Situationships are so fucking annoying! Also what the hell is love? A rant.

Today, at 2:03 p.m., as I clung to my vape for dear life and twisted on my parents' sofa, watching episode 9 of Sex and the City, a realization struck me—I want to be Carrie Bradshaw.

I feel like that’s the common emotion for most women engrossed in the show. I’m one of them. There’s something so enchanting about girlhood, or womanhood, or whatever label feels right in the moment. A peculiar comfort in knowing that most women share similar experiences, and often, what unites us is our interactions with men—or women, or anyone, if that’s your preference.

I’m not suggesting our lives revolve solely around romantic pursuits or that we are a species only fulfilled by the attention of an attractive other. But I’m 19, overthinking, and I don’t have all the answers. 

Naturally, my next step was to open Spotify, let some jazz fill the room, tackle the skincare routine I’d been putting off, brew a cup of coffee, and start searching for columns like Carrie’s. 

I came up empty-handed. 

Without Carrie’s guidance in real life, how am I supposed to navigate my sex life? My romantic life? My life? I don’t have it figured out yet, but this sounds fun.

I often ponder the concept of “situationships.” We’re so fucked. What we label as love is so twisted. How can we expect to be madly, deeply, and insanely in love—flirting, dating, having the best sex of our lives— and yet still not call someone our partner? What’s so terrifying about commitment? Why do we fear it so much? Why does this beautiful, albeit temporary, bond often end in ghosting, silence, and apathy? Do people just not fucking care anymore?

I don’t blame anyone for getting into “situationships.” The arrangement of being sexual and flirtatious without the looming fear of commitment is easy. That is, until one person catches feelings, remembers the “agreement,” and things get messy. It’s messy because the fear of admitting feelings and risking rejection often leads to the end of the arrangement. Yet, there’s always a chance that both parties muster the courage to confess their feelings, and then, perhaps, they get their happily ever after.

Good for them. I’ll be sleeping on the fucking highway tonight.

I don’t even know what love means anymore. I find myself in long conversations with friends, asking them—is love just friendship with sex? Their answers are interesting… but I’ve concluded they don’t know what the fuck they’re talking about either. Or maybe they do, and the concept of love is just beyond my comprehension.

Love is, well, subjective. It’s a feeling. So why the fuck haven’t I felt it yet? What am I supposed to feel? It would be easier if love were as straightforward as sadness or anger. On paper, it sounds simple enough.

To give you some context, I've been loyal to the wrong people. Romantically, I’ve only ever been in “situationships.” It just never progresses beyond the talking stage. All my romantic choices have been wrong, both subjectively and objectively. These people don’t even live close by. And by “not close,” I mean they’re thousands of kilometers away. I don’t think I’ve ever truly been into someone I was involved with sexually. It always felt…performative. Did I enjoy it? Maybe the first five minutes of kissing. But then, as their hands started to roam, my brain would signal, “Hey! Go for it! What if you actually enjoy it?”

I didn't enjoy it.

It was so painstakingly boring that I’ve stopped craving it. All I think about now is falling in love. Will love change how I feel when someone’s hands roam my body? Why do I constantly feel the need to be wanted, yet feel so fucking empty when I am wanted? Is it because I’m not confident enough to believe that people can genuinely like me for being me—for my body, the little bumps on my skin, or the flaws that tint my personality, adding specks of algae green to an otherwise perfect pink? It’s so fucking weird. I want to escape it all.

And then, I think about freedom. Does love grant freedom? Can I feel free while being in love? Or will the walls of love eventually close in as I get to know my partner completely? Can I still be my own person in love? Can I grow while in love, or will I merely become a reflection of my partner, clinging to the bond until they inevitably grow bored of me?

I fucking hate love.

I want to be madly in love with someone so fucking bad.

I hate meeting new people. All I want to do is skip the early stages and jump straight into a relationship that fulfills me to the point of being so full that I want to puke.

Maybe I need to start pretending to be lost at the gym or a bookstore, spending hours wandering in hopes of a serendipitous moment with a stranger who sweeps me off my feet. I’m fucking tired. Tired of waiting. I crave instant change.

But maybe that's the thing—maybe love isn't something that can be rushed, no matter how much I want it to be. Maybe it's not about finding someone to complete me or sweep me off my feet. Maybe it's about learning to be okay with the uncertainty, the waiting, the not knowing what the fuck I'm doing. Maybe it's about finding contentment in the chaos, the messiness of it all, and realizing that, in the end, the only person who can truly complete me is myself.

So, for now, I’ll keep watching Sex and the City, sipping my coffee (now wine, it's 6 pm), and trying to figure out how to be my own version of Carrie Bradshaw. Maybe the love I’m looking for isn’t the kind that comes from someone else. Maybe it’s the kind that comes from within—the kind that lets me be madly, deeply, and insanely in love with my own life, even if it doesn’t look exactly like what I imagined.

And who knows? Maybe one day, when I’m least expecting it, I’ll stumble into the kind of love that feels like freedom, not confinement. Until then, I’m just going to keep living, laughing, and loving (LOL) my way through the mess that is my life.

Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned from Carrie, it’s that sometimes, the most important love story is the one you have with yourself.