You know, I’m beginning to notice a horrid recurring pattern in regards to the themes of these blogs. Mostly I seem to be spewing paragraph after paragraph out about love or looking for it or having random sex or something. So with that in mind, this will be my last post that’ll feature anything about my love life/sex life/or rather lack of. I shall focus on alternative topics, whilst trying to write about current affairs, like if we leave the EU, I can get a hoover with better suction (which is in no way related to my sex life. Ahem.)
I’ve been moaning about wanting to ‘fall’ for someone for ages. Sure, I’ve had the odd drunken hump and disco winch; but nothing really set off a spark. Until recently. Now I’m very much in the early workings of a romantic disaster that’s promising to boil and bubble and scald. I’ve started falling for not only one person, but two, completely different guys for completely different reasons. Clearly not content with the possibility of having my heart broken by one guy, I’ve opted for the secure and guaranteed option that it’ll be torn in half by two. I like to play it safe.
All over the world everyday people celebrate being infected with the crippling delusion that is love. Why do they celebrate it? Why? Idiots! Because they have some to celebrate it with, that’s why. Spending all their time together; watching movies, having drinks, having sex. Booking restaurants and holidays. Love: the only mental illness we celebrate. My current dalliance has only just begun, therefore it is not quite yet fraught with peril (despite disaster jumping around in the horizon – yes, I see you. Twat.) It is still very much in the butterflies’ stage of affairs. Every time I’m with him, or him, my gut contemplates the sad reality that this will sink faster than the Titanic. Meanwhile my brain screams in my face not to give the game away, whilst I gaze at him with a fake smile and dewy expression. And my heart just thuds away. Thud thud thud – similar to the sound my head will make later, when bash it repetitively against the wall.
Who even gets himself into this situation? Like, honestly? All that’s happening is I’m getting a stomping reminder of how increasingly isolated I am. It’s like Christmas and being given two great toys, both of which I adore playing with (poor choice of words, apologies) but have to give them both back because there’s no way I can keep them. It’s just a cosmic farce, that’s what it is. Why does everyone make such a hoo-hah about love rather than prepare themselves for the festering disappointment they’re inevitably going to be slapped across the face with? That’s what it feels like right now: I’m waiting on a heavyweight boxer unleashing a flurry of jabs upon my body.
So we all know how this going to end – I’m a complete parody of myself. I’ll end up alone, totally devastated and hurt and probably booze myself into rehab or oblivion. Where I’ll then limp around like a mournful cartoon bunny with a harpoon lodged in its chest cavity. Before promptly indulging in some cathartic, self-hating rebound sex with someone I’ve chatted to once-or-twice on snapchat. I always feel that when a guy hurts you, it gives you a carte blanche; freedom to shag whoever you please and drink a lot more for a week or so, and that’s pretty much the last four years of my life summed up in one sentence. But eventually I have to deal with the feelings. Which, after I’ve done, I become a mindless robot, molested by love.
Or, you know, I could just get over the feelings and be friends with both of them as they are both amazing guys and thus saving myself the hassle and heartache. That would probably be the adult thing to do. At least that way I won’t have to wade through the aftermath, desperately trying to salvage a scrap of friendship. That sounds like a far healthier affair. Lets do that.