Sabs' Crap-Comedy

Next-Door & Next-Life

I stopped writing in this blog for one main reason: It was scaring men away. Surprised? Probably not. You’re probably saying to yourself, “Well, what did she expect?” I don’t know, maybe a partner who could appreciate my sense of humor and internet persona. I know, I ask for too much.

I ask for too much, because I am too much. I used to think differently: “I’m a lot to handle and beggars can’t be choosers. You are not in a position to negotiate.” I started taking a different attitude, one of more self-love: “You’re an intelligent, attractive, ambitious woman; you deserve to choose the person you spend your life with.” Turns out, my form of self-love isn’t helping anyone else love me.

It’s okay though. Who needs love when you have the power of the written word? My parents love me. That should be enough, right?

As I write, I keep on imagining what other people must be thinking (which is why it’s probably so hard to write about yourself intimately in a public format), and let me tell you, it’s not positive. Suggestions like “lobotomy” and “total personality makeover” come to mind.

We live in an era in which it’s the easiest to be yourself. Think about the standards people subjected themselves to 20 years ago: trying to squeeze into molds that only a small slice of the population could fit into. Though we still have a long ways to go, it’s a lot easier for your freak flag to be loved in 2020 then it was in 2000. Everyone is riding that gravy train, well, that is, everyone except for me and the toxic ultra-right. Actually, I’m willing to bet that even Neo-Nazi’s find some version of love.

Unfortunately, my personality seems to be incompatible with romance. I do not fulfill the personality standards required for modern day relationships, or relationships at any point in history. Yes, there are personality standards, just like there are beauty standards.

In the 60s, skinny women would pity thicker gals. They’d think to themselves, “They’re never going to find  a successful man and provide a suitable lifestyle for themselves.” Or at least this is the way that it’s depicted in literature and in the media. In the 2020s, we know better than to pity or pride girls for their looks (at least in my corner of the world). However, that doesn’t mean that there still aren’t other standards people look for in romantic relationships. Ever heard of the Girl-Next-Door?

Everyone wants to date the Girl-Next-Door and no one wants to date the Boy-Next-Door.  Now, I know this is an uncertain generalization, but I’m just generalizing for the sake of beautiful prose, which I now just ruined in counter-arguing your argument. Goddamn it, can’t I just be poetic? Aslan Christ. Jesus Dumbledore. Control yourself and wait until I’m done.

Anyway, though the definition of “next-door” has fluctuated over the years, one thing remains the same: It alludes to an unassuming and quiet personality, approachable, naive, soft, familiar. None of those attributes apply to me. I’m cocky and outspoken, ambitious, worldly, hard-assed, and a constant adventure. I don’t just go along for the ride, I like to be the one building and creating it. If we dance, I want to lead. If we walk, I want to set the pace. If we watch a movie, I’ll tell you which one. If we go to dinner, I want to choose where. But I want you to pay… Free food: I rest my case.

Okay, so I’m a loud, outspoken, ambitious woman with slight (slightly severe) control issues that stem from a deeply rooted social anxiety that created the foundation for the anatomy of my entire personality. The difference between me and the Girl-Next-Door is that I can’t just bury my problems until they turn into acne, insecurity, and mediocrity, I have to verbalize it, express it, before I explode into a form of manic depression. In other words, I can’t just swallow my thoughts, desires, and opinions into a state of submission without forming some type of physical ailment (usually a migraine). If I could, I probably wouldn’t be single.

So, I have a couple of options here. I can either try to change my entire personality by sheer force of will or date the one weirdo that likes strong women because they don’t want to get a job. I’ve tried doing both. I failed both times.

I can’t change my personality. Believe me, I have tried. I have tried to be quieter; I have tried to be less opinionated; I have tried to disclose less about my ambitions; I have tried to obscure my talents; I have tried to hide my passions and I’ve tried to hide my pride. It always seeps through. My personality, my character, is big. It cannot be squashed, even by my own hand or foot, unless I were to die.

I also dated a guy who wanted a strong woman because he didn’t see himself holding down a job in the present or in the future. He wanted guidance; he wanted a tough-love, maternal figure to structure him and set him on the right path, or something. I’m a terrible babysitter and I don’t want to mother children that I didn’t choose to have.

So, where does that leave me? Where does that leave my romantic life? In the gutter with my ex, apparently. I should have listened to myself: beggars can’t be choosers. And, let me tell you, I’m so fucking fed up with these rags. Perhaps I do need a makeover. ____________________________________________________________________________________________

I started this blog because of the very sentiment I just described. I had the idea that if I felt this way, maybe other women did as well. I sometimes wished for a friend to tap me on the shoulder and say, “Hey, you’re not a weirdo. There’s a lot of people that feel the way that you do, including myself. And I can’t promise you romantic success, but I can promise you that what you’re going through is normal and that you’re not alone.” Instead, I had friends that had men falling over to spend time with them, while I was just the colorful sidekick boyfriends would roll their eyes at. And, since no one was offering me those wise words of wisdom, I thought maybe I could be that wise friend to other people.

Unfortunately, I’ve started other writing projects that are actually part of my professional life, and I no longer have the time to keep up with these long-ass posts. I know that there’s only like three of you out there that are reading, but I don’t care. I still wanted to formally turn in my resignation as your source of sporadic comedy and relatability.

Maybe we’ll meet again in a different life. Maybe I’ll reincarnate as an Instagram account. Maybe next time I won’t a lonely dork. Maybe I’ll come back as a girl with mousy hair, huge breasts, a quiet love for cars, a speedy metabolism, and absolutely no trace of a tongue. We’ll see. One can only dream.

I hope you had as much fun as I did.

1 thought on “Next-Door & Next-Life”

  1. insane how u and i r more similar than i even care to understand, in so much more than just one realm. u should get in touch w me for real.


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