This decision is too hard. I close ClikClak before I start scrolling through for three more hours. It's decidedly less fun when your own face keeps popping up on the feed. I do have a new book to start, so I should probably read that.
Instead, I open Instagram. Xavier didn't reply, so I shoot him one more message.
Me: I think I'm going to become a nun. They have a lot fewer choices. Plus, I really want to click on the shirtless guys with the lickable abs, but I'm scared that they're automatically bad news. Why does it seem that the ability to be a nice and sweet guy is inversely related to the percentage of body fat?
I don't know why I ask him this, and I immediately regret it. It's yet another stupid thing I've done while on my quest for love. I've got so many, I could write a book. My gaze darts to the pile of notebooks on the shelf.
What's stopping me?
Oh right, the crushing fear of failure. Again. What if I do actually sit down and give it another try? What if I pour my heart and soul into it and people still hate it? Worse, what if I'm truly terrible at it?
It's been four years, but I don't think I'll ever get over that crushing first rejection.
Being five years younger than my closest sibling, people thought I didn't hear when they talked about my brothers and me. But I always heard. And I've kept it close to my heart since.
Look at Owen Finnegan. Captain of the football team and now an Ivy League lawyer. Yes, but what about Aiden Finnegan? Have you seen him with the animals? He's a miracle worker. Those Finnegan boys are so smart. Their parents must be so proud. And then there's Ophelia. She's so …
They would trail off, at a loss for words. I was too much of a lost cause, even then. It was clear I'd never measure up to Owen and Aiden. The best I could hope for was to not be too much of a screwup.
Yet I still screwed up. So much. And I'm doing it again with ClikClak. But I don't know how to function without messing up.
Those thoughts have kept me paralyzed for years. They've kept me from my dream. I tried once, and it was terrible. I'm terrible. It doesn't matter that I read tons. I've even taken quite a few writing classes. I just … I can't again. I sit down, paper in front of me, and the fear of failure freezes my hands in place. It makes the words dry up in my head and my eyes glaze over.
Marley is the only living soul who I told about my desire to write in the first place. It took me weeks to tell her what I was working on, and then even longer to let her read it. Once I started emailing her chapters, she was all Team Ophelia. She loved it, but she was the only one.
I often wonder if she read the same story by another author if she'd have felt the same way. I doubt it.
It's why I've never told anyone else that my secret dream is to become an author. Everyone will laugh. And then, everyone will be disappointed when I can't do it. I'll be the only failure in the Finnegan family. Being an accountant may not be fulfilling, but at least it's safe and honorable.
Owen is a successful attorney, and already a junior partner. He's got the Ivy League degree, the wife, the two kids, the massive house in Connecticut, and the sports car. Aiden is a vet for large animals. It's not glamorous, but he's well-respected and admired in his small Vermont town.
And yes, I have gone to visit him, hoping it will be like one of those Hallmark movies. The only thing that happened was I fell in horse poop and a crusty farm owner with about ten times more wrinkles than teeth laughed at me and told me to go back to the city.
My trip there was also another thing I could put in the "stupid things I've done in the quest for love" category. It seriously is enough to write a book.
Screw it.
I pull a purple Moleskine notebook off the shelf and write in big bold letters, "Stupid Things." I underline the title once, then twice. And then …
Nothing. All the words that are normally swirling around my brain on repeat, vanish. Hell, if I'd known that this is how to make my mind still, I would have tried writing a long time ago.
There's nothing there. How do authors come up with a story? A plot? Characters? Anything? Frankly, I'd settle for something other than, "It was a dark and stormy night" at this point.
After about thirty minutes of staring at a blank page and having it stare back, I give up and go back on ClikClak. Dad-bod has not responded. Mr. Washboard, however, responded with a few choice emojis that include a long purple vegetable and water drops.
Yuck.
I mean, it's not like I'm a prude or anything, but come on. Show me a little attention beforethat. I scroll through more of my potential suitors, but I don't trust anyone or anything anymore.
Men broke me. Maybe they're the stupid ones and not me. Maybe romance is dead and this is hopeless.
Maybe that's why I can't write.
Yet here I sit scrolling through for thatsomeonewho might see the real me. That they might see beyond my cluttered desk and quirky personality. But as I stare at my notebook, I'm not even sure who I really am.
I'm going to make another list about who I am and what I want from a life partner. Lists help me stay focused. Well, as much as I can.
One. I want to spend my life with someone who values me.
