Through the Looking Glass - A Saturday Night Dating Disaster

All right, so this is going to be long.

The date was a downright disaster.

It was, to me, an entertaining and at certain points rather funny disaster, however, so I am going to share in all its glory.

Really, if I told you that the night ended with me disappearing through the backdoor of a dingy club, as in Excusing Myself To Go To The Toilet And JUST NOT COMING BACK, you would already know all the essentials you needed to know about how it went.

Still, I am going to humor myself and narrate the evening's events more fully.

It didn't start out all that bad.
Well, it started out sorta weird already, but no incentive was given whatsoever to make me suspect I would be ending the evening by sneaking out through anyone's backdoor.

For one thing, the fella' was still rather handsome, in a vaguely roguish, artsy way with messy blond hair, a lean frame, sharp and defined features, piercing gray-blue eyes and a well fitting suit of sorta-artsy proportions.

He also had a vaguely wild-ish expression about the eyes, like a young Kinski, and that was by all means a clue as to what his personality held in store.

I ain't gonna lie, I was definitely attracted to him in a sexual sense, still sorta' am even after the hilarious-yet-disastrous turn the evening took.
Still, I am physically unable to lower my intellectual standards that far as to overlook his personality, but we're getting to that.

Fitting the Kinski theme, he turned out to be an actor, as well as a director and producer of independent films, one of which will be (allegedly) hitting the festivals at some point next year, so I'll definitely notify you when and if THAT happens.

At first, we also discovered quite a pleasing amount of similarities that one could build a conversation on - like me, he was a vegetarian (although I'm pretty much an almost-vegetarian only, just like I'm an almost vegan, since I do indulge in fish (and cheese!) every now and again).

Like me, he loved Leonard Cohen, had seen him in concert numerous times; I even grew jealous at his tale of a particularly riveting performance he'd witnessed in Paris at one occasion.

Like me, he was a lover and self-proclaimed connoisseur of tea, which he preferred over coffee, and like me he had spent a longer period of time in Asia and particularly China before, so that we could exchange pleasantries about Szechuan cuisine.

I'd say that's about where the pleasantries ended, however.

I know I am a horribly choleric person, but there is almost nothing that gets me as aggressive, as fast, as that particular brand of pseudo-intellectual, pseudo-deep artistic types who are so immensely absorbed in the all-encompassing importance of their own person that they possess not the tiniest speck of self irony or any sort of capability NOT to take themselves seriously for even two seconds at a time.

I say that with all due fondness for pseudo-intellectualism, I am an avid disciple in that field myself.
But goooosh - at least I can laugh about myself every once in a blue moon.

And he was downright impolite.

For one thing, he kept disappearing to the toilet to do coke about every five minutes, WITHOUT EVER OFFERING ME SOME.
I don't really do coke, actually, I've had a sheltered upbringing like that - but that's entirely not the point here, it is still impolite.

He also presented every oh-so-radically-interesting fact about his life and his many pursuits in a condescending manner that seemed to demand rapt attention and immediate awe and admiration - like the fact that he had collected almost four hundred antique guitars since his seventeenth birthday, that he had once run a one-man catering service with the sole purpose of improving his own cooking skills and had shut it down once he was satisfied with his personal progress.

Yeah, I get it, you are something else, aren't you? These things might even impress me, if you didn't make it so goddamn painfully clear that you are expecting them to impress me...

When he asked what I did and learned that I was a student with an array of rather uneventful part-time jobs, his response was a smug-smiling quip of "How... normal."

Also, he was by no means planning to pay for my dinner anymore.

The first thing he told me when we met up (and that's where things were already taking a turn for the weird), was that he was sorry but he'd have to watch his money tonight, because he had just gotten into conflict with the police that day and had had to pay a heavy fine.

The reason?
Well, he and his film crew had been shooting a scene on the public sidewalk in front of the studio without official permission to film there - a scene that had him wearing an authentic SS uniform and shouting German insults at the camera because that particular film is intended to "mock fascism and the many forms in which it appears in a challenging and provocative fashion".

Yeah.

I don't think I'll comment much on that one, except to say that it makes for a fun story and that I am technically all in favour of defying fascism, unless it costs me my dinner invitation.
(I'm sort of being light-heartedly crass and jokingly self-centered here, which I do now feel the need to explain because I just spent an evening with someone who didn't get my, or anyone else's, humour at all.)

Basically, his every statement just kept getting less and less relevant and more and more idiotic throughout the evening; and every time I actively questioned the meaning behind his elaborate constructs of empty Big Words, made a sarcastic remark or exhibited the slightest trace of light-hearted (self-) irony, it became painfully clear that he couldn't keep up.

Might have been the drugs though - at a few occasions he smiled at me after something I said like it actually made sense to him, but then afterwards I realized it had pretty much looked like a vacant coke grin more than anything else.

I wasn't even being particularly unfriendly.
I had gone into that date (my first 'proper' date in forever) with naught but the most benevolent intentions, and I put up with his self-important nonsense talk for far longer than I should have.

After we had split the bill at the restaurant, after I had then had to pay for the taxi to the "party of a friend" he was taking me to (his money had run out by that point), after he had already started inching his hand over into the general direction of my thighs in the taxi and I'd thought to myself "You gotta be kidding me!", after the "party of a friend" turned out to be taking place at an absolutely dodgy club with absolutely unappealing clientele wearing too much fake tan - after all of that, I disappeared.

We were standing at the bar and I excused myself to the bathroom, racking my brains for the polite thing to say once I came back in order to get the hell outta here.

And then I saw it - The Backdoor.

Like the door into Narnia you find in the back or your Magic Wardrobe, I was absolutely enchanted when the door actually opened under my careful pulling of the handle.

Instinct took over, and with a wash of relief flooding over me I stepped into the cold, clear, fragrant air of the night, ending up in the backyard of the premises from where another door, incredibly also open, led out to the street.

I laughed like a maniac for a few minutes, revelling in my victory, the improperness of my own behavior, the childish yet effective and exhilarating way to escape an inopportune dating situation.

T. texted me not much later, "Where have you gone?!" - and after some minutes of careful consideration, I figured the polite thing to do was to at least own up to it, so I texted back:

"Through the backdoor."

I am happy to report that I have not heard from him since.

Date Night

Unexpectedly, I have a date tonight.

That is unexpected and sudden in so far, as it is, well - sudden and unexpected.

On my way to meeting with up my friends last night, I was accosted by a rather nice looking, rather handsome and rather well-dressed guy of about my age.

"Excuse me", he said, and I assumed he was going to ask for the time or directions, "Are you hungry by any chance, I'd love to take you out to dinner right now."

I said that I was flattered by the suggestion (because I did like what I saw), but that I was meeting some friends and was already running late, it was past 11 PM and I should have been at the bar half an hour ago.

He said that was a shame and asked whether there was the slightest possibility that we could go for dinner tomorrow instead, and because I was sort of taken by surprise and also in a hurry, I simply gave him my number and said that why not, he could call me and we might plan something but now I really had to go.

I don't know, this might turn out to be a fiasco (I am not a fan of spontaneous almost-blind dates per se), but in keeping with my resolution not to waste my life on anxiety and hesitation anymore, I've decided to give it a shot.
Who knows, that guy, which I am going to nickname T. in the (highly unlikely) event that he actually takes on a recurring role on this blog, might be worth knowing, might be interesting or funny or charming for all I know.

So, I'll let you know how that goes.

Also, I will now be answering a set of questions that the lovely and incredible Petal posed:

1) What is your favourite kind of cake, pie, biscuit, dessert, or sweet thing? (To eat, smell, look at, destroy...)

It varies - To eat, it would be crème brulée, to smell it would have to be Walkers Shortbread Highlanders - I can get high off that smell, I'm not kidding, it is intoxicating like a drug.

To look at, it is now something that I have just discovered - an outlandishly beautiful creation of white chocolate sprinkled with raspberry pieces, ground rose petals and chilli, all blood red on snowy white ground, extremely enchanting to look at and for sale at our local Organic Foods supermarket.

To destroy, it would be chocolate muffins, because I cannot resist them and I hate it; they destroy me from the inside.

2) If you could only listen to one song for the rest of your life, what would it be?

This is such a tough one - spontaneously, my brain came up with "Tower of Song" by Leonard Cohen.
Then again, I would also have to take into consideration "Bring me The Disco King" by David Bowie, because I can physically not go a single music-related question on anything without trying to bring Bowie into it.

Another candidate would be "Acts of Man" by Midlake.

I wonder why none of them are upbeat happy songs.
I guess it says something about me, something sad and very very cliche.

3) What is your favourite part of your body?

My lips, hands down.
They are perfect in my eyes, although that seems very cocky and narcissistic; to lessen that impression I will add that I have had that notion reinforced by quite a few others.

If we were talking body parts outside of the facial region, I would say hands or the region around my waist and ribcage, because I tend to be much slimmer there than anywhere else.

4) Do you paint your toenails and fingernails? If so, what colour, and why?

Sometimes, and when I do it is usually in one of three colours -

A) black, because it brings back fond memories of my "rebellious" teenage years, when I considered it an outrageous fashion statement,
B) some sort of transparent colour because it is practical and doesn't really show when it chips, or
C) bright hot pink, because I consider it an outrageous fashion statement now, coming from myself, and most people who know the usual confines of my style would agree.

5) Do you prefer baths or showers?

This is another tough one, I am very schizophrenic on a lot of issues like that.

There is a part of me that ABSOLUTELY prefers baths, because they are relaxing and contemplative, and that part used to be very dominant and had me bathing far more often than showering in my teenage years.

Then again, there is a part that believes people who only ever bathe are pussies, and that prefers showers because they are quick and cleansing and sharp, and wake you up.
I've been showering more often recently, it seems to be tied in a silly way to my idea of becoming more assertive.

6) Have you seen Alice in Wonderland? If so, what was your opinion on the dancing scene?

I haven't; if I had I'd probably be bitching about the dancing scene because I love to get all flustered about questionably entertaining scenes in movies like that.

7) What means the most to you, and why? This could be anything, an item, an emotion, a person, a place... you decide.

As and abstract concept - freedom.
That is silly because it is such a cliche and an unobtainable one to boot, because one cannot even define entirely what it is about, or how one would go about achieving it to completeness.

Still, it is the word that has always meant the most to me.
Tied in with that, the place that means the most to me is the sea and the seaside, because it embodies and defines and symbolizes my romantic ideal of freedom to perfection.

8) Would you eat spaghetti with a spoon and fork, or a knife and fork?

I'd really prefer to use just the fork, but if I had to choose I guess I'd take the spoon.
And then leave it lying next to the plate untouched the entire meal.

9) Can I have a kitten?

Only if you don't dress it up.

10) Do you prefer hand-written letters, or emails?

Both, for different reasons and different occasions.

PS: I have just decided it would definitely be "Bring Me the Diso King" - I just cannot live without that song.

You promised me the ending would be clear
You'd let me know when the time was now
Don't let me know when you're opening the door
Stab me in the dark, let me disappear

Memories that flutter like bats out of hell
Stab you from the city spires
Life wasn't worth the balance
Or the crumpled paper it was written on

Dead or alive.... Bring me the Disco King.

Sunday's rant: Springtime Folly

Yesterday ended, inexplicably, with the late night consumption of an innocent Chocolate Easter Bunny in all it's obscenely delicious, golden tin-foil wrapped glory.
However, I've decided not to be hung up about this - the mere existence of chocolate bunnies is a sign of spring-time after all, and I do love springtime, I can only repeat myself in that regard.

Besides, today's the first day of my scheduled abc run anyway - meaning there won't be a whole lot of Easter Bunnies waiting for me in the coming 50 days, so crying over split (chocolate) milk is even less appropriate.

In the spirit of the hands-on, life-affirming approach I seem to have adopted just this minute, I went out and took a picture of a cutsie little trias of crocus blossoms sitting on the patch of grass outside my building:


Awwwww.

All right, enough with the pretty flowers already, I'll tell you straight away that the rest of this post is going to be nauseatingly boy-centric.

(You have now been warned and have had a fair chance to get the hell out of here & run for the hills - as bitching about the same boy over and over and over again is so last decade, I swear I wouldn't even blame you...)

Because - The Coward is still on my mind.

He isn't even my ex, per se - although he certainly is an ex friend by now.
We'd already known each other for two years when things started getting out of hand, and it has to be admitted that I used to have a thing for him pretty much from the start, while also suspecting, with moderately justified reason, that he might be having a bit of a thing for me, too.

Then, at a fateful party, he started flirting with me like there was no tomorrow (and I'm not making this up to minimize my own responsibility, I swear - although I do happen to posses a button with the slogan "That pig seduced me!" printed on it, and it would come in handy right now.)

I myself, of course, was anything but discontent with that turn of events.

As a consequence, we ended up having a thing together right then and there, with emotional and physical bonding running high for a few blissful hours and a dreamy morning beyond, and a dance of awkwardness and trying-to-play-it-cool with purposefully vague accounts on what this was supposed to mean between us running high afterwards.

Then, things got ugly.

Basically, he is a stupid douche-bag, who is too much of a coward to be honest with people to their face, instead opting to hurt them and lead them on and break their heart with lies, all so that he can avoid confrontation, avoid feeling guilty.

And I made it easy for him, tremendously easy - I asked him straight to the face, hell I practically begged him, time and time again, to just be straight with me, just be honest.
To tell me, honestly, whether he cared or whether he didn't, whether there was a chance for us or not.
"Hey, if you don't, I can take it - I won't cry, I won't hate you, I'm not one to make a scene. I just need to know where I stand!"

And he said that he did, that there was.
Despite it all being filthy lies.

"You don't have to lie to me, really, just don't. I want the truth for once, please, give me the straight dope. If you don't want me, say so now, so I'll have a chance to make a fresh start."

But he didn't. He said I was wrong in assuming he didn't care. That I'd never be just any girl to him, just any friend.

He kept leading me on, kept my hopes alive through well placed words and endless reassurances of his feelings for me, his concern.
"You matter to me, don't ever think otherwise... it's just so... complicated right now..." Yeah right.

Like hell it's complicated, you cavorting around with that clingy little trollop, the one without a shred of self-esteem, who depends on a man for her every identity, her every validation.
Totally helpless without you... I know some boys dig that sort of thing, perhaps... but really? You sure? That's your thing?

But then why not say so, why not answer truthfully to my questions, why not save me the endless disgrace of trying to win you over, the shame of hoping, of trying and failing to change your mind.

Cruel, is what he is.
And yet I keep on "loving" him, desiring him, without sense or reason.

I am a hopeless case.

It has reached ridiculous levels, where his so-called girlfriend puts up all these profile pics of them cuddling, kissing or doing whatever together on various social sites, and I can hardly bear to look at them, not because I am jealous, but simply because every single sight of his perfect face sets my heart a-racing.

Ri - di - cu - lous.

And the girl, she is so effing ugly no matter at what angle or weight.
I'm not just making this up because I'm a raving, jealous bitch - although I certainly am.

She is seriously bad looking, and the biggest factor in this is her "charisma", the constant expression on her face that conveys "I need to perpetually reassert my self worth by putting down others, so that I can feel most special when indeed I am as insecure as the next person, probably more - and I revel in that paradox".

It's a fiasco of a sham, the fact that I am in love with someone who is love with a girl like that instead.

Goals

To update; I did finally manage to calm down last night, although it took forever.
Blogging proved to be quite cathartic though, and major thanks to Ancora and Athanasy for your helpful and supportive comments, love you guys to bits! <3

Despite no sleep and feeling utterly shitty, I also passed an oral exam today - but it was rather gruesomely embarrassing, I only just made it by a narrow margin.
Did I feel relieved when it was done with, anyway?

Let me put it like this - say you spend several months being brutally tortured in a dungeon by some absolutely merciless abomination straight from the depths of hell; you might rightfully abound in joy when you are finally freed and the entire ordeal is over.
Much more likely though, you will be too scarred and traumatised by the experience to feel any relief at all - and that was what that exam felt like.

(obligatory PC addendum: I am not a complete moron, and I do realize no actual real-life torture experience compares to something as trite and mundane as an exam. I'm doing this for comedic hyperbole, obviously - and because, in my crazy pathetic mind, it really felt THAT bad to get another chance to show myself just how much of a worthless worthless loser I really am.)

Anyway, I digress, so on the topic of goals:

I want to be carful about setting them weight-wise - disappointment is already a major theme in my wretched little brain, and I don't want to set myself up for more of the same.

Still, there is this:
In less than a month, less than three weeks really, I will be attending a concert of a band I adore.
I happen to have reasonable cause to suspect, nay fear, that this concert might also be attended by The Coward, the Boy That I Still Long For Despite Knowing That I REALLY Shouldn't.

And his new girlfriend, of course.

From what I hear through mutual friends, they never do anything separately anymore.
So if either of them is there, the other will be.

And then I will be meeting a personalized nightmare of loss and rejection in double force, instead of enjoying a relaxing evening where I shut everything out of my brain except for the music.

The thing is (and I use that phrase way too often lately), that I know weight is pretty much the one issue where I can get to her.

I happen to know that she is equally messed up as I am in the food department, that weight and clothes sizes hold the same morbid appeal for her, and that she defines herself, much as I do, through the space that is or isn't visible between her thighs.

So of course, the petty bitter side of me dictates that I have to be super skinny, that I have to fuel her insecurities by nourishing my own, that I have to beat her at being thin at least if I can't beat her at winning his love.

If I have to run the risk of running into her, into them, then I would love for her to be shocked and envious at the sight of me.
I know that I am grasping for straws and that my attempt at physical superiority to her is petty; but that's what you would expect from a bitter person, it's the best I can do.

I am unsure what my goal for those three weeks should be though, how much I would want to have lost by then.
I'm out of touch with what is even realistic, what I am actually capable of achieving.

So, I think I'm going to give it a few more days, see how I'm doing and where I'm at, then try to decide what goal would be achievable and sufficient for my petty revenge.

Operation Skinny For The Wrong Reasons starts tomorrow... (There's always another reason to starve, isn't there? And right now I'm damn glad about it, I need incentive to stay on track; I could pretty much use incentive for a lot of things these days.)

Positive Thought of the Day:

I absolutely adore the girl I'm stealing for today's picture, her outlandish glamorousness, her almost inhumane body posture in that glittering suit - very David Bowie Ziggy-Stardust-era; also reminds me of the foam-spilling poise of his alien character in The Man Who Fell to Earth in a way.

(Bowie himself never seems to eat, does he? Certainly didn't during the seventies, when he lived on "red peppers, milk and cocaine"...
Alas, that doesn't really seem like a recommendable long-term plan either.... still, I wouldn't mind to posses the otherworldly razor-blade-ish grace of the Thin White Duke.)

Cal count standing at 550 and I'm actually going to bed now, because I feel like a walking trainwreck - so that's quite agreeable!