When you have been a part of the scratching, crawling blood drawing fight just to catch the brides bouquet, kicking and screaming that it belongs to you, not the blushing brides 12 year old aunt Jessica; and you know her name because she invited you to join the reception even though you weren't invited and don't even know the wedding party, you were just watching because it seemed romantic; when you have seen every friend, co-worker, aunt, second and third cousin marry; when you're part in cyber space is the personal ad you placed on that overpriced internet dating service where there usually are no good matches anyhow, but you do it hoping that by some flicker of a chance Mr.
Romance will spot your ad and he wont be a psycho killer who leaves his socks on the floor and the toilet seat up when he pees with the door open after having two minute long sex with you and the condom he wore stops up your toilet because he wasn't smart enough to put it in your overstuffed trash; when you show up to Metalskool tribute band concerts alone hoping to recapture your youth, the time you felt like you were the coolest but you really weren't, and your popularity was only with the high school boys you slept with before your midnight curfew, and the bouncer at the door knows your name and that the age on your I.
D.
is not your real age because you are really older; when you feel inferior to the other people that are part of your local alcoholics anonymous group and your coffee addictions are far worse than the entire self-help group combined; when your daughter (who you don't even have custody of because you don't make enough money) hangs up post it notes on the refrigerator telling me how to "behave like a lady" and maybe then someone would ask me to marry them, and I could be living happily like "daddy does" with his petite wife and her overpuffed new breasts; when you spend all your state paid financial aid on dermabrasions and botox and as a result you just look like a young girl with road rash across her face instead of like the supermodels pictures that line your bathroom walls unless company comes over, and you take them down to hide, but the only company you have is the short chubby maintenance man Hector and he knows you don't do dishes and that you only called him over to work on "fixing things" just to have someone to talk to, but his wife Maria always pages him right when you get a conversation going; and you inner child is even grown up enough to know that you should be married instead of home alone; and the fears and resentments you have about getting older are only heightened because you choose to live in Los Angeles and be an actress so that someone, anyone will notice you and love you; and look past that bundle of small grey hairs peeking out the top of your head; and the stretch marks across your stomach; when you know that your best friend is out of town for your birthday every year just so he doesn't have to hear your whine again, and every year he gets further and further away in hopes of staying clear of phone reception so he can have a break from your madness, and you remind him constantly that you are forever a part of his life; when you buy new cigarettes after stopping smoking for the Nineteenth hundred zillion millionth time; then you know you are single.