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The pain leaps suddenly, like the horrible surge of heat when you remember you forgot to do something important.Sometimes it spills out of me in tears that trickle down from behind my sunglasses as I sit on the streetcar on my way home from work, inching home toward another solitary meal, another night alone in bed.Once a week, I grab sushi takeout: green dragon roll, spicy salmon roll, miso soup.As the waiter finishes taking my order, I brace myself for the final question of the transaction: “How many chopsticks?I cringe when I imagine it going into print—and then onto the Internet for all eternity—for my exes to see and future dates to find lurking in my Google results. We’re all humans here, so I’ll do it: I’m coming out as lonely.Loneliness is physical It’s a dull sort of pain, like a poke in the eye or the slow ebb of cramps.
Doesn’t she have anything better to do than mope about her chopsticks?
I burst into my apartment and cry and cry and cry, standing in the middle of the living room.
It’s an involuntary physical reaction to the lack: of someone beside me on the streetcar, of someone waiting for me on the couch.
Maybe he’s just asking because it’s enough food for two people. I’m relatively delightful: sweet, fun, smart and outgoing. I have a job that pays me to watch TV and talk about movies and interview celebrities. I am aware that, at 32, my eggs are jettisoning out of my dusty uterus at an alarming rate.
Maybe she’s fat and weird, and that’s why she’s single? I have a social life packed with besties and beloved co-workers. Related: The Perennially Single Bitch Despite all this, I am a perennially single bitch (PSB), i.e., a non–cat lady with a full life who remains single.