Am I Desperate, or Just Honest?

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I keep telling myself I’m not desperate for love. But then again… I’m also desperate for love. It’s complicated, like my relationship with carbs or my commitment to going to the gym “next week.”

Here’s the thing: my little brother, twelve years younger than me, just got married. He’s barely old enough to rent a car without paying that under-25 tax, and meanwhile he’s already found his forever person. I’m 37, creeping up on 40, and my biggest romantic accomplishment this year was splitting an Uber Eats order with myself.

It feels like life is one big game of musical chairs, and the music stopped years ago. Everyone else is paired up, sitting comfortably, holding hands and sipping pumpkin spice lattes — and I’m the guy still standing, holding a plate of nachos, wondering how the hell I got left out.

And don’t get me started on people’s advice.

  • “You’ve always got friends!”
    Yeah, because what I really want is more dudes to argue with me on Discord about why pineapple does belong on pizza. That’s not love. That’s unpaid tech support with extra steps.

  • “You should lower your standards.”
    Oh, absolutely. Let me just sign up for the Dollar Tree version of happiness. It’s not that I’m picky — I don’t want America’s Next Top Model, I just want someone I actually like looking at. Wanting chemistry isn’t shallow, it’s survival.

The thing is, I’m not out here hunting for perfection. I just want someone who’s real. Someone who won’t treat me like their free Uber driver with emotional support included. Someone who understands that being a good person doesn’t mean being a doormat.

Because yeah, I’m tired. I’m tired of solo movie nights where the only dialogue is me talking back to the screen. I’m tired of late-night drives where the passenger seat belongs to a bag of Cheetos. I’m tired of waking up every day with the feeling that maybe I’ve been overlooked — not because I’m unworthy, but because I’m not six feet tall, don’t have a full head of hair, and don’t spend my weekends begging strangers in bars for a shot at love like some sad contestant on “Who Wants to Be My Girlfriend?”

But here’s the kicker: even with all that, I’m not settling. I’d rather grow old and yell at neighborhood kids to get off my lawn than spend one year chained to someone who makes me wish I was single again.

So maybe I am desperate. Or maybe I’m just honest enough to admit what most people hide behind curated selfies and cute captions. At least I’m not out here pretending I’m “just seeing where things go” while secretly scrolling for Plan B at midnight.

So yeah, call it what you want. Desperate. Picky. Unrealistic. I call it refusing to accept less than a love that’s worth the wait.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a hot date tonight — with some pizza rolls, a blanket, and the faint hope that maybe, just maybe, the right person out there is tired of eating alone too.

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