It just occurred to me while lying in bed with my iPod in my ears and my hangover / Dunkin Donuts coffee withdrawal in my head that life plays a cruel trick on women.

As I get older, I know and like myself better than when I was younger. This makes me less tolerant of major bullshit from men. Minor bullshit, curiously, doesn’t bother me as much; behaviors that would have once been hysteria-inducing now surprise me by rolling off my shoulders. Maybe that’s part of it too; an improved ability to discern what’s a reflection of someone’s essence and what’s just a deflection off their internal monologue.

Like, a meta-version of Shallow Hal goggles.

Okay, so I’m older and I’m less willing to put up with bullshit.

But I’m older, and I’ve got less time to move the chess piece in order to get to the next part: breeding.

But I’m no longer willing to let just any ass-hat get up in my bidness.

Fuck. (Or… not, more like it.)

Of course, maybe the desire to breed is simply a fear of death, as if having children will make me live forever. And maybe the desire to be with someone is simply a fear of death, as if being with someone will prevent me from dying alone.

But that’s b/s too. We all die alone.

t approaches infinity; I –> 0.

I’m going to, star-like, “flicker and sleep” someday. And having married someone or spawned a pup or spent a lot of money on a hotel room in Iceland … none of that’s going to prevent my disappearance from this world.

I guess this should make me feel twisted and sad and filled with despair. But in a way, it’s clarifying, and liberating.

And helps me focus on the journey, not the destination. Lets me enjoy the good company of those around me; friends, lovers, friends and lovers.

The road is always better than the inn. — Cervantes

And it’s not a track meet.  I don’t need to sprint down the road.  All I need to is take one step at a time.  Stop.  Smell the roses.