“Maybe you’re just being too selective,” my friend nonchalantly offers, bringing a Corona bottle to her lips. We are sitting in a bar, one of her choosing, and airing our grievances about life. She’s unhappy with her career, or lack of as she says, and I’m trying to solve my personal dichotomy of wanting love and never wanting to meet anyone.
“You’ve always been too picky.”
It’s not as if she’s saying something I don’t think myself. On nights I’m filled with a strange sort of jealousy that so many people in my life are coupled off, I begin fretting my love of solitude is a sign that something is wrong with me. And I can’t help from questioning my own behavior. You see enough Instagram posts of engagement rings from girls you once ran away from boys with on the elementary blacktop, you start to wonder.
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