The problem is that no one is ever "sufficiently interesting." And the feeling is, apparently, mutual. It makes me almost physically nauseous to think of the time I've spent over the years trying to link up with someone who might conceivably turn out to be a love interest.
The purpose of this post? To officially declare that I'm dealing myself out of the match-up game for the foreseeable future, because the dice are loaded and there is no paper-trail.
Even at my most optimistic, I've known the urge to seek out compatibility is hormonally mandated; I am a conglomeration of DNA sequences, all desperate to express themselves. Some personality types can skillfully exploit this seeming paradox, like a surfer riding a particularly gnarly wave; there's certainly nothing inherently wrong with being a creature built from selfish molecules. But I think the option to opt out of this aspect of human existence -- to the extent that such is psychologically possible -- is fundamentally one of conscience, and mine is gasping for relief.
I don't expect this to be easy or pleasant. But it's imperative in the same way that removing a malignant tumor is imperative. I suppose I could launch into a screed about transhumanist automorphism, but my heart's not really in it. This isn't about redefining the human condition; it's about acknowledging an existential void that threatens to bisect my sanity if I allow it to continue unchecked.
"Now that it's time
Now that the hour hand has landed at the end
Now that it's real
Now that the dreams have given all they had to lend
I want to know do I stay or do I go
And maybe try another time
And do I really have a hand in my forgetting?"
--Nico, "The Fairest of the Seasons"
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