Wednesday, August 18, 2010

Wanker's Cramp (Or Blogger's Block, if you will)

"Dude, I'm like, fucking, Valedictorian at Harvard." - Jason Mewes

I have nothing interesting to talk about at all. So... you know.

When you're just wandering from working day to working day, to massive depression on the weekends and whenever you're at your house there's a massively demanding dog that isn't yours wanting you to throw a cong endlessly and you're still trying to work off a four-hour sleep deficit from the last night you felt like killing yourself there really isn't much to say.

I don't want to blog about my housemates, because it seems impolite and they're nice people. (And I've already been impolite about them on FaceBook)

I don't want to blog about the dog because I don't like him very much and he's much like any other dog, just stupider and with much worse ADHD.

I don't want to blog about why I'm depressed because as often happens when you have depression there's only 200-odd small reasons rather than one good one that just makes you sound like a dickhead.

I don't want to blog about TV shows because there isn't really anything on. I mean, IT Crowd was funny but definitely not mindblowingly so and Futurama is much the same.

I don't want to blog about the new Doctor Who season because I've got all the shit I wrote at home, and I need to watch most of the episodes again. And I don't want to watch them again because I suspect they won't be as good as I remember and I'll get more depressed. That and the fact that again, retarded dog taking up most of my free time.

I really, really don't want to blog about my upcoming birthday as it may be #1 on aforementioned 200 small reasons countdown.

I can't blog about any games, because I haven't had much time for playing them but also the computer I'm using can barely play a podcast and surf the net at the same time.

I would like to blog about Inception but sadly the film is inextricably linked to something that depresses me now.

I don't want to blog about my best friend's birthday, because they were a few of the 200 reasons there (The ones with tits) and that was also the night that made me want to kill myself that I mentioned earlier. Nor do I want to blog about my other close friends upcoming birthday because I uninvited myself, afraid that the same thing would happen again.

I also don't want to blog about the unusual coincidence therein that three of us have birthdays three weekends in a row, because it went from being a cool "Hey, we'll be getting fucking wasted this month" aside to a horrifyingly macabre paranoid theory of "Somebody up there desperately wants me off this fucking mortal coil".

I don't want to blog about the one thing there is to say about my 'love life' that I'm handling rejection well now because along with everything else in my life it feels over half a decade too fucking late.

I don't want to blog about work because I have a friend who got fired for that very reason. Interestingly, work is the only thing I'm actually enjoying right now.

Oh, I also didn't want to blog about my best friend because we ended up having a massive screaming match over absolutely nothing on FaceBook, presumably because we're both on edge. Though he doesn't tend to tell anybody so I figured he was just being a complete dick.

I don't want to blog about the Federal Election, for reasons that really apply to everything else, because everything I have to say has been said by others better.

Basically, I don't have anything to say because I'm massively depressed, which I guess stands to reason.

"I don't like watersports at the best of times. And these aren't the best of times." - Kerr Avon

Monday, August 2, 2010

Eulogy or Jared Goes Emo

I guess 3 am in the morning, when I am only on the computer in order to listen to the thumping electronica bass of Sir Kele Okereke and thus block out the noise from my crippling indiscreet housemates fucking is the best time to pen an utterly depressing entry.

I spend a lot of time as a closed book, and I'm not sure if it's because I do not wish to share or because I assume nobody else will be interested in what I have to say. Recently I've been feeling that I don't say enough, however, and so I want to chart the course of my relationship from innocent beginning to equally innocent but bastard-flavoured ending. So, yes, this is a heap of emo shit. How about I open with a poem, just to make it even worse?

Hazel eyes, black hair
Then she dyed it.
She texted me, over there
And I died. Shit

EXCELLENT! Now I just need some black highlights in my hair and to closet myself some more.

Anyway, I think I've referred to a girlfriend ambiguously in this blog once or twice, and in some of my half-written reviews even gave her a nickname - 'Little Miss Paradox', a smug knowing gag of the type I love and devour about the odd state of our relationship at the time of writing. Now, like all good jokes this one turned out to be founded a lot more in truth than I thought - the end was just a resolution of that paradox quite definitely. And I can say there's nothing worse than opening Schroedinger's box and finding that the pussy is nowhere to be found.

She does have an actual name though, and that name is Kayla. We were set up by our best friends who happened to be dating, and such a concerted effort to get two people to fuck I have never seen before. It's as if I was Ric Moranis and she was the love interest in Ghostbusters and our friends were Zuel. (Remember that? I am the key master, I am the gate keeper? No? Cool....)

To their frustration we just talked for five hours, because the amount of common interests we had was really quite amazing considering that we were only introduced because she liked the New Series. (Yes, really. It's not rare enough to justify that kind of thing now..) Though eventually when we were penned into a bed by our friends we did end up making out and, somehow, deciding we were an official couple and swapping contact details.

This is when I became pretty much the worst boyfriend ever, as I only got in touch by email (though to be fair getting her on the phone was fucking impossible) and didn't make a massive amount of effort to see her since she was in Sydney and I didn't have a car at the time. At the same time, so full of myself for actually finding a human female willing to consider sleeping me I was riding high on my confidence and fighting off the urge to drop the term 'my girlfriend' into every second sentence I spoke.

With no exaggeration whatsoever, I can say we probably saw each other 6 times when we were 'going out', (this is over the course of a year or so) something I now question if we even did. And, crucially, we never had sex. Which for those of you following at home, means *I* have never had sex, something I generally refrain from mentioning (but my mate Daniel seems to enjoy bringing up as often as possible in mixed company) but of course if I'm open is a big part of my issues.

The irony is that I had sweated blood to NOT have sex when the oppurtunity presented itself the second time we met. I must have old fashioned ideals, wanting it to be special, and didn't think that it would be so if we were both half paralysed from drinking a river of Jaegerbombs and so restrained myself after the first hurdle and then awkwardly spoon for the night.

Please note... never, ever do this. The Universe will go out of its way to make sure there's no opportunity for sex ever again and it will just fan speculation about your sexuality / genital wellbeing.

The fascinating thing about a relationship is how your intelligence seems to evaporate. If anybody else had been in such a half-arsed effort and told me that they got a break-up email after 10 months or whatever it was I'd have shrugged and said "What did you expect?" I was genuinely surprised. Why? I'd taken her for granted.

A big part of this was probably the fact I was in what I know refer to as my peak physical condition, 79 kilos with a hint of toning on my blinding pale pecs after a year at the gym and I wasn't yet uncovering more of my bald pate every day. From my confidence levels you'd think I'd been voted Sexiest Motherfucker Outside of Hollywood by Time Magazine, furthered when I was hit on by a girl at a party for the first time ever. (A different girl who was interested in dating me for precisely three days. Fucking narrow windows..)

Now, Kayla I would describe as unconventionally beautiful and at the time slightly overweight (but with a thickset build in general, which I seem to find strangely attractive - a chunky girl with a nice face gets my attention quicker than a thin girl with the same face would). If any female reads this by freak chance, I need to explain that guys operate on appearance to a ludicrous degree so I believed there would be little competition, and that she would be happy to have me even if I wasn't always around.

I know. I was a prick.

BUT I saw the error of my ways and knew I should make up for it. I decided to take the 'let's be friends' line at face value, and kept sending her emails as she went through her HSC (oh, didn't mention that did I? According to the legal experts in my TAFE class I belonged in gaol..) to comfort her and asking how things were going, etc.

It's probably a good idea not to do this, either. I mean, it doesn't seem directly responsible for bad shit happening but I don't trust causality right now...

She did find my emails very comforting and so we got back together and made out, thus getting ourselves into our undefined relationship status and my Little Miss Paradox was born. Tragically, I managed to forget she changed her email address so looked like a G-rated wham-bam thank you ma'am type until I looked back through our correspondence and saw the discrepancy. I got back in touch, and we were kind of back, ambiguous as ever.

Again, intelligence seems to vanish utterly. Though we were effectively going on dates, she stood me up, cancelled, and refused to spend any credit on me, along with providing any feeble excuse for me not to see her. It was apparent at the very least she wasn't head over heels, but the part of my brain shouting this information out till its throat was raw was cushioned under a euphoric feeling of 'heee boobies' that clouds my mind when I'm with any female with any suggestion of attraction.

Last Monday was the end. It's a shame because it happened right after watching Inception with her, which is an amazing film. When watching it, I spent 10% of the film thinking of things to write in a blog post about it (no, I'm serious). I spent 100% of the time AFTER leaving the cinema thinking of killing myself, though, which really threw the evening out for me. Simply put, we said a very weird and stilted goodbye. How weird? How stilted? Hmm, okay I guess I am an analogy kind of guy... imagine a ventriloquist dummy and K9 talking about the themes of Waiting for Godot in strict Iambic pentameter.


After she left I felt the need to text her and ask her what the deal was. THAT was when I wanted to kill myself, not when I got her response which was pretty straightforward I can tell you. The simple fact I had to ask gave me the answer and I had one of the rare epiphany moments in my life. I'm not sure if I want another one.

Again, she said she wanted to be friends. Maybe my reaction wasn't justified, I don't know. I suspect I may be the arsehole through and through all of this, but I made my intentions apparent over the last couple of months and she did nothing to do so... wait, why didn't I just write 'leading me on'? My argument is that friends are honest with one another, friends give, and friends try to understand one another and she did not do these things so I can't count her as a friend, a case I made in a very long email that I impressed myself with by not using the words 'fuck' and 'cunt' at all in. I then set about making a break as clean as you can without a lightsabre - blocking her email, deleting her facebook and erasing her contact details from my phone.

I think I've made the right decision when I consider the paranoid theories I have about virtually everything - in this case I imagine that she was setting me up for heartbreak while wringing as much money out of me as she could, as a revenge-best-served-cold for being such a crappy boyfriend to her. The thing is... I prefer this alternative. Malice is relatable to me, and it's proactive. The alternative is self-absorption, or cowardice.

Now, I figure when the idea of your ex-girlfriend being a James Bond villain in the way she handles her relationships cheers you up... I'd say it's a good thing to break it off.

This is all extra reasons why my tolerance for my housemates fucking is pretty low, as you'd imagine.

The annoying thing is that in the story of my own failed relationship I don't get to be the good guy. I like to consider myself a good person, but there are times like this when I question it. I think I do take too many people for granted, and that I'm too selfish for my own good at times, and I question msyelf so much to the point that I even wonder if I've ever had depression in the first place or if I'm just a wimp who needed an excuse to not try harder.

Even this blog post, the fact that it exists, marks me as a twat. This is just me venting, writing things I need to write to feel better. It's so selfish. And everytime I do anything selfish I hate myself.

Sorry, 4 am now and my wheels have falled right off. I'm meant to be working in five hours, and I think my funny gland's completely exhausted. But I suppose I should end this rambling post with a word I don't use nearly enough...