It no longer surprises me when I meet someone and instantly think “Yep, I want to get to know you better.” It’s also no longer surprising to me how often this happens.
I took myself to dinner the other day.
“Your emotions are a clue. Witness them, feel them, respond to them; never attach to them.”
In a year and a day, I’ll be jumping on a plane to Germany.
I’ll have been in NZ for seven years. I don’t know why it’s important. But it is important that I leave exactly seven years after I arrive. There’s currently only one stamp in my passport.
I’ll happily admit: I’m running away.
I don’t know what from. I don’t know why. But fuck being here any longer. I love this stupid little country and I’m coming back to see even more of it, but I’m tired of it, tired of the way people live here, tired of the restrictions I feel I’m constantly living under. I’m tired of watching life pass me serenely by.
The thing is, I always tell people that changing your situation doesn’t change you. You can’t run from your problems, you can’t run from who you are. So part of me thinks that heading to Germany goes completely against what I believe – except, it doesn’t: I’ll happily carry my baggage with me.
Of course, I have and will have expectations of Germany – hot guys, cute girls, Porsches and Beemers fucking everywhere, all the things that matter in life – and there’s a strong possibility that too much dreaming leads to huge disappointments.
But that’s true for life. I blame it on movies and books and stories: you never see a scene that doesn’t matter. At no point during a movie will a boy walk past the house of a girl he likes and nothing happens. He will certainly not simply walk, lost in thoughts of said girl, and notice a few minutes later where he is.
And so we live with this stupid expectation that Everything Matters and that Something Will Happen.
And it fucking won’t.
Sitting around waiting for life to happen is only worthwhile in a movie or book.
So I can’t sit around waiting. ‘Cause nothing will happen. I’ll get stuck somewhere, content in the belief that things will magically get better or return to where they were, which is seldom better than right here.
No, I have to happen to life. I have to go and happen, I have to make my own stories. I have to make the changes I want to see.
Of course I could do that here. I could completely happen here. But I don’t want to. Nothing in me wants to stay, nothing holds me here; everything pulls me away. So I’m going to happen somewhere else.
Most people my age have settled. In a few years they’ll be married and kidded and bored and longing. But they’ll be safe. They’ll be comfortable. They’ll be happy and secure and content and dreamy. They’ll have things to work on, they’ll have work to do and a family to grow. They’ll have things to be proud of and people to love them always, unconditionally.
Not one aspect of that appeals to me. And I’m perfectly ok with that.
Because I could totally settle. I could find a lovely woman and settle into an analysis position and make my home here, make my mark right here so that when I die my memorial stone will say “BRB, gone to fetch my girl. See you kids soon.”
But so could anyone. And nothing makes me better than them for that role. There is nothing in me that makes me the sort of guy you’d marry and live forever with. Mostly, because I’ve never really wanted that.
Yes, I said I did. Yes, I love kids. But I feel that there has to be more to life. There has to be more to my life. I can’t simply raise some perfectly imperfect cultural mongrels and consider my life well lived. I just see no point in that.
What draws me is stories. What draws me is people. What draws me is love and sex and laughter and cars and drivers. Because I’d rather be broke in the passenger seat of a Porsche on the Nurburgring than wealthy in the driver seat of a Porsche on Tamaki Drive.
So I’m dawdling to Germany. And we’ll see what I do from there.
I figured that if I downed the whole bottle, the anger would be smothered, buried far away. So I tried. It was shit beer, but it had an alcohol content, and that was nice. But, when the empty bottle came down, my only thought was “Right, who should I throw this at to prompt the best fight?”
That obviously wasn’t a good idea. So I turned to the guy with the epic car, gave him $20 and he took me for an incredible blast in his gorgeous, rally-derived car.
He drives like I expected: he trusted the WRX more than he should have. I didn’t care; crashing and dying would have been a beautiful way to go.
We survived with huge smiles.
The anger returned. It just sat there, staring at walls without holes and wanting to change them.
I don’t know where the anger came from. I was simply sitting there, enjoying my drink and the company, when it emerged fully formed. And it just wouldn’t fuck off.
I tried everything I knew. I tried to focus on pretty girls – that worked momentarily. I tried to talk to cool guys – that worked momentarily. I tried to breathe, tried to smile. tried to walk and nothing worked more than temporarily.
It was like a hot black stone sitting in my chest. Everything ached around it. And I could not get rid of it.
It sucked. It sucked right up to the point that I realised calling it anger is half the problem.
I told (yet another) pretty German about my anger issues. She’s now a bit scared of me. When I shared this snippet with Dutchy, she moaned at me, claiming I don’t have anger issues, I’m just under a lot of stress.
I’m sick of her being right so fucking much.
It’s not anger; it’s just energy. It’s a fuel. It is not necessarily dark or deceitful or hurtful. It’s just something I can use if I’m willing to deal with it.
I found an old picture today. A picture of Someone. It’s a picture of Her, lying on a bed, completely naked. It’s a picture I’ve edited with mediocre skill. And it’s fucking beautiful.
I miss Her so much.
She is a manipulative, selfish, unreliable bitch and I wish the very worst upon Her but god I love Her so. I want Her to feel a tenth of the pain She caused me and I want to laugh at Her when She suffers but I know I’d always step in and help Her. I can’t bear to have Her suffer pain.
In many ways, Dutchy reminds me of Someone (though Someone has a better bum). I think, mostly, she reminds me of Her in the way they both use people and fuck people up. I think part of my attraction to Dutchy is that I hope I get to watch her be hurt the way Someone hurt me.
Which is a truly horrendous thing to say. Because the mere fact that that woman can smile every day is enough to give me hope. That she can go through everything she has, that she is as fucked up as she is and that she can then stand there and say in pure honesty “I’m ok” with a smile on her face is remarkable. To me, she is proof life is never too hard.
That proof makes me want to try again. That proof gives me hope. It tells me I could go back to Someone and say “Hey, I still love you. I want to try again with you. I believe this time you can win, this time you’re strong enough, because I’ve seen someone else do it, and I think you’re better than her.”
But I can’t go say that. There are numerous reasons I could use for it, but there’s only one honest one: I don’t want a relationship.
Because what I want is labelless.
This energy I have makes me lonely, it makes me lonely because it scares me. It constantly asks “how can I make the given situation more enjoyable/entertaining?” and occasionally arrives at answers like “throw bottle at Dutchy and pick fight with Hulk”.
I’m learning to control it. I’m learning to turn the focus away from me and onto others. Because it’s useful. Because it gives me the strength to say “Where I was sucks, I’m going somewhere better and I have nothing to fear.”
Because it’s stupid to be scared of myself. It’s stupid to long for the past. So I’m stepping forward, without any darkness, one small step at a time.
I’ve got this amazing business idea.
It will cater to guys looking to propose to their girlfriends. It’ll give them the certainty they need to propose. How? By testing their girls.
That’s not as academic as it sounds. What we do is simple: I use every trick in every unwritten book to try and steal “his” girl. If she stays with him, he’ll know she’s good to marry.
The German thinks it’s a brilliant idea. Then again, she wants to stop studying towards being a teacher and become a pornstar, so she might be a little biased toward sexier job descriptions.
I, on the other hand, am just amazed it works.
Because there is no reason in the world why any girl would want to leave her stable, steady, employed, loyal partner for me.
And yet, they do. Every girl I’ve slept with in the last 5 years was in a relationship when we started fucking. Granted, there weren’t many – a hugely enjoyable total of four – and one of those was in a healthy open relationship. But it intrigues me as to why you’d leave what apparently you’d always wanted for me.
Of course, I haven’t “won” every girl. Memories of Sunglass Girl still make me blush. Then there was the Swede…god that was embarrassing. Curiously, those were both single.
There was also the Canadian. I have never been more instantaneously attracted to someone. I have never put more effort into a short encounter. It was the first time I actively followed every pick-up-artist technique. But she was heading back to Canada. In under 12 hours. To a boy with waiting arms.
She didn’t come home with me.
Pretty much, I have no problem with destroying relationships. That whole “sorry, I have a boyfriend” doesn’t sound like an excuse to me: It’s like saying “sorry, I’m wearing socks.” I can’t even find it in me to consider it unethical or wrong. I’m told that it’s wrong, and I’ve had a friend tell me very seriously that if I ever stole a girl from him, he’d be incredibly upset at me. Which confuses the hell out of me.
I just don’t get it. It’s like women are objects, to be stuck up on a wall and admired and woe betide anyone who removes them. It’s like women aren’t allowed to choose.
So, imagine my confusion when I fall in love with Dutchy (and her small bum) and then freak out at any sign she might return the feelings because I don’t want to ruin her relationship.
Weirdest series of thoughts in my head. “Oh, she might have feelings for me. That’s hot. But then she’ll have to choose between me and Hulk. He’s boring. But he’s been so good for her. And she’s so happy with him. Why would I want to ruin it? Wait, why do I care?”
I like that, though I know I have little to offer, there’s no doubt in my mind that I’d be chosen over him. My arrogance is appalling.
Regardless, it’s the first time I know I’d back off to save another’s relationship.
Of course, there’s no need to back off: I channelled my usual honesty (with perhaps a hint of German influence) and asked if the feelings were returned.
And holy fuck does that chick have issues. I don’t know which of us was angrier with the other. But through a lengthy tirade of tears (mine), mutual misunderstanding (hers only actually, I’m amazing) and exasperation (ours), she eventually realised that I was not trying to fuck or date her and I realised that her feelings for me are not even slightly near mine for her.
Which is good. Cause now I still get Dutchy-cuddles.
I went for a walk this morning. It took me and a hot coffee over wet grass to a small bench and – when I looked back – I realised my feet can’t even walk straight.
We cleaned our teeth together. She looked as lovely as ever. Work had been long; I was tired. We were talking, gently and quietly. I think I mentioned Downton Abbey.
She told me how she’d watched it with her other boyfriend the week before. I smiled and asked how that had gone – I knew it wasn’t a show he’d enjoy.
She cleared her mouth of toothpaste and grinned, stretching up. It had been fun, she’d said. She hadn’t seen much of the show.
She went into detail as I finished cleaning my teeth, leaning against the wall in a way that dragged my eyes all over her body. Her smile grew. I approached her as she talked, reaching out for her hips, wanting to pull her to me, wanting to kiss her the way she deserved. She caught my hands and stopped me, licking her lips as she went into extra detail. I matched her smile and pushed through her hands, running my finger under her top, onto the soft skin of her stomach.
Fear shone in her face. She backed away. I stopped, confused. My finger left her skin. The fear disappeared. The desire returned. She carried on talking. I reached out once more.
Again, and again, and again this happened. Acid boiled within my chest, searing to my skin; pain blocking my words and cutting my emotions. The pain was so intense, it woke me up.
It had been a long time since I’d had a dream that odd. Anger, frustration and an overwhelming sense of confusion forced my body completely awake. The scene I’d dreamt was reminiscent of the last nine months – albeit in a condensed situation. There’s only so many times a person you love can tell you you’re attractive whilst not wanting you before you stop believing them.
My counselor’s words were easy to remember: I wasn’t angry; I felt angry. Words I’d read followed simply: “Your emotions are a clue. Witness them, feel them, respond to them, never attach to them.”
I breathed deeply, and tried to analyse what was going on. Obviously, I was still torn up by the complete lack of intimacy with Someone. I was never going to get answers to that. I was surprisingly ok with that.
It showed me my fear: that those I’m attracted to aren’t attracted to me. That everything I have to offer isn’t enough.
It also told me why every time there’s a new person on the scene I try so desperately hard.
And the cool thing is, I don’t have to fix my fears. I’m aware of them, now. There’s a decent part of me that’s rolling on the floor, laughing and saying “well fuck you then if you don’t find me good enough. Your loss.” There’s a more sensible part that realises that’s a cover. That it still will hurt to have my fears realised, but that that’s completely ok – and normal.
If a Jackdaw blew through my window, screamed “the whales are falling, get in the plane!”, dug a hole through my floor, emerged in a mini world war two fighter (replete with goggles) and disappeared into the sunset, I’d probably be less confused about my life than I am right now. I’d also probably see about getting myself into a psych ward.
I have absolutely no idea what to do.
Perhaps because – for the last three years – I’ve simply lived the waiting game, the thought of making any decision leaves me confused and bewildered. I know – quite simply – that I have to make a decision. I know that making any decision is better than not making a decision, even if that decision seems like the “wrong”choice down the line – the thing to remember is there are no right or wrong choices: they’re just choices.
I’ve been thinking about what I should do with my life. I’ve had some awesome ideas: analyst, stripper, wizard catcher, spy, racing driver, rally driver, lecturer, sex educator, eternal student. Just for fun, I decided to google “what should I do with my life”. The results were interesting. One link led me to a site which popped out ideas (“You should open a bakery! You should be a couchsurfer! You should start a business! You should join a commune!”), others led me to quizzes (“Do you consider yourself to be compassionate, fearless, courageous, kind or all of the above?” “Do you prefer working with yourself, with others, or don’t mind?” “Which of these pictures most appeals to you?”).
They all sucked. Then I came across another one: 6 powerful questions that will change your life forever.
My god. The arrogance of some people. However, I was bored, so I went through it. It was incredible. Rather than making you search for it, I present it here, for you, with my responses. May your life be changed.
“What do I absolutely love in life?”
“Cars – no, Porsches -, writing and math. And shoes. Well, fashion. Women too. And men. Travelling! I love that. And mountain biking. Oh, and my friends. Obviously. Who else would read my blog? Blogging! No wait, I mentioned writing already. Reading. I love that.”
“What are my greatest accomplishments so far?”
“Fuck you. Firstly, I got here. Secondly, I have a shitty novel self published, bitch. I’ve had a threesome (I really should get over that). I got a Toyota 4runner to it’s top speed over harbour bridge, in the rain. Is that actually an accomplishment? In my book: yes. This question is boring me.”
“What would I stand for if I knew no one would judge me?”
“Never mind for; if I knew no one would judge me – even me! – I’d stand in a dress and high heels. And defend the right of every person to have a cool car.”
” If my life had absolutely no limits and I could have it all and do whatever I wanted, what would I choose to have and what would I choose to do?”
“A 1988 Porsche 911 kitted up to the Safari level, complete with a German Shepherd as a travelling companion. We’d scour the world for amazing people to repeatedly fall in love with, and write about all that we experience. In my spare time – when I’m not breaking lap records at every race track in the world or falling in love – I’d be proving the Collatz Conjecture true (I don’t care that it’s been proven improbable. Read the question)”
“What would I do if I had one billion dollars?”
“Give it away. I don’t like money. Oh, I might pay off some debt and help people close to me. I’d definitely buy a Porsche and a plane ticket, though not in that order.”
“Who do I admire most in the world?”
“….huh? Oh right. One of these questions. Ok, seeing as you didn’t ask for an explanation: Hitler.”
Do you know, not one of those questions made a shred of difference, but a jackdaw just flew in. Apparently, the whales are falling.