Egads! I'm Pining!

pine2    ( P )  Pronunciation Key  (pn)v. pined, pin·ing, pines v. intr.

To feel a lingering, often nostalgic desire.
To wither or waste away from longing or grief: pined away and died. v. tr. Archaic

To grieve or mourn for.n. Archaic

Intense longing or grief.

[Middle English pinen, from Old English pnian, to cause to suffer, from *pne, pain, from Vulgar Latin *pna, penalty, variant of Latin poena, from Greek poin. See kwei-1 in Indo-European Roots.]
 
This morning I woke up and I thought, “Egads! I’m pining! That’s what this is!”
 
In case you have never read a Jane Austen or Bronte (Charlotte or Emily, either will do) work of classic fiction, I provided the above definition. Thanks, www.dictionary.com.
 
[However, if you haven’t exposed yourself to Austen or Bronte, for the love of God, get thee to a library and reserve those books! Don’t let your only exposure to Jane Austen be some terrible film featuring Gwyneth Paltrow and a fake British accent. Clueless would suit you better (based on Austen’s Emma). Also, I could watch Ang Lee’s Sense & Sensibility until I bled out my eyes from crying at the end EVERY SINGLE TIME.]
 
This is what I am doing. I am pining. Except for the wasting away part. I stay ahead of that with frequent trips to Wendy’s and by keeping my freezer stocked with DiGiorno’s pizzas.
 
But still. The longing is there and so is the nostalgia. I think if I could just get rid of the nostalgia, the longing wouldn’t be too far behind. But how does one do that? It seems to me the heart’s ability to forget things like CRAZINESS and INSANITY serves to ensure that rose-tinted glasses are permanently affixed when considering the past.
 
I think only the bright, harsh, buzzing, fluorescent light of the present can truly illuminate the cause of this particular ailment, which has left me frozen in time and prostrate under the weight of true loneliness.
 
I need to know if it’s that time, that place, or…him. It would be so much easier if I were sure it was him.

But! This could all be born of the crazy, desperate, biologically-motivated, hormone-laced inner obsessions of a 27 year-old female at the tale end of what medical professionals feel is her reproductive prime. Anything after this is late. Am I right?