Sunday, 27 February 2011

The Perfect Guy.

I am one of those hopeless romantic girls. I fit into that category with a big fat green tick. Forget God, rom-coms are my bibles, and the perfect guy . . . he exists. Somewhere, in this world. In a place where i've not yet discovered.

Sleepless in Seatle, You've Got Mail, The Proposal, Serendipity . . . faith, fate, hope, romance, love . . . they're something I so deeply believe are real emotions. And the people that tell you real men aren't like the types that grace us in all of our favourite movies, then they're the people who gave up looking for him, and settle
d for something less. And they're negativity is most likely regret, because we still have our hope in tact.

I've dated the cheater, and he broke apart my trust, and heart.
I then dated the player, and instead of butterflies, he gave me jealously, and insecurity.
And then I dated the illusionist. The one guy who feeds y
ou these lies. Empty words that tell you you're perfect, that he's nothing like previous boyfriends, and he's never going to hurt you. And then he does, and you realise it was a facade. It was fake. A lie.

And i've been single for ten months. It's not that i've been so put off by my exes than i've turned to celibacy. I don't aspire to living the life of a nun. B
ut neither do I aspire to have a life full up of bed notches, where instead of finding Mr. Right, I sleep with a dozen Mr. Wrongs. And what for? For him to forget my name after our one night, and move onto the next girl, leaving me feeling used?

No. I'm single through choice. Don't get me wrong; Guys ha
ve asked to date me on dates. They've expressed interest. And they're decent, and they could make me happy. But there were no butterflies, or that instant attraction where you make eye contact for the first time, and your heart is racing so hard you can't breathe.

And that leaves me wondering, what's the point? If there's not that first connection, a moment where you two are connected into a world which only you two are in, and everyone else fades away, it's just you, and him . . . why b

But I also have a fear, deep inside, that he might never show up. That fate won't introduce us. And, like every one of those bitter, disapointed woman that swear the perfect man is just an illusion, I'll end up single until my thirties, where the pressure to have a giant rock on my finger, and a bun in the oven with take over and I'll become a complete and utter desperado and then I won't just be one of those women, I'll run the club.

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