Love comes in all forms, and with those forms comes its many definitions, terms, rights and wrongs. You have the most common description of ‘heterosexual’. Then comes the less usual ones such as homosexuality, bisexuality, pansexuality for those who believe themselves to be a step ahead, and asexuality for the final few who think of nothing but love and love itself.
And then you have…me.
I am one of the few who have “anti-romantic relationship” sentiments. I hate every part of it—from the unintelligible baby talk those in relationships deem necessary to use, to the days of active commercialism (think Valentines’ Day), empty promises and delusions that seem to trail constantly from anyone currently in a relationship, the flowers, the dates, the kissing in the trains, the looks couples give each other every second.
Not even keeping away from a steady relationship can keep you away from the annoyances of it. Friends drive me mad on a daily basis with their constant complaining and I fork out $10 each time on little goodies to cheer them up. Even on the good days where I can avoid dreaded calls and complaining meet-ups, I still have to deal with the agony of their social media relationship presences.
The only thing I like about relationships is the final, inevitable breakup where I, the lovely eternal single of the year gets to say the words “I told you so”. Being right has never been less fun.
And just to clear things up, I am not incapable of love, which some believe. Rather it is the misconception that love equates a full-fledged relationship is both ridiculous and highly misleading. I treasure relationships between my family and friends, and believe that they are the ones that really last. And as evidence, they actually do.
Being the one anti-romantic in a sea of romantic-driven individuals, I will say that I do feel left out sometimes. People balk at my future dreams (which is to die as the single, rich, and crazy granny who chases kids off her lawn.) and consider me to be the psychopathic one.
Which really leads me to the question of: Just when did our definition of love turn so narrow that one crazy psychopathic girl cannot choose to die by herself? Is love really confined to that relationship with your typical woman in the arms of a typical male? Is there more or less? I don’t know.
But I suppose with the media constantly churning out message after message that love conquers all, I’ll just have to continue sitting here and blogging my sentiments to myself.
(Just to clarify, rather than blog about the image I chose to use it to describe my feelings for a related topic of relationships, which is why I make no reference to the picture. Sorry if it definitely isn’t what you expected.)