An Elegant Suicide

February 14th... Probably the most horrible day of the entire year. Whoever invented a holiday to celebrate happy couples was a disgusting sadist. What better way to make someone who's alone feel more lonely than to put emphasis on all of the people who have found themselves a "someone"?
I was sitting in a parking lot waiting for a bus yesterday when I realized that my life is pointless. If I were going to make a movie of my life, it would open with a shot of a parking lot in the winter. The sky would be overcast, an ugly shade of gray, and I would be sitting on a bench, watching and listening as cars pulled out, the only sound being that of their engines turning over. From there, it would capture my life in images of observant awareness and utter lonliness. I would call this movie "An Elegant Suicide". I hope there's not already a movie called that... Anyway, it's not called this because I kill myself (obviously) but because that's exactly what my life is: A nauseating display of what a person's life should not be.
My life isn't exciting. Nothing new and wonderful ever happens to me, and am I bad person for somehow hoping that someday somthing unexpecting, new and exhilirating could befall me? I want a guy, completely out of the blue, to do something amazing and wonderful and just sweep me off of my feet. I want to find someone and fall in love and, heaven forbid, just have him love me back. Some people don't believe in love, and then they make me feel guilty because I do. Like it's some sin for me to want something more, to believe that maybe I could have a piece of something sweeter than I could ever imagine...
So many illusions in my mind and so many dreams at night that are so sweet... I wish I could wake up in the morning and live in a fantasy world. Even if it's grotesque and frightening, at least it would be an adventure.
Don't get me wrong: Today ended up being a pretty good day, one that can make me sort of happy, but I guess it's just one of my faults... Always wanting something more. I'm happy with what I have, but I always think up a way I could be happier, be it simple or fantastic and otherworldly. I guess I just have to stop imagining ways that things could be better. Stop wanting that little extra something: A hand to hold... Two arms to hold me... A set of lips to kiss goodnight...
It's such a sad thing to wake up every morning and have to resign myself to monotony... Always knowing exactly how everything is going to turn out... It's the death of a dream far grander than anything I could wrap my grasp around, and knowing that it's my own disatisfaction that killed it is what makes it a beautiful, tragic and elegant suicide.
I've killed my own happiness, and with it myself. I'm really nothing more than a shell of what a person could be. I can't imagine how anyone would ever see anything more.