A Loveless List By Dylanna Fisher For The Edmonton Story Slam
I’ve never been called babe, sweetie, boo, honey, Rufus, spot, or any other pet name as an expression of non-platonic love. Why, you ask? Well, here are the reasons in a conveniently handy list.
I make lists. Lots of them. To-do lists, bucket lists, project lists, cosplay lists, book lists, shopping lists, if I were millionaire shopping lists, a hypothetical scenario list, and so on.
Being pansexual doesn’t automatically mean you get better chances with a larger playing field. It means there are more people to turn you on but turn you down. You don’t get a special power to sift out hot sexy singles in your area.
Just because I’m alone doesn’t mean I’m utterly lonely, nor does it mean that I’m desperate. Most of the time, it means either I appreciate the bed to myself or think I can fit a second person in my snuggy for a supernatural marathon.
Me and my business partner have planned everything to start a brothel—all the details for shift change down to uniforms. Now we only need prostitution to be legalized in Canada. And Trudeau, if you’re listening, I’ve got a plan to make the prostitution industry not only flourish but run smoothly.
Anything my significant other can do for me, I can do for myself. I can go on dates with a table for one. I can love and appreciate myself without sharing a pack of gummy bears. And finally, sex, let’s just say I got it covered with double motors. Buzz buzz motherfuckers.
I’m a writer, meaning I live in my head often. It’s safe in there, and only some people are allowed in.
I’m addicted to webcomics. I read over 60 webcomics, and I keep adding more. I organize them by their updated schedule and read them religiously. I can't commit to one religion, yet I will explain each frame’s subtext. If anyone has any suggestions, I’m all for them.
I believe being in love should make you happy. All the romance novels, comics, movies, and songs imply that everything will be amazing once you have someone you love. But it’s not. People around me, people I love, had to learn the hard way. I can’t even count how many people I know with broken homes because of divorce. I have a friend back at home. She thought she was pregnant, and her boyfriend promptly told her he never loved her. I know a boy who was cheated on so many times that he couldn’t count them all. He thought it was his fault for not being good enough the entire time. She’s pregnant and won’t tell him who the father is. Please explain the concept of love to the girl who doesn't understand. She’s single, and her dad tells her, “You’ll find someone; they just need to have a thing for fat girls.”
I’ve been told I’m very colourful with swearing; it’s an art. Like fuck’s sake, you fucking doodle fucking frick.
Have you fucking seen couples? It’s all handholding, slobber, and candle-lit chanting. Soon it's commitment and wedding bells, and before you know it, everyone is in the love cult and drinking the Kool-Aid. And me? I’m good with my gin and tonic without the toxic.