Kill Me

"Kevveeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeennnnnnnnn-uh," says my roommate, with a valley-girl aspiration on the end of the word that is usually absent from her normal speech. "Staawwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwp-h." Her boyfriend is in town, and she has metamorphosed from a reasonably articulate, intelligent woman to a possibly mentally retarded 14 year old.

Being single, I really hate boyfriend weekends on principle. The idea of LOVE as the REASON I should care about this otherwise unremarkable person grosses me out. I don't want to be included in their activities, I don't want to be patronized or condescended to. I would rather be single than in a relationship like theirs, but it works for them. And that way, I guess everyone wins. All I really want is to stay away from the idiotic conversations, the audible, sloppy kissing, the shower sex.

Granted, I'm having a lot of fun being single, possibly more fun than I ever had coupled. Factor sex out of the equation and single wins hands down. I'm determined not to get back into a relationship, ANY relationship, unless I'm a) as or more in love than I ever was with Mark, because otherwise I will just pine for him occasionally, for the rest of my life, and that's no fun; b) totally convinced that he's worth it. I'm tired of dating just to not be alone. Being alone, and I say this as someone who previously had not been "alone" since fifteen years of age, is not so bad. I have yet to meet a man who can convince me that doing other than exactly as I please at all times is a good idea, and I'm holding out for him. The one who makes me want to change my plans.