In the midst of an insane political era and morbid weekly attacks on groups of innocent bystanders, what better time to make a selfish, introspective, masturbatory blog post? Yeah that’s right. Come get me.
To the woman who has everything, I bestow unto you pestilence, confusion and the mild sensation of panic.
It’s a weird time in my life right now. I fucking hate it when people say “life is what happens to you when you’re busy making other plans”. Holy shit, give it a rest. If I wanted inspiring quotes like that in my life, I’d buy a dozen cross-stitched throw cushions, each saying things like “joy” “love” “friendship”, let my bush grow out, start drinking sweet tea at every meal and change my name to fucking Brenda or something.
I can’t cope with that level of earnestness. People choosing to surround themselves with positive words and cosy blankets freak me out. Don’t get me wrong, I like certain aspects of the modern world. The technology available to me enables me to write out my meaningless inner monologue while taking a giant sloppy milkshake dump, and Sssssshhhhhoooooooooot send it off across the ether, my flabby addition to the World Wide Web. See it. Smell it. Pretend you can touch it. Aren’t we so intimate reading each other’s thoughts. If we were friends in high school and you knew what you know about me, we’d be besties and borrow each other’s sweaters. Do you think that guy was looking at me in geography?
Jesus, that’s enough of that.
What I’m getting at is that gross, sweaty word. Intimacy. It’s so heart pounding, and invasive. It makes my bowels twitch like right before a presentation. I’m in a weird situation right now, in that I have accidentally managed to entangle myself in the present situational existence of another human being and any semblance of control is gently wriggling free of my grip, I can feel it at my clammy finger tips struggling free like a salmon evading a big hairy bear.
And it’s terrifying.
I’ve tried before. And when I say tried, I obviously mean I’ve accidentally become someone’s “girlfriend” before. Obviously. You don’t get to my age without that happening unless you look like a Brenda. And while this situation hasn’t reached that apex, it isn’t what I had engineered either. It isn’t the self destructive fucking which I had designed. My mad tossing of acids and catalysts into the mix has not resulted in what I had intended. And with the mild sensation of having a stroke, I have no idea how it happened either.
I’ve gently probed, enquired of this male specimen “when did this stop being fucking” much to his amusement. And he blames the short trip we took together. Last month.
And then, without any hope of controlling my brain, I began picking that weekend apart like it was the beginning of time and I was a computer-voiced cripple with nothing better to do than to guess at its origins indefinitely.
I had had a spazzy meltdown before we left. Like the night or so before we left. “We said this was just casual remember” I had typed at 100 miles per hour into a crummy little whatsapp message.
I’M DETACHED. DON’T IMAGINE I’M NOT. (Subtext settings turned on)
When he was suitably bitch-slapped into awkward silence, I went to distract myself with video games until finally I ended up admitting to the giant turd I had dropped into the mix.
And the weekend proceeded as planned. There was levity on the train. Being a filthy North American, he made business out of winding me up with his Trump impression, loudly, and we talked a lot with our faces rather closer together than the usual FWB code of NO FEELINGS dictates is necessary.
We’re very different people. We grew up thousands of miles apart, in wildly different circumstances. Disney songs make him smile, and he talks about women in terms of their score out of ten. Whichmakesmewanttokillhim. I’m sarcastic and the things that make me happy are very different. He’s earnest. I’m secretive. He’s a worrier. I have my feet firmly on today’s floor. He likes sweet soda and fast food. I never drank soda growing up, and I frequently give up refined sugar for huge periods of time every year.
They’re not red flags, not at all. Just chasms of difference that are undeniably there. I can’t speculate about what goes on in his head. But one memory from our weekend trip strikes me as both telling (and disturbing for someone like me). Before seeing a movie in Leicester Square, we dropped in to the M&M store. Giant store. Like three floors of m&m merchandise. It was a little weird. Not the m&m’s but the situation. I had been in this exact store, but the equivalent store. In New York. Years before. With another. The two against each other stand like black and white, polar opposites of one another, and the experience in the store laughed at me, a gloating example of the fork in my road. This time, my companion beamed upon entering. “Look at all these happy people!” He exclaimed. Then to taunt me, he turned and said “all made possible by capitalism!”
I can’t speculate as to what facial expression I wore in that moment. I tend towards either resting bitch face or resting moron face depending on what I’m thinking at the time (and seriously my thoughts do not turn off whatsoever to the extent that it’s just easier to say “nothing” when someone says what are you thinking, because what I’m thinking is so weird and disconnected from what I’m doing that to tell the truth would probably get me sectioned again).
But the weird thing is, I wasn’t exasperated or repulsed by his happiness. It was strangely…..endearing. Surround yourself with sardonic, negative people your whole life and see what happens when you then come into contact with a corn-fed, syrup guzzling, capitalism relishing yank. A big dumb Yankee smile on his face, and all of a sudden I’m desperately hiding the sentiment that I’m feeling which is that it’s pretty sweet actually; unbridled happiness. Like a child. Even though I kinda hate children.
What I’m saying is it’s confusing.
We ended up waiting in line to see the Crown Jewels. I’ve been to the tower several times, but I’ve never seen the Crown Jewels. The queue always stretches out, a giant L shape across the courtyard, and everyone I’ve ever visited with has been English. And while English people love queues (and what’s the deal with airplane food amirite? Hahahaha. Ugh.) they’re never willing to wait that long. Too skeptical, too cynical. It can’t be worth it. Not waiting that long, just to see a bunch of jewellery.
But what do you know. This guy waited in line with me, and joked around in his stupid Trump voice. And I saw them. I got to read all the little plaques underneath. So then, I knew which stones where how old. I knew where they had come from. And it was magical, seeing them, actually. History fascinates me, and I particularly love things that I know people have worn. It’s so…..what’s that word again? Intimate.
So yeah. Here I am, with no fucking clue what’s going on. Having conversations in the dark with a guy who couldn’t be more different from me, with my tummy doing flip flops when he asks me earnest questions, and nuzzling into him despite myself.
What a crazy fucking turn of events.
That’s it, that’s all I got. Just be thankful I didn’t choose to write about Theresa May.