Dating Myself

I took myself to dinner the other day.

Except, I’m poor and cooking is fun, so I made myself dinner, opened a decent bottle of wine and left my phone far away.
I talked a lot. I’m glad my flatmates weren’t around.
It was like going on a date with a good-looking, intelligent, funny partner – only better, because I could interrupt myself whenever and not get into trouble. I thoroughly enjoyed it.
When things went bad in relationships, I’d often resort to meals to sort shit out. “Let’s go for dinner” I’d say whilst meaning “Let’s go for dinner and discuss your depression and the best steps for getting you to deal with it…again.” And then the dinner would be awkward. There’d be huge gaps in the conversation that gave birth to grotesque statements about the weather whilst we danced and skated in a parody of happiness around the issue. I don’t think we ever tasted the meal.
I’d thought I could sort out my issues over my meal.
The nice thing about running both sides of a conversation is you don’t have gaps in the conversation. You never quite end up saying “weird, it’s Saturday and the sun’s shining. I wonder why.” You say stuff like “So this whole pain/pleasure thing that might possibly be linked to self-hatred and masochism” then you interrupt yourself to say “Damn this steak tastes so good! Have you tried it with the wine?” “Yeah I have, and I’m loving the fried apples and onions!”
I’m not burying it. I’m not denying it. Every time I look at my arm I’m reminded. And every time I’m reminded, I want to do it again.
Not for the mutilation: for the pain. For the control. For that little tingle of pleasure that runs up my arm to my spine and sits there, giggling happily.
It’s weird.
My dinner found other things to talk about. Like my writing. Like my studies. Like the next 11 months (and 2 days). I didn’t make plans. I held onto ideas and swirled them with the wine and the steak and the apple and the onion and the sauce. They tasted good.
Once the meal was finished, I headed to the pub. This was a bit surprising: following a date at home, I seldom go out. I’m always “too tired” or “too antisocial” – both excuses for “I’m too coupley”. But I’d promised myself I’d go and I couldn’t disappoint me, so off I went.
I’d hoped to meet people there, people who’d said they’d try make it, but I suspected I’d be drinking alone. I was quite right. I was a little surprised when I walked in and two girls stopped chatting to two guys to straighten their backs and eye me repeatedly. I ignored them (I don’t know why) and ordered a drink.
I realised quite quickly that I couldn’t expect things to happen to me. No one was coming to drink with me, so I had to go drink with them. I found two colleagues having a night off and talking wine: I chased them through a history of cocktails and alcohol as the bar closed and we made a mess discovering just how strong a proper cocktail should be.
And then I stumbled home to bed with me.
And when I woke I realised something: I’m happier alone.
Advertisements

Repulsive Control

“Your emotions are a clue. Witness them, feel them, respond to them; never attach to them.”


It seems that, when i write my blogs, I quickly forget what I put in them. I put that quote in my blog a month ago and completely forgot about it.
I reread my last few posts a little while ago. I’d noticed so much about myself – things that could make a difference – and then I went and forgot it.
It reopened wounds and pains I’d forgotten. And so, when I got really drunk and found my knives, I decided to add to the scars I have there.
Except, that’s not entirely true. It is a lie to say I cut because I got drunk; I’d been looking for the knives for over a week. I knew exactly why I wanted them. And it had nothing to do with what I’d read in my blog.
Since the 21st of January until now, I’ve had sex a grand total of once. Someone had a million reasons why She no longer wanted to have sex with me: Her sex drive had disappeared, She had no time, I cried when things upset me, but the ultimate reason was quite simple: I repulsed her.
The one person I’ve slept with since was quite adamant she isn’t attracted to me. To the point where I want to duct tape her mouth shut and say “I get it. Now shut up and do some squats; your ass is getting fat.”
The German bought me a bottle of Shiraz bottled by “Arrogant Frog”. She told me the image (of a well-dressed french frog) reminded her of me, which I liked. I told another friend. He agreed, but said I reminded him of a bullfrog: not many people want to touch them.
I love driving. I love being in a car. I love high speeds and sharp corners. I could drive for ages, happy with an engine and four wheels.
I love – in particular – being on the edge. I love that small margin between a fast turn and crashing in a ball of fiery regret. I love driving faster than the norm, but not so fast that I can’t react, that I can’t stop myself from crashing. I love being in control.
I detest myself when I’m not in control. I get angry when I drive too fast to react, when I take a corner too fast, when I don’t put the car exactly where I want it.
When i woke and saw my bleeding arms and drunken texts, I realised something: i haven’t been in control for a long time.
It needs to change. I need to change. I need to take back control of my life. Of my health, my emotions, my drinking, my thoughts – everything.
It’s easier said than done. And what I need to remember is that I can’t do it all at once: one area at a time – the rest will follow.

Pussy 101

Don’t you just love pussy?

I do.

Especially when you storm out the house late at night in little more than underwear and sit under a tree. You slap away mosquitos and imagine a world where the worst has happened and you can just leave it all behind.

Out of nowhere sounds a meow. A small, vibrating mass of fur walks up and headbutts you with enough force to start a minor earthquake. You stroke his head and he meows and purrs and walks off, looking back at you. Because everything else is fairly fucking directionless – and those mosquitos are fucking annoying – you follow.

A racing WRX sounds in the distant, doing “the loop” – a lovely stretch of road that I’ve also driven way to fast through. He’ll reach the road at about the same instant I do if I walk down now. He’s going very quickly. I should teach him a lesson.

Which, frankly, is a stupid idea because I think he has the right idea. I’d love to be doing that right now. I’d be so pissed off if some angry idiot decided to step in front of me. Why?

The cat meows and there’s only one thing I can do: head home and claim the cat loves me more than she does because he came after me.

Because, obviously, that’s the point of all this shit.

“If you cared for me, you’d come after me like the cat did!”

Did you know that? You can only show you care if you go after someone who’s walked off. And walking off? Is that caring?

Somehow, I don’t think so.

Happy 1 year love. Yep. It’s our anniversary today. And we spent the night fighting. I even had to throw all our alcohol down the drain because I thought downing shots of Vodka would help.

It didn’t. It just made me realise that – no matter how much I drank – I’d never forget everything.

Which is a huge pity. Because I wanted to forget everything. Or, many things. I wanted complete and utter emptiness. Just take it all away. Everything, every relationship, every request, every desire, every dream, goal, wish, accomplishment. Just give me sweet nothing and a way to survive. Please.

Then there’d be no pain. There’d be no hard decisions. There’d simply be today. Every day. Nothing happens. A holiday, really.

Dating sucks.

I miss being single. I miss the selfishness. I miss the required soul-belief. I miss my decisions being mine – including their consequences. I miss the times spent doing exactly what I want. I miss the ability to honestly lie and say “I’m ok.”

I miss the simplicity of being happy single. I miss the rejection and bouncing back from my own wallowing because there’s no one else to save me. I miss the ability to say “I’m going to do this” and being the only one accountable for it.

But most of all, I miss knowing – constantly – that I’m alone.

Because a relationship pretends you’re not alone. A relationship pretends that because Someone else cares for me, She’ll come after me and make it all better.

It’s so easy right now. All I have to do is sulk. Someone joined OkCupid. She was still setting up her account when the first person messaged Her. Within the hour, She had messages flying in. Some of the people messaging Her were seriously attractive. And they want to meet up…now. Right. Now. Or else tomorrow if you’re free?

Considering I’ve spent many hours attempting to send the wittiest messages to every girl it is heartbreaking to know that She doesn’t have to try. It sends my self-confidence free-diving. In a locked Audi. Filled with cement. In the Mariana Trench.

(Some guy just sent “If you were a triangle, you’d be acute one.” Which doesn’t even make sense.  Oh, best pickup line, guaranteed to send girls squealing in terror (seriously, I tried): Lick your finger, then wipe it on their clothes. Say “Let’s get you out of those wet clothes.” )

Seriously, it would be so easy to sit here and sulk. Because I told her how I’m feeling. I keep opening Facebook and hoping she’ll reply and talk to me about it.

It’s truly pathetic.

Because I also told her earlier I want to do other things – I don’t want to talk on Facebook all night.

It doesn’t matter what she does: she’ll be in trouble. She can’t fix it. She can’t come after me and make everything better. There’s no possible way for her to do this.

The only person that can make things better is me.

And that is why I need to realise I’m alone. Because only when I realise I’m alone will I realise I must make the effort. Only then will the change be made.

Only when I realise that I’m alone can I begin to make our relationship work.

And if I don’t realise I’m alone? I’ll definitely end up so.