Uncomfortable Conclusion

I came face to face with really uncomfortable conclusion last night: I'm a sucker for romance.

You see, as my stomach dropped and my heart was thumping out of my chest at the finale of The Office, Season 2 (we're behind because I hated the first season and I'm stubborn), I was blindsided by the realization that I live for this stuff: the butterflies, the drama, the passion. And this totally sucks.

Since some people are born with beauty and some people aren't, I've overcompensated by being the 'buddy' girl. You know, the one that you could take out drinking and make inappropriate jokes with and know that she will be low maintenance. And I am definitely all of those things. Only not so much, I guess.

People who have known me for a long time (ahem, Lesley) are already aware of this - she told me the first time she realized I wasn't a raging bitch was when we went to see Emma in the movie theater and I cried. Then I put my raging bitch mask back on. So I guess in reality, I've only been fooling myself. Because I too get disappointed when I don't get flowers or get butterflies when two characters have a romantic moment or cry fat happy tears when they finally bump uglies.

I blame this all on being a Cancer. It's easier to accept that fate makes me a big wuss.