Boyfriends Are For Normal People

I am convinced that I have been destined to become a nun; not so much because of a profound spirituality I possess, I’m referring more to the whole issue of celibacy. I have tried my hardest, with sheer determination not to let my life-long singledom reek havoc upon my ego. So far, I have successfully shoved the thoughts of my impending mental breakdown into the far corners of my ever-fragile mind.
Yet, I do believe that there is hope for a partial—to say full would be pushing it—recovery. It is possible that I could learn to live as a functional, sane single, a somewhat normal member of society, amongst the people, yet utterly alone. After grocery shopping for one—no list, simply knocking the cheapest necessities into my little basket, seeing as using a shopping cart for only myself would be of the utmost absurdity. I would return home to my two bedroom apartment where my cat—an obese flab of fur who would be my best friend, my sole companion—would be splayed out upon the twin bed I purchased him, attempting to make us feel more like a family.
Setting the table for one would be a ridiculous waste of my huge expanse of free time, so instead I simply eat standing over the sink, no need to get a plate dirty. The cat eats what I eat—probably the cause of his extreme obesity—from his special bowl that I painted for him in another futile attempt at making us more like family. My diet consists of the staples—Ramen Noodles, rotisserie chicken, and Nutrigrain Bars—among necessary crisis foods—mainly chocolate and bread—for dire emotional emergencies.
I will spend a generous amount of time reminding myself of the perks of being completely alone: no one to tell me that talking to myself is, in fact, very unusual; no one to question my authoritative decisions—the cat generally cooperates as long as he is well-fed—no one to hog the other side of my bed and complain about the strange things I do in my sleep. Some of the perks seem ridiculous and out desperation, but they suffice as a way to make me feel content with my insignificant life.
After exhausting my list of perks, I will contemplate going to a club and trying to be “picked up” but will then remember the last time I did this, and how disastrous it was. I returned home drunk and even more pathetic than usual, having paid for all of my own drinks because no one would buy me one, not even out of sympathy—don’t think I wouldn’t stoop low enough to play the sympathy card. Then I would pass out on my sofa and dream of being alone. But I’m not really alone am I? Here, kitty, kitty…