Novels have ruined me.

Dear Diary,

Today, I watched Pride & Prejudice, the new version, where Darcy tromps across a field, while Elizabeth looks on in raptures. It occurred to me that this is very unlikely to ever happen to me. And no, I don't mean the petticoats and a guy named Darcy. I mean the ethereal, charged, passionate connection between Lizzie and Darcy as the dawn breaks over the misty field. Then I thought of every other romantic book/movie I had ever seen/read and realized that I probably have unrealistic expectations. This made me equal parts sad and angry.

Why have novels built up these standards and fairy tales about love triumphant over misunderstandings and social expectations and family obligations and, yes, sometimes evil? Why does the guy always end up with the girl and they have a emotionally stirring scene in which they both realize they are cracked and stumble over themselves to say they are in love? Where are the novels about how things really are? About a girl who has no romantic prospects and continues this throughout the entirety of the thing? In which everything is broken and their is no snap-your-fingers fix?

It occurs to me that these books do exist; I have just steered well clear of them. Is it better to be blissfully deluded or shockingly disillusioned? I think perhaps the former, and that may be the reason I write: to further cart myself into delusion. So I shall through in my hat for the corruption of todays youth and give your this little thing that I have written. Maybe we can fool each other for just a little while longer.

Hey you. I know you.


You're in every movie I see and every book I read. I swear, you were in that last episode of Vampire Diaries.
You're in ads on the bus bench and in the articles of my local news. I rarely bother, but sometimes I see you in a classified or an opinion piece and I know it's worth it.
You're there when my mother clips coupons and when our basket fills with organic milk and Smart Food, you're there too.
In the spring, you're in the tress (you know, the ones I think are cherry blossoms, but never produce cherries?), when the balmy breeze throws pink petals into my clothes, I feel you there. And when the pink petals turn to red leaves and the balmy breeze turns to brisk wind, I hear you tell me you'll always be here, no matter how the world changes.
When I put on my clothes, I try to pick thing you'd like, which is near impossible, given your revolving tastes. And if i go out, I put on a pretty dress and take special care with my appearance, because I want you to think I'm beautiful.
While I write this, I'm waiting for you. I wait for you every day and every day you keep me waiting. I wait for you like an alcoholic waits for a liver transplant - I know I don't deserve it, but if you showed up, I could turn it all around. I could give up my not-so-wonderful habits and make myself worthy of someone like you. Or I could at least fake it until YOU started seeing ME everywhere.
So I'll keep putting on pretty dresses and I'll keep waiting for you so that one day, I can say 'Hey, you. I know you. You're every sappy song on the radio and every time my lungs turn oxygen into CO2, I'm taking in a little piece of you (because, did you know that we're still breathing the same air as Jesus?).'
So, I guess I'll content myself with that while I wait. Because I want to say 'Hey, you. I know you. Maybe you know me too?'


Maybe it's my own version of middle child syndrome, but I'd like to know that someone is listening to me. Maybe it's too early to ask, but if you want, leave a comment or something.

Bye.