I have officially purchased my very last self-help dating book.
No more “Why Men Love Bitches”, “The Rules”, “Act Like a Lady Think Like a Man”, “The Power of the Pussy” or “God Where is My Boaz?” (all real titles, by the way)
No more Tinder, Match.com, Meetup.com, or Eharmony.com in hopes of finding my soulmate.
If I live the rest of my days on Earth without viewing another episode of The Bachelor, I think I will be fine.
I elected to stand in front of a full-length mirror, butt ass naked stare at my naturally kinky hair, wide nose, big ol’ hips, gorgeous tattoos that my mom despises, pearly white teeth from years of braces, walnut-shaped eyes, scarred knees from two acl surgeries and declare I am over the bullshit.
Love will happen, and so will a child. I deserve that.
I just can’t spend another millisecond of my life trying to tweak or change the very quirky idiosyncrasy about me that someone may one day find irresistible.