Juliette Miranda

“You deserve more. You deserve to be happy.”

These phrases have been said to me more times than I care to remember in the past two months. The irony of it is enough to make me want to jam a fork in my forehead, because depending on the source, the unspoken codicil typically is, “… but I can’t do anything about it.”

That’s useful. Thanks for making the assumption that I’m lacking something and deliberately going out of my way to avoid it, and offering me nothing but weak sentiment in return. That helps. Really.

It’s tiring to so often have my misanthropy justified. Just once, I’d like to be surprised and proven wrong.

Sadly, this life does not seem to be working out as I’d like. Screw Christmas spirit, screw New Year’s resolutions; I’m done dealing with people. In fact, I’m rather done with everything. So, I’ve decided to have myself cryogenically frozen and scheduled for defrost in the 25^th Century. Seeing as how my relationship of nearly three years is involuntarily on what may be a permanent hiatus, and that my residual anger is alienating me from my friends and society in general, a nice long sleep for 400 or so years sounds like just what I need.

Besides, then I can wake up and be consoled by Buck Rogers. Having made my way through half of the 10-disc Buck Rogers in the 25^th Century collection (the tv show from the 70s, not the black & white serial), I’ve concluded that Buck is indeed an ideal man.

He’s intelligent, and a leader who knows when to break the rules, yet has a sensitive side that keeps him from being too cocky. He’s consistently going out of his way to help a lady in distress, and the fact that he fills out his spandex space suit extremely well is, admittedly, a bonus.

It’s rare that I’m attracted to any man, honestly, so I’m not going to let something as trivial as 400 years (or the conventions of reality) get in my way of being with someone who could make me happy. And really, considering the hurdles that exist between myself and (the one who used to and still could be) my guy, I’m inclined to believe that my odds of making a relationship work with the fictitious spaceman Buck are somewhat better.

I suppose it’s possible that I’ve overworked my Netflix subscription just a tad. Still, it’s a preferable option to slugging it out over that which I cannot control. If Buck Rogers keeps me from doing any of the myriad things angry, hurt women are wont to do (like drunken emailing or setting things on fire), so be it.

And should things with Buck and I not work out, I will happily choose to be alone for the rest of my life. Of all the things that I exaggerate in the world, my antisocial tendencies are not among them.

Which is why I am so agonized about my current situation. Having finally found the best mutual connection with an exceptional person (after wading through far too many disturbingly unexceptional), it kills me to know that there’s something substantial that could forever prevent us from being together. And oddly, the reason I’m not with (the one whom I want to be) my guy, and the reason I’m not with Buck, are rather alike.

Reality is, without a doubt, a bitch.