Sunday, 16 October 2016

What's in your bed right now?

If your answer is a person (who doesn't physically repulse you), then you can sod off with your happiness.

This morning, I woke up in a bed of books, questionable stains, electronics, empty food wrappers (that may or may not be over a week old), and definite disgust. I'm not sure if it's the epitome of loneliness, or the epitome of freedom.



Given I'm writing this with an overwhelming sense of shame, it's probably the loneliness thing. Either way, I know it's not something I should be sharing on the internet; I guess it's just another example of how far I'll go to help the fight against social expectations / I sold all my dignity and self-respect for attention years ago. Potato / patato. 

So, am I lonely? 

Well comrades, I can confirm the answer is No. Yes. No. Probably. Okay, definitely maybe. But, probably not. Who the fuck really cares? 

On paper, I most certainly sound really fucking lonely. I'm extremely single. I live in a shared house, with people I met on SpareRoom (thank God none of them are knicker-sniffers, or too passive aggressive / aggressive about my hair forming a revolting bathroom rug). I eat a concerning amount of microwavable meals (my body probably contains more radiation than any Marvel plot). And most of my friends and family live quite far away, which is unequivocally my own fault for moving to Manchester. Seriously, who cares if feminism originated here? It's a right fucking ball-ache to get to from the south.



Anyway, a friend recently asked me if I've ever been in love. At the time, I most definitely answered with something super mature like 'love is for losers' or 'lol wtf bbq mayo; eat shit, dick-brain'. 
Unfortunately, I'm not as emotionally stunted as I like to make out; I have been in love, and I'm currently in love. Sadly, I can't have 'adult sleepovers' with any of my victims because my affection is either unrequited, or it'd be illegal (to clarify, my sisters are the loves of my life - I'm not into bestiality or necrophilia, and I've been CRB checked...multiple times).



It's a depressing state of affairs, but it's of my own doing really. I actively avoid dating. I won't reply to messages. And the idea of going out 'to pull' makes me want to sew up my vagina with a rusty needle and thread consisting of a corpse's pubes. 

It's not that I think I'm 'too good' for anyone, or that I 'deserve better'. In fact, my ego is quite terrible, despite my contradictory, narcissistic Instagram posts, which is probably why I lost my virginity to a guy off of MySpace (retro) after he gave me a compliment that one time. (In fairness to him, he did also buy me a £1 pizza too.)



The truth is, I'm actually a rude, obnoxious bitch because I've learnt that being with someone for an ego boost is like picking a curry for its colour: you're going to end up with korma, every single time. Ultimately, if someone originally likes you for superficial reasons, then it's unlikely they'll like who you fundamentally are. 

(Massive disclaimer: this is just my experience because most people won't still like you when you make sick, dark jokes / take your clothes off in public / do terrible Arnold Schwarzenegger impressions / state your first rejection came from the local sex offender / listen to Cyndi Lauper constantly / take Cluedo too seriously / force your entire fist into your mouth as an ice breaker / genuinely love Chalet Girl / use aggressive war chants as dance moves / anything I do or like.) 

Thankfully, in my wise old age of 25, it's become increasingly apparent to me that I don't want to be with anyone because I need to be with them. Be that emotionally, financially, spiritually, physically, or anythingally. The thought of being in a relationship that’s based on a sense of duty, or comfort, genuinely terrifies me. This stubborn need for independence has even had me helping my dad with his building work (yeah, I totally have the skills to renovate my own house now because I'm totally in a financial position to own my house #lol). 

Fortunately, I'm one of those lucky bastards who grew up with an education, a home, and people who'll love me regardless of my questionable behaviour. This means I have this rare luxury where there's absolutely no need for me to spend time with anyone other than people who make me the best possible version of myself. Why the fuck would I waste this luxury? For cheaper rent? For someone to bring me all of the tea in the morning? For a guaranteed shag? 

No thanks. I've done it before, and I won't do it again. In my opinion, there's nothing lonelier than going to bed with someone who doesn't 'get' you. Yeah, I'm extremely conscious of how petulant and punk rock circa 1999 this sounds, but it's my fucking prerogative as an independent woman, who don't need no man. 



I'm also well aware that we're approaching 'cuffing season', and I want no part of it. Sure, it's nice not to have to spend every single night in crippling isolation, but I'm not very good at the casual thing. In spite of my 'don't fucking look at me / don't touch me' exterior, I'm a whimsical romantic.



It’s infuriating, but I'm currently wasting my best years (concerning that these are my 'best' years given the current physical state of my body) pining over something that's never going to happen. I should be using these years to gain copious notches on my bedpost, and Sunday mornings should be spent wondering how the hell I'm going to get home. 

Don't get me wrong, I've undertaken my fair share of 'strides of prides', especially when I've got on board the train to Seshville (made love for the sesh, obvs). But as much as I love proving just how liberal I am, it always leaves me feeling terribly nostalgic. And I've said it before, and I'll say it again: nostalgia is the real cancer of society. 



Unfortunately, even though I'm obvs still mega liberal (have I mentioned how liberal I am?), I've recently developed this rather old fashioned mindset where I believe in love, and it's such a fucking cock block. It's really difficult to fall in love with someone new, especially when you make absolutely zero effort to do so. Guess it's a good job I enjoy being so painfully alone. 


If anyone wants me, which is unlikely given the theme of this post, I'll be the one crying to Bat for Lashes in the shower, again. 

So, if any of you see Renée Zellweger, tell her there's a new cliché in town, and at least she's modernised her 'my right hand is all I really need' soundtrack.