He's Just Not That Into Any of Me

Okay. It's very late. For a school night, anyway. The past few nights I've fallen asleep blissfully doped up on Nyquil, but I have a tiny little addiction problem, so I'm not letting myself take any tonight, and it's not going well so far. Plus I drank it all last night, so... there you go.
Went to see He's Just Not That Into You tonight. I actually loved it. (Actually. Who am I kidding here, actually. Is there actually anyone out there who didn't think this shit was written for a girl like me?) I am completely - and I'm not kidding here, people, completely - PMSing. So it wasn't pretty. The only thing that might get me to sleep tonight is the promise of seeing Bradley Cooper again very soon, and very naked. But that's not really the point here.
I don't know what the point is here. I keep typing and deleting, typing and deleting. So maybe I'm not quite ready to delve into all this.
I keep wanting to share my funny, sad stories from this whole new world of online dating with you, but then I feel bad about it when it really comes time to share. Or maybe I feel vulnerable, because really these guys are just trying to do the same thing I am, so it makes me wonder what that says about me. Or I'm worried about killing any shred of dating karma I might have left if I sacrifice them up as entertainment. (Don't get me wrong. It would probably be worth it. This is some crazy stuff... remind me some other time to tell you about Chester. I'd even post his picture - just to make sure you got the full effect - only I'm pretty sure that's illegal. And, you know, immoral. And kind of mean. Anyway.)
And I don't know what my story is yet. Which makes it hard to tell.
I think I'm all those girls, in some way or another. The one who holds on too long. The one who tries too hard. The one who looks the other way. The one who doesn't want what she's got.
That's a lot of girls all wrapped up in this one. And he's not into any of me, hot mess that I am. So what do I do? Someday I'll let go. And stop trying. And see him for what he is. And want what's right in front of me.
Won't I?
Or, more likely, I'll reread this, realize I sound like a crazed Carrie Bradshaw without the staff of great writers or the killer shoes, switch to Robitussin because it's all that's left in the medicine cabinet, and not keep Bradley waiting any longer.