I’ve wrestled with it so long. I’ve punched, pushed, and pounded the monster within me, trying to herd it back into its cage. It is a devil within me, the mystery that has no perpetrator, no answer to the question, no quotient in the division, no harmony to the melody. It is unanswered, unexplained, until now.

Now I see the answer to the question. I see the strings of the puppet. The monster is why am I rejected by cupid? Why have I not traveled into the country of love, like many of my tourist friends who end up settling for weeks or even years until they become part of the landscape? And I’ve dipped my toe into the waters while my fellow companions dive in as if they came from water itself. Why am I not one of them? Why can I not dive into the water and breathe, instead of coming to the surface as a sputtering Jonah? Why? This is the devil whispering in my ear with his forked tongue. Why am I not like other girls with their fair share of love and loss? Why am I the withering one fed off of the scraps while the rest gorge themselves on the feast given to them? All of these are the bones and muscles of the monster within me. And they do not have answers. At least they didn’t before.

I hate watching chick-flicks or rom-coms. It’s not that I prefer shoot-em-ups any better, (actually worse because of the hypersensitivity) but chick-flicks I have an acute loathing for. It’s Monday night. Dad’s out of town on a business trip to Philadelphia. Mom and sis, being the majority of the house, of course voted for a chick-flick. I was determined to pick the lesser of the two evils they so graciously put before me, as if on silver platters with lace doilies. The entree of the evening was The Proposal, a witty, funny, yet romantic dish which I knew would go down better than the overcooked, breaded with cheese, corn filled dish, The Notebook. The lesser of two evils by far. Sis and mom got into it and I did too because my skin got a bit tingly at the mushy parts, as if my heart’s oohs and ahhs ricocheted into my fingertips. But I left. I couldn’t take it anymore.

  Do you ever feel like you’re so messed up that no one could ever love you? That you’re so wrecked and twisted that you’ll never be straight again and instead you’re a worthless pile of knots and tangles, no one could ever use you? And this is the answer to the question, the perp in the mystery, the quotient, the solution. I hate chick-flicks because they show me how messed up I am.

It’s the opposite of their purpose, and maybe it’s just the hypersensitive idiosyncratic erudite-writer within me who feels like raging. But whenever I see someone jump headfirst into that river, or step across the border, the soul within me wraps itself tighter in its organic shell and quivers in fear, rocking my frame. Who could ever love a person like me? Who could ever love me, and truly love me, for me after all the things I have done? It’s bad enough that finding someone who truly loves someone else is difficult, but it’s a miracle if you find someone who loves you despite your past mistakes. And yes, I haven’t found the miracle yet, but in the process I see myself so jaggedly that I might cut anyone who comes in contact with me whether I like it or not. So why am I alone? Why do people act like they see the whole mirror, that I’ll end up with someone great and be continually in love, when al I see is the broken glass? I’m left alone because I don’t want to cut anyone. I don’t want to hurt when no injury is needed and of course I don’t want to be hurt. But ultimately, I don’t want to be told that I am a pathetic gargoyle faced misanthrope no one should bother talking to who is really a detriment to this world. I don’t want to hear anything like it from another human being, again. I’ve eaten that meal, vomited, and eaten it again, ad infinitum. I know the tastes and smells of rejection. So why put skin in the game if you’re just going to lose again? There’s no guarantee of winning, it’s almost the luck of the draw these days.

By now cupid has become more of a status symbol than actual blessings. Girls parade their boyfriends like groomed poodles at a dog show in front of drooling crowds at social events. They strut their coupled selves, demanding adoration. And if physical strutting is too much work, Facebook has a relationship status so you can strut online while you take selfies with boyfriend bae.

But they’ve put perfume on the crap ladies and gentleman. The red painted roses are piles of paddies, cow paddies. There’s real heartache and pain in love and cupid suddenly becomes your old seventh grade teacher with a switch instead of a baby with arrows.

For some, we’ve been smacked too many times to try to pull another fast one. Others are only getting started. The rest wander away, the jagged pieces of the mirror falling into the trash, wondering what the hell happened and secretly wishing there was some chance they could be whole again.