I hope I never give the impression that single life is painless. Whether you date for thrills or forever, you will be thrown off your game. You will have moments at your laptop on a Saturday night with a box of pizza and a six pack of hard apple cider contemplating the weight of your decisions.”

– “Beer x Pizza Boxes,” from Songs About Boys, written by moi.

A new feature in my girls’ nights: their significant others.

Sometimes, they’re quiet observers only chiming in with a quiet, raised brow or chuckle at our irreverence. Some are intruders, elbows on the table, debating, talking shit, adding testosterone to the mix. They’re always welcome. As graduates from the School of Nawl, Nigga, my girls have pulled some winners. Still. Their presence reminds me that solitary single life, where I’m the last un-partnered friend standing–looms ahead.

I don’t know what to do with that.

Also. I’m observing people in relationships, who become more of themselves when they let someone in or whose identities show no signs of upheaval at all, like a befuddled dog. Head tilted, curious eyes. “This is what it’s like for normal people, huh?”

“What the fuck is wrong with me?”

No matter how many books I read celebrating the habits and choices of women who choose solitude, or how evolved my sensibilities may be, my gut reaction to people who happily share their worlds is that I’m broken. Defective. “Too used to dysfunction” (said the boy I left when I realized I wasn’t “girlfriend” material).

You expect this post to end with some resolution, huh?

It doesn’t.

I’m making this bed for one. I’d better be woman enough to lie in it; even on the cold nights when words whip through my window and chill me to the bone.

Words like broken. defective. dysfunctional.

What’s the alternative? Couple up to fit in with my friends? Leave another man in the dust after 4, 5, 6 months because belonging to someone ain’t my bag?

Broken. Defective. Dysfunctional.


Just don’t forget “dedicated” and we’ll be aiight.


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