Emotional Masochist

I'm in the frozen food section of the Trader Joe's and a beautiful red head is smiling at me. She's obviously flirting as she brushes past me, daring me to strike up a conversation. My vocal cords tighten, paralyzed with fear, and I say nothing. Then Ms. Gorgeous Red Head walks out of my life forever. Fucking idiot.

For the rest of the day I'm going to hate myself...more than usual even. The crushing feeling of shattered self esteem is getting old. Why do women have this effect on me? I know the answer the moment I think it. It's my past choices of girlfriends coming back to haunt me. I always fall for complicated women. After 32 years, women are still a mystery to me and the source of all my misery.

Dating in Los Angeles is like being a contestant on a fake reality show where you're the only one not in on the joke. If you meet someone down-to-earth they probably haven't been here long. See, there are two types of people in LA; people born here who grew up crazy and people who moved here and became crazy. I'm the latter. I've been here 6 years and I finally feel at home. That's the first sign you've lost your mind. Unfortunately the second sign is wandering Hollywood Boulevard screaming obscenities at the top of your lungs. There's no in between.

I don't want to give you the wrong impression. I'm not one of these chronic LA haters. In fact I love it . The creative energy, the frenetic pace of life, the smog, the traffic, the earthquakes...what's not to like? I even love the women. They're just the type of neurotic narcissist I find so endearing.

Even before I moved to LA, I was a sucker for mentally disturbed women. Bi-polar, borderline personality disorder, delusional psychosis...we're talking beyond daddy issues. The most obvious reason I fall for them is a fear of commitment. The more fucked up theory...I'm an emotional masochist who secretly enjoys having his heart ripped out. Either way, I must stop this vicious cycle before I wake up a lonely middle-aged man. The clock is ticking.