Not doing what I want to do, well, that sucks. And acting like I will ever be able to do it without somehow falling in love and getting knocked up and having my aspiring literary career crumble for the sake of a fucking zygote and a secure 401K? That is repulsive, and perhaps more scary than any commitment I pretend to shy away from.
I won’t lower my standards for men, but I’ve lowered them for myself.
The novel I got nearly 100 pages into died. Did you know that? It was like aborting a baby without my period. Or, one might argue, with a bunch of them.