Sometimes, when it’s been a while since I last wrote, I get physically agitated. I’m anxious and cloudy and feeling like I’m dangling outside of the physical realm. I realize how, well, ridiculous that sounds, but it’s almost as though there’s so much that needs to come out. And all of this brain barf backlog is fighting to be the first at attention.

You know how with cans, the contents can’t come out because there’s a natural vacuum? And the only way for it to move is if the poor can gets another hole popped in it to break the vacuum? I’m the can… so much is trying to get out of my head and the only way for that to happen is with some fresh air.

And, yes, I realize that probably makes very little sense, but basically I’m saying that I realize I need to write about SOMETHING, but have no clue where to start. Maybe it’s more that I just need to talk to someone. I used to joke that the reason I loved to write was because it was like talking to a therapist. The shrink doesn’t even necessarily have to say anything, but just spilling our heart’s complexities is therapeutic.

So I’m spilling. And I should also preface by saying that this is by no means a professional post. There is no research involved (unless you count living as research) and there will likely be no conclusive thesis. But look at the title of this blog. Brain Barf. That’s what it’s called and that’s what I’m giving. And if you have a recommendation for a therapist in San Diego or Boston, feel free to pass their information along.

So, as is evidenced by the past um several posts, I have plenty of romantic issues in my life. And it’s frustrating. I am confident in my school, I am confident in my writing, I’m confident in myself too… 95% of the time. I’m even comfortable meeting guys (maybe too comfortable). But put me in any sort of relationship with them and I screw it up. Why am I so innately hardwired to want to have a successful relationship? Why do I measure so much of my self worth based on my relationship status?

I think what I find particularly challenging is that I’m not a bad catch (and I say that with all necessary modesty). I get good grades, I know what I want in life, I’m sarcastic and even occasionally funny. I have straight teeth and am skinny. I’m competitive and smart and know not to wear double denim. And I happen to get along great with the parents.

So is it me? I realize I have some major honesty issues (as in, I tend to dole out a lot) and I over-think and over-analyze every look and twitch and unanswered call. Yes, I’m not perfect. But let’s evaluate some other suspects, as well.

Is it the age? Is college to blame? The oversexed media culture that is turning Gen-HarryPotter into testosterone-crazed sexpots (or visa versa)? Is it what I spontaneously deem College Player Syndrome, where guys like to “play the field” up until about their junior years when they realize that maybe girls don’t still have cooties, but sleeping around DOES spread cooties/STDs?

Is it because I’m actually looking? Truth be told, some of the best guys in my life were able to access me because I payed them no real heed until I suddenly turned around and thought Hey look, this guy’s kinda… awesome.

Is it because I settle? Or because people settle for me (ouch)?

I was watching some (more) Ally McBeal today… as in 5 episodes. Bygones. But Ally was sitting with this one character and had this character do an exercise. She said to think of the perfect wedding. Think of the guy and the first dance and the ring and the cake and the gorgeous low back dress and the color lipstick and the perfume and… you get the point.

And then focus again on the groom, on that perfect morsel of a dream man. Imagine his every feature, his every charm, his every trait. His smells, his eyes, his jokes, his quirks, his hands, his hair, his job, his house, his parents, his dog,his friends, his ex-girlfriends, his conservative grandmother, his dirty clothes, his leaving the toilet seat up, his spraying the mirror with toothpaste, his lack of interest in having a family, his dancing with two left feet, his sand paper facial hair, his geronomo afternoon shits, his stealing the sports section, his using my towel, his 100 degree heat when he sleeps, his tendency to not look me in the eye, his arrogance… And imagine living with that every day for the rest of your life.

Somewhere along that list, I realized what Ally was trying to show, that even the man of my dreams isn’t what I want. If my imagination can’t even grant me that small happiness, how can a person?

Gosh, that sounds so depressing and downtrodden. Mostly because that’s kind of how I feel lately. But I’m tired of singing Goodnight, My Someone to some mythical person. Ever since the first grade and my first boyfriend, John Paul, my life has orbited around boys/guys/men. It’s been way too long; I’m tired of passively waiting. And I’m almost tired of actively pursuing…

I just wish someone were fighting to find me as hard as I am to finally, FINALLY find them. Hurry up, babe.