Thursday, June 13, 2013

singles and liches...

Was interesting catching up with the ex today. Turns out we have very different perspectives on what the facts are.

Strange feeling I get when I find out he's been dating someone. The sensation is a bit like finding out you have an exam you forgot you had to take. Not quite jealousy, definitely not envy. Maybe frustration? But even then not quite.

The other revelation is that I have absolutely nothing going on in my life. There's no love, there's no money, and the job actually is kinda boring, when it doesn't suck. The one possible glimmer is that I might be getting a better offer next week. But we'll see.

Don't know why I bother doing the body beautiful, considering my rather lacklustre results so far.

It's another reminder that I've been ready to quit this game for over two decades now. Just never found the means. A friend, who spent most of her teens and a lot of her early twenties trying to dissuade me from such, has herself finally seen the point.

They say that to create true misery, you do not cause a great catastrophe. That only inflicts shock and numbness. It is sufficient, and necessary, to inflict many minor difficulties. Enough to break the spirit. I have long given up the ghost. I'm left with a highly intelligent but unmotivated corpse. Does this make me a lich?

Saturday, February 23, 2013

triangles...

And so someone is sleeping with someone else, and someone else has been seeing somebody for awhile now. Turns out someone is also interested in somebody, but wants to keep the screwing around with someone else.

Someone also told someone else that someone wants somebody as well.

Somebody is amused by someone, but appears attracted to someone else.

All the while, somebody may or may not know that someone is interested, even though someone has very plainly stated it.

Is this a weird convoluted love triangle, or is it just the way things work?

Friday, February 01, 2013

non-conformist confessionals...

Was reading about some rather messy coming out events. I always wondered about how other people did their big gay confessional, and the aftermath.

I was present for two, the first a bit remotely.

The ex was actually forced out of the closet by a visiting screaming hysterical dowager empress of a mother (always had been more than a bit of a bitch, but that's more a function of having lots of money and not really having had to work for it). The poor boy had been positively petrified about being outed for years (also having been blackmailed over it before). Not shocking considering he had been repeatedly threatened by both parents and otherwise loving sister with disownment. The surprising supportiveness of the other two players at the event aside, the blubbering dowager left my (then) poor rabbit quivering in the bathroom, where he panic-called me in a rather uncharacteristically morbid flat but wavering voice to inform me that he may have to start living with me shortly.

Things ultimately turned out stable, but the dowager's continued state of open denial and constant pestering for him to find a girl to knock up has kept the ex in an interesting state of accomodation. He has taken to living in the closet with doors wide open, something I continue to chastise him over till today.

The second was my own "coming out".

Convinced that I was well and thoroughly gay (having, at the time, held a steady boyfriend for five years), the older of my two younger sisters urged me to have a grand speech over dinner for our visiting parental units. She was either fairly confident that my parents would be able to handle it, or secretly hoping they would force me back on the "straight and narrow"; she was a classical bible-thumping, church going, hymn singing, err, person. To this day, I cannot say which, but her rather impersonal supportiveness of my in-and-out-again romantic situation says that we will at the very least be civil about it.

The younger, being more greatly influenced by more enlightened and insidious minds as I, was generally of good disposition towards the idea, although not particularly forceful in calling for it. For her, she was glad enough to have an older scapegoat for a lot of the unwanted parental attentions typically foisted on wayward teenagers.

Now, as a quick aside, I have never really felt the need to "come out" for the simple reason that I don't feel particularly strongly about sexing men or women. As a teenager, this used to confuse me greatly, and caused a fair bit of consternation for the girls in class who would decry my lack of gentlemanliness in not treating them with the deference apparently due to ladies. Indeed, I could not feel the need to bend over backwards for either gender. It was only later that I discovered that there was a term for this, but in a world typically so starkly polarised, things like ambidexterity, dual-wielding, and bisexuality are not commonly known or understood.

So my "coming out" was rather unspectacular. I announced over dinner that I had romantic dispositions for men as well as women. My parents seemed confused at the idea, and so asked for elaboration, and further queried about having any male partners since the last youthful liason with a lovely lady I had met through writing this very blog. Having told them of him and how things seemed a bit off due to his need to "find himself", my mother was quick to quip that maybe I needed to find myself, too. My father, to his credit, seemed his usual nonplussed self, and said I should just stay safe and be happy.

The only remarkable change since then, I guess, was the total lack of interest expressed by either of them in any facet of my romantic life. It used to be that they asked after all my friends, as well as if I was seeing anyone, or how things were going. Now, after three years, still radio silence on the topic. I'm pretty sure they are aware I have been out and about, but the lack of official curiousity on the topic has proven to be a deafening silence. This is especially so when they quite openly and actively question the girls about theirs.

Further noticeable is that their decreasing queries about anything not job-related at all. It is, admittedly, a refreshing break from the horror stories of friends (and some enemies), but one can't help but wonder if I am entirely comfortable about this lack of confrontation. I would surmise this is their way to maintain a little Christian diplomacy and tact, but it does make me wonder if they're hoping against hope that my next fling would be someone of the vaginal variety, and that the fling would turn out quite permanent? It worries a bit to consider that they may be sabotaging my stock of prophylactics if it were ever the case to make marriage a strong argument (not that I'm the particularly responsible sort, nor am I in anyway against abortion).

Certainly, their occasional ribbing about my vehemence against the idea of marriage is certainly indicative of their preference in the matter.

Wednesday, January 30, 2013

sexciting...

When I finally walked away from the wreck of mediocre disappointment that was the shambolic remnants of an ill-advised relationship, I had the distinct impression that it was pretty similar to watching a cake bake. A dry, crumbly, and disappointing cake. You can see it slowly rise, browning ever so marginally, before popping out of the oven full of promise, only to disappoint. It is, after all, a mediocre cake.


So I had made my rather expensive goodbye. I've always been the one to do important things right, and 3,000-odd Ks would nary dissuade me from a proper face-to-face breakup. Especially one that had been a couple of years coming.

When I bid adieu to the treasured, but now-forever-placed-beyond-my-greasy-grasp bunny boy, I was pretty damn sure I had signed away any sense of romantic pleasure for the next odd years, if not for good. After all, that's what a seven year moratorium on fishing does to your baiting and tackling skills. 

As luck would have it, not four hours after landing did I get offered a project that would take me to some obscure side of our local pond. A series of similarly mediocre, if purpose-filled, events later, I was to find myself placed in somewhat sexciting company.

Being nothing but blind to any external opportunities during the duration of my match, I was quite caught unawares at the value placed upon my personal equity. Truly no blue-chip stock, it turns out that I was worth some fair bit of fun-time coinage in the market I had long eschewed.

A nap and a grope later, I now find myself in the surprising membership of a "time-share" arrangement. How delightfully sexciting.

Wednesday, January 23, 2013

place...

It used to be our place.

Now it's just his place, and I have no place.

It's good. It's refreshing.

Don't think I miss it anymore.

Wednesday, January 09, 2013

talking to toys...

I have spent a lot of time talking to a lovely little stuffed wolf doll. It was the most significant thing, I think, I have ever received from him.


Fluffy Wolf represents the sociopathic, unfiltered voice in my head that even I have to modulate outside the confines of the company of witty folk. In the stark, but padded, halls that I spend too many hours a day, I find myself speaking in a stilted, meaningless babble. The words are coherent, but the truths are not.

In a way, talking to a stuffed toy is cathartic in a way a therapist could never be. Of all the incredible hurt and rejection a person as remarkably outsider-ish could receive in one lifetime, it could never really compare to that a concious stuffed toy would suffer.

Fluffy Wolf keeps me sane in a way that no drug or therapist ever could. The saddest thing that could then happen, of course, is if I should end before setting him on with someone else. After all, human lives are far shorter than that of a simple toy.

Friday, December 28, 2012

eating in front of starving men...

It's true what they say. You notice most acutely that you are missing something only when it's painfully being pointed out to you in example.

Back when I had the vague (but it turns out extremely misguided) notion that I was somehow still attached, I did not very much notice how paired up (or lack thereof) the peasantry were.

As my not-so-newly-but-fairly-recently-hammered-into-me-found singlehood has begun to settle in, it has been brought to my attention that I am, well, single. It has been "seven" (well, really it's been five before and the following two floundering in some sort of limbo nether-zone) years since I was last single-single. Naturally, this whole measurement of seven is mostly in my head, for it has realistically only been 3 years, or actually 6 months, of any real relationship-py stuff, and the rest of the time up hoping against hope, paying-full-fees-but-only-getting-visitors-only-section-benefits.

Digression over, it has been slapped upright into my head in the past month how alone I really am, even in a crowd. Some time ago (the fabled seven years), I would be fine with that. I guess you could even say it was the relish on top of the hot dog. But the years have not been kind to my ideals. The job even less so. I have taken all sorts of human weaknesses and failings, having only a moderately prettier shell to store all this additional weaknesses in.

I am lonely, and here and there people are finding others to cuddle. Even the purportedly single ones have something to cheer about; Our-Lovely-Lady-of-Spring herself, no stranger to spreading her legs for the somewhat decent flight, has found the delightful benefit of enjoying work, spinsterish-but-horny as she is. Lady Lamb has herself recently rejected a pair of suitors, but finding relief in the therapy of paper and plastic.

In a fit of self pity, I can only write to myself as to how impossibly alone I am. Alone in having a job I despise (which is, strictly speaking, very good on paper, and certainly several shades brighter than the other blighters who are bludging onward with only a minimal compensation). Absolutely alone in not having a warm body in bed, to hold in my sleep, to cuddle while watching not-teevee, to kiss goodnight.

Indeed, the only one to share bedtime with is a stuffed wolf, a gift from him. This Fluffy Wolf has been the best friend I could ask for in times recent, and certainly a refreshing chatting companion. There is, however, a slight worry that our back and forth banter has been lately causing a development of some sort of schizophrenia. But still they talk me on, only encourage the talking to stuffed toys.

Why do they keep eating in front of a starving man? Is it because they wish him to know it will be better? Perhaps they are less charitable, and is an intentional infliction of anguish. Or is it as innocent as the fact of NOT realizing it?