feel like if god existed and wanted me to believe in him, he could have started there… I think we can all agree that’s the character to play in this LARP. That’s the avatar to have…
I was raised really strictly Christian, and there are a lot of really adult themes in the Bible, and you’re kinda’ just surrounded by these ideas. One that always fucked with me, personally, was the idea of Original Sin. I figured that if we had it, all mammals had it, and somewhere out there was a little cat Jesus on a little cat cross for their little cat sins. I thought this for a while, too. But, if this isn’t the truth - if there is no Cat Jesus (Gato deJesus), how do they get clean? Because my cat has done some things to my carpet that he needs to atone for. He’s dirty, and his soul is dirty, too.
I found the filter settings on my okcupid profile, and unclicked them. DO NOT DO THAT, Ladies. I had 1300 missed messages from penises of all walks of life. Professional penises, couch surfing penises, office penises, trade working penises, and penises still in school and looking for direction. 1300 missed penises. AND I’M NOT EVEN HOT. I’m TWICE your size. If I had 1300 missed messages from men, do you know what that means? That means that men would e-mail a literal sofa cushion for sex if it were shaved and oiled up (not Seth, he likes ‘em hairy, as we all know). After the Trumpocalypse, men will line up to hump flashlights. Any time I’m tempted to think of myself as unfuckable, I think of what Jason Biggs did to that poor pie. (I don’t know if millennials will get that joke, but he fucked an apple pie, okay? I think it was pretty obviously inferred…). And, the next person to tell me that’s a fictional character gets punched in the dick.
I'm Jane Malone.