sothenshe:

Last night, I sat alone on the couch in my underwear, ordered Italian food (they forgot the meatballs. Assholes.), drank some beers and several scotches while watching two straight hours of Real Housewives of Orange County. As my time with Alexis ended – my favorite due to her complete lack of intelligence - and I thumbed through my DVR list wondering how I’d pass the rest of the night, the same depressing thought scurried through my brain yet again: This isn’t where I thought I’d be at 30 years old.

I had assumed my bachelor days would have ceased by now. That a bubbly voice would be there to chide me whenever I hovered over the kitchen sink, devouring dinner directly from the pot. That I’d have a girlfriend so intellectually well-rounded, we’d exchange witty barbs about foreign policy before diving into serious matters, such as whether or not Courtney from The Bachelor was actually attractive. I’m slightly exaggerating here, but I did at least envision having a special someone so engrained in my life that the necessity of wearing pants at night would be more of a given. If only so that the lucky lady had something to remove later on.

As it stands, the last carnal encounter I had occurred in 2011. The admission “Well, I haven’t had sex this year…,” actually left my lips the other evening amid the company of close friends, all of whom are nauseatingly happy in their various serious relationships. 

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This is exactly where I’m standing…