Confession of a Cynic

Last night, I was so sad because I realized how much of a cynic I have become.

Why do I want to vomit when I hear my friend struggling through poor reception to talk on the phone with her boyfriend, saying “Honey? Can you hear me, honey” repeatedly?
Why is it so striking that she would tell me (someone other than her boyfriend himself) how much she misses him when he is only gone for a few weeks?
Why do I say things like “that is such bullshit” when he tells her that it doesn’t matter what she wears out tonight because she looks beautiful anyway? (By the way, she gets offended and I have to tell her, “don’t listen to anything that I say when you know I’m the one who doesn’t believe in anything.”)
When I see her parents, a pair obviously still very much (and probably forever will be) in love, why does it raise so many doubtful thoughts in my head, put me in so much awe and surprise? Not to mention how difficult it is for me to imagine being their children, who have the privilege of witnessing them being so close after many years of being with each other, everyday. My friend once told me: “I have never seen my parents, for once, not show respect or not pay attention to each other.”

I was lying in bed next to my friend. We were going to sleep.
“You know you still have your glasses on, right?” she says to me.
“Yeah, I know.”

And, why can’t I stand love songs anymore?

“No... it’s okay, just go have fun.” she calls her boyfriend again, “I’m going to sleep, baby. Just wanted to say good night.” Then, I further realized, I don’t have the urge or desire of a girlfriend’s to either do or receive the gesture of “just called to say ‘I love you’ or ‘good night’”, nor do I need to “just hear your voice”.
I felt like I physically lost something. Something that I’m not sure how, if ever, I will gain back.

I was lying there, shocked from this realization, as if I was looking into the mirror and seeing myself in the reflection for the first time in ten years; as if a medical professional came over and told me that I had cancer.
I continued to lie there, with my glasses on, looking into the darkness before me for a while longer—thinking, reflecting.

Is this normal? How long does it usually take cynics to realize how severe they have fallen to be, if at all?
How do I live otherwise, when I find the acts of reliance and affection so appalling and dangerous?
Is it curable? Can I die alone from this?