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As I opened a fresh word document and thought, “hmm, which fleeting encounter with a boy should I grossly exaggerate for my column this week?” I drew a blank. Tumbleweeds rolled across the vast, dry, wasteland of my heart. No unattainable crushes, no texts, nothing that could pass for even a pathetic excuse for a romantic prospect. I knew my condition had not seen any improvement for some time, but this moment seemed crucial. I had been coughing up blood. I knew the end was near. I glanced up at the ECG hooked up to my phone with its phone numbers, dating apps, and Facebook friends. No notifications. Medical equipment started beeping and the cast of the first season of Grey’s Anatomy suddenly rushed into my apartment. Ellen Pompeo looked worried. Despite my crippling loneliness I was still starstruck. I tried to sneak a photo with Sandra Oh. I looked on helplessly as the trembling line flattened. It was all over. On September 16, 2016, at 11.09pm, my love life was officially declared dead.
It is with great sadness that I have had to write this, but acceptance is the first step—acceptance that there is absolutely no hope left for me. To my friends, I know you’re all in what you think is love and having a lot of sex because you won’t stop telling me about it, but in this time of mourning I beg you to please refrain from your dick-brags. In time I will be able to pretend to care about your mcms again but, for now, please just let me wallow in unenthusiastic silence.
So goodbye to my love life, it has been nice knowing you. It’s all for the better really, it was about time you were put out of your misery. In fact I’m pretty sure you actually died long ago and I have just refused to accept it. I’ve been Weekend At Bernie’s-ing all this time, dressing up your corpse in sunglasses and Hawaiian shirts, hoping to fool myself there were still signs of life by fooling others first.
But now that you have been laid to rest, I can begin to move on. The prospect of a love-life-free life seems full of promise. Does a bear watch Sleepless in Seattle over and over and cry because they cannot fly like a bird? No, of course not! That would be silly. It’s simply impossible for a bear to fly. Bears do not fuss over the impossible. Does Sharon watch Sleepless in Seattle over and over and cry because they cannot get a text back? No, of course not! That would be silly. It’s simply impossible, her love life died long ago. I will learn to not fuss over the impossible. By simply accepting the fact that I will never find love ever again, perhaps I can finally live my life like how we should perhaps all be living our lives—like a strong, carefree, non-flying bear.