the curse of hopeless romanticism

I am a hopeless romantic. I asked a friend, “Why do you think we call ourselves hopeless romantics?” She said, “Maybe because the kind of love we want, the romance we are looking for, is hopeless. It doesn’t exist.” What kind of love—what kind of romance—do I want?

To hold a girl close, cuddling as we watch movies.
To kiss her sweetly on the lips and then gaze into her eyes.
To press my face against hers and laugh in joy.
To take long walks through the park, hand-in-hand.
To share stories and laughter over lattes and macchiatos.
To be affectionate and to be shown affection.
To share my life with another, and to share in her life.
To care, serve, and sacrifice myself for her.
To show her that real love is not a hoax—and for me to be shown the same.

“Is it hopeless?” I don’t know. Maybe I just need to keep hope alive. Hope that my dreams will become a reality. Maybe I just need to work harder. Maybe if I become skinnier, then girls would be willing to go on dates with me? Maybe if I changed my personality girls would be more attracted to me? I don’t know. Maybe I’m just searching for answers like a fisherman fishing for a catch in the Dead Sea: maybe the search, though valiant and determined, will produce nothing except the salt from my own tears?