The Unlucky One (or How I Learned to Stop Hating Nicolas Sparks’ Concept of Love and Stuff)

I am convinced that my love life resembles a Taylor Swift record. If I have to be more precise, her last record which is apparently about John Mayer/Jake Gyllenhaal/the loser from One Direction that all the girls go goo goo gaa gaa over*. One minute I am smitten and BANG, I am sulking because the relationship has imploded like Amanda Bynes’ career. I’ve gone from reinacting the scene in 500 Days Of Summer where Joseph Gordon-Levitt’s character is going crazy Broadway-style to crying while listening to a certain Gotye song in a nanosecond. While girls I’ve gone to school with are getting married and starting families, I am still waiting for the one. And frankly, I am sick of waiting and I refuse to lower myself and sign up to a dating website. I had my former housemates (who no longer talk to me because I am single, but that’s another story) sign me up to and it was an epic fail.

What is this elusive concept of The One, I hear you ask? You’re asking the wrong person. That’s something I am still trying to determine. Romance authors would have you believe that love appears out of nowhere. It goes away for an undisclosed period of time and at some random moment; you are reunited and make out in the middle of a monsoon and…I have totally ripped off The Notebook. But the point is, is love a concept that I will never encounter? Or has media blown a simple privilege out of proportion and built up my expectations? Importantly, should I stop daydreaming about Ryan Gosling making out with me in the rain?

I believe my notions of love are different to those popular culture would have you believe. My future husband would have to make me laugh. Bring me homemade (and potentially gluten free) cookies unexpectedly. Be prepared to sit through a Ryan Gosling movie (Drive is pretty blokey and gruesome). Sing me the theme song to Family Ties whenever I am down. Be prepared to wear pyjamas as outside wear. Even better, we can wear matching onesies. If Hannah and Adam can do it in Girls, so can Mr Imaginary Boyfriend and me. That’s the start of it. Essentially, make me feel like the luckiest woman in the world.

At the rate I’m going, it’ll never happen. I’ll be listening to “I Knew You Were Trouble” and noting the similarities between me and Tay Tay’s love life for a little while longer. It took Liz Taylor like ten marriages or some other ridiculous amount and she never still found it. Some people will die happily single. Like my “Uncle” Jim, family friend who meant the world to me and my brother. He died a bachelor and it didn’t faze him one bit. My brother didn’t meet his fiancée until he hit his mid-thirties. I am not going to settle for anyone like Paris Hilton does. They have to be pretty freaking awesome.

Or, they could be this guy here.


Get in my pants, Dr Reid.

Apologies to any former love interests and One Direction fans. Please don’t send me death threats.

*I am preparing for the onslaught of hate mail from One Direction fans as we speak. Besides, Hanson, New Kids On The Block, Backstreet Boys and N*Sync were and are much better.


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