The title of this post probably accurately diagnosis my problem: I'm alone in this world. I have never married. Never successfully maintained a relationship with a romantic partner. I meet plenty--but most of them I'm not interested in. I find them avaracious and, well, just plain mean. Men more interested in shooting out someone's lights so that theirs will shine the greater. Men who just put down anybody who---isn't Jewish (because they are). Men who are threatened by minorities and sneer at them, fearful they will take away their jobs. Full disclosure--it is not minorities who my jobs are at risk for--it is psychologists willing to take the sweatshop wages. I know full well that when I left Coney Island Hospital, my job was filled by someone who not only was cheaper, but was hired as a 1/2 employee--and there is no limit to how many patients you can load them up with. So you give someone there 21 hours one hundred patients. it is their problem how to fit them in. Cynical ones just put everyone in a group, regardless of whether or not they are appropriate for groups. Regardless of the fact that group therapy has a therapeutic purpose, separate from the economic one. The most important factor is how many billables you can get. The employee with the most billable is the MVP of the clinic. One social worker used to triple book his patients, telling them that the first one to get there got the appointment. How cynical can you be about the value of your trade? How cynical can you be about the human factor? The assistant director adored him and urged us all to emulate his methods. Another social worker (the only one I saw who received multiple promotions) made snide, disrespectful remarks about patients behind their backs. He was the other one who was adored by the assistant director. Were both the-rapists adored because they were male in an increasingly female-dominated field? Oh well. Secondly, I have no doubt that when i left Touro, they immediately found someone cheaper, who didn't seek a raise after five years without one. Touro also values numbers--professors who teach seven or eight classes a semester are valued. I once taught seven classes in a semester. It was frustrating, a total time-suck, and the pay bump so minimal that I barely noticed it at all.
Ah, but I digress.
I suppose I want someone who's a dreamer, but not a luftmensch. Someone who enjoys what they do, or finds some thing good about what they do. As I've said before, I'm a introverted daydreamer, who has always interacted with books' character. Who doesn't always find the heroes particularly compelling. In LOTR, I never cared for Gandalf. In Harry Potter, I never cared for Dumbledore. I didn't find it particularly wretching when either went down. Good riddance to you both. I also found the character of Draco Malfoy increasingly compelling as the stories developed. His father is a servant of Voldemort, but Draco doesn't seem to have his heart in identifying with his father, as he gets older. He seems to be torn, unable to break away. Talk about an Eriksonian identity crisis. Talk about a Freudian Oedipal complex. And also Neville. He suffers the same fate as Harry-his family is destroyed by Voldemore and he must live with a grandmother who is indifferent to his needs. His fate is worse--Harry is an orphan. Neville's parents are permant residents in a mental asylum. One wonders why the wizarding world cannot cure them--they can instantly cure broken bones, after all. They have a spell to cure those who have been touched by dementors--chocolate bars. It seems rather a strange exception to wizarding skills . Or maybe not. Even in the wizarding world, passive solutions cannot cure-all. If you want your life to be different, you have to be different. Chocolate can change your mood. But only you can change your life. Its the wanting that's the cure.
But the problem is--you can be friends with fictional characters. But they cannot be a friend to you. And in the vast, lonely, empty hours of the night, you find yourself staring at the phone, wishing someone would call and care for you. And that won't happen with your fictional friends. They are static, stuck in a one-dimensional world, which doesn't include you.
Ah, but I digress.
There are no dreamers out there, I suppose. Or worse, there are, but I don't meet many. Or even worst, there are, but they care not for me.
Thankfully, there are no end of musical panaceas. Whenever I am too downhearted, I sing (in my head) Laurie's lament from "Oklahoma," "Why should a woman who is healthy and strong, blubber like a baby because her man's gone away. A weepin and a wailin that he done her wrong. That's one thing you'll never hear me say."
Occasionally, when under severe stress, like my waning days at CIH, I'll sing--out loud Black 47's rousing anthem about Irish immigrants in America: "Is this what I've been educated for to wipe the arse of every babby in America"!
Why are there no men who want to go to pubs and hear Black 47 live? Or other bands live? Why does their talk turn always to meanness and hatred? And this was long before the present administration. All these were present during Obama's time. In Bush's time. In Clinton's time. In Bush Sr.'s time. In Reagan's time. And that's as far back as my dating history goes.
Another reason why I never met my bershert. I was always shy, socially awkward, inhibited. Anyone who wanted to talk to me had to come up to me and initiate a conversation. So sensitive guys were unlikely to do so.
And I was so alone and afraid that anyone who wanted to befriend me I would allow to friend me. And only weeks later would I realize--I don't like them. ;I don't want to be with them. I find their company appalling. All they do is talk about themselves. They seem little interested in me. Except, as in that lame joke--and what about you? What do you think about me? I was free to disagree with them. And did. How can anyone let appalling statements be said? Or, i would let the relationship wither. Sing my little songs. And be alone again.
And now--well guys don't want to be around a mouthy, opinionated gal. Who probably doesn't admire them. And others--don't want someone who may make more money than they. Or have more degrees. And the pool to choose from becomes increasingly limited. And the contents odder. Se Moi. And I will end, as is my wont, with a song--Ruth Sherman's wail: "One hundred easy ways to lose a man." From the musical: "Wonderful Town." Composed by Leonard Bernstein, lyrics by Adolf Comden and Betty Green: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dTk_lpr-uo0.
It's lonely when all your best friends are in the fiction/music section.