Last week I turned 22.
It wasn't until today that it hit me, and it wasn't in any sort of exciting, great way.
No. Instead, I just remembered that 22 years have gone by in my life without any hope of love. Not once. No first kiss. No first date. No first boyfriend. No nothing. I've been alone all 22 years of my life. I don't want to be alone anymore. I'm tired of holding myself up. I'm tired of pretending like everything is fine and nothing is ever wrong.
Trouble is, I'm beginning to think it'll never happen. Who wants to love a socially awkward, unnecessarily tall fatass? According to the world and these past 22 years, no one. I'm probably destined to live alone for the rest of my life with just a couple of dogs to keep my company. Crazy dog lady. It's all I'll ever be.
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