Mini-update on T. and a small treatise on Romance

Thanks for everyone's comments on my last post; it fills me with unabashed gladness and glee that you took some entertainment value from my dating fiasco, and that you actually applauded my slightly inappropriate but liberating move of Leaving Without Looking Back, instead of chiding me for my childish behaviour.

T. texted me again yesterday, a completely passive aggressive text of "Yeah, must have been really hard to be stuck with such a douchebag, right?".

I had absolutely nothing to add to that sudden spot of self-awareness, apart from utter agreement, so I didn't respond.
For once, I thought, let's just keep to the adage of not saying anything at all if you don't have anything nice to say.

On the whole, I'm just getting tired of the romance game.

I'm a lost cause.

On the one hand, I am fairly anti social, I can't stand people more often than not and I sometimes despair of the feeling that I'm incapable of forming a relevant connection to anyone, with the possible exception of a few close friends none of whom I would want to date.

On the other hand, romance seems an important part of life to me - I do crave it, I crave the chemistry, I crave touch, I crave the rush and the excitement, that tingling sensation that you get along the edges of your spine when you suspect that things might be Developing Into A Certain Direction.

It's not just the sex I am interested in, either - I crave the intimacy, the mental connection, the build-up, the entire package.

Which is a shame, because a craving for just sex would always be easier to satisfy.
I am a sensual person at the core, but I am also, in addition to that, somewhat of an incurable romantic.

Throw that in with being uncontrollably impatient and misanthropic towards people who I find do not meet my standards of at least semi-coherent conversation (and there seem to be a lot of them these days), and you get someone who is haughty and desperate all at once; Too High Standards and yet Starving For Anything At All.

I tire of romantic partners easily, even prospective ones.
Yet I wish for and dream of someone whom I'd not tire of ever again, nor him of me.

And finally, on top of everything else, there is also that voice - that voice that I can never for the life of me shut up, that voice that whispers to me constantly: "You are a fat fuck. No one's ever gonna love you unless you stop being such a fat fuck."

Put together, it doesn't amount to very much by way of being able to develop or maintain a healthy relationship; or even a fling-tastic casual one.

I'm not entirely sure where I was going with this - I guess I just needed a good old rant, and I thank you all for listening to this soon-to-be old spinster and crooked crone raving about her inability to Get On Good Terms With Romance.

Oh well, I figure if I do make it to spinsterish Old Crone status some day, at least I'll have one entertaining story to tell - the story of T. and the night when I Disappeared Through The Backdoor.

Waiting for Summer

I wish it would just hurry the fuck up.

Which is funny, since I'm in no hurry to be getting all these imperfect body parts out in the open, they look bad enough in a covered state lately, as it is.

Still, I want the heat on my skin and an excuse to wear sunglasses without making a pretentious fashion statement about the blinding darkness of human society.

Granted, the sun part is already starting to come around, but it's bone-chillingly cold nonetheless.
Which is great for a crisp run in the pre-morning air, but starts grating on my nerves by noon at the latest.

There always seem to be so much more open doors and branching roads during summertime, so much more suspense and possibilities.

Well, I guess it's no surprise that warm-blooded animals would associate climbing temperatures with opportunity.

To turn up the heat in the spirit of skinny love, I'm leaving you with a few more sexy-skinny images of Evan Rachel Wood, whom I like despite never quite getting over the fact that Manson has taken a lover of my exact same age who isn't me.

Midlife crisis is a powerful thing, as "Eat Me, Drink Me" can attest to.
I attended a Manson concert not too long ago, where in good old tradition he set afire a bible while performing one of his songs.
"My god", I said to the person accompanying me, "Marilyn Manson burning bibles on stage, I'm feeling young again!" "So's he, probably", he replied.

In any case, on the subject of Wood?
That incredibly Hammy performance she puts in as True Blood's Sophie Ann LeClerc is something one just has to love.

Skinny Love: Natalie Portman and some stunned observations

It's incredible - I just can't do it.

I cannot do the ABC right now.

It is incredible because I used to be so good at this, at starving myself.

And now, apparently, I am not anymore.
Half a year of carelessness and unfortunate events was all it took.

What's so funny about it, is that "normal" people, people concerned with my health, would probably say I got better.
I used to be good at something that is considered "bad", considered unhealthy and disordered.

And now I am bad at that very same thing, that badunhealthydisordered thing, which must in turn me that I am - healthy.
With a BMI right in the lower-but-by-no-means-alarmingly-low half of the normal range, it must mean that I am happy, happyhealthynormal surely, in better order than before?

That's not what it feels like to me, though. I don't feel better, I don't feel "healed".

All that I feel is weakness, a failure of willpower is all that I see.
A failure of willpower is all that it is, to me and that never silent inner voice.

And I am not the happier for it, more carefree, quite the contrary - I am feeling So. Much. Worse. than I ever did when starving successfully.

Huh.
I'm trying to overcompensate with frequent and vigorous training for the time being, running and weightlifting twice a day until I have figured out who I am and how I feel and where I want to be.

In the meantime, I bring you another episode of Skinny Love:










Natalie Portman.

She's my ultimate ideal of beauty, I think. I could gaze at her stunning features for hours on end.

She's an outstanding actress, I love virtually every single movie I've seen her in (with the notable exceptions being A) those Star Wars I - III atrocities, they do rather fall into the category "guilty pleasures", and B) V for Vendetta, it was a bit of a disappointment as compared to the the original comic, but that was by no means anything to do with Portman's performance).

Her extraordinarily memorable performance in Léon remains unforgotten, of course...



(I love that movie to pieces, on the whole.)

... and many a great and entertaining movie followed, Closer, Garden State, Mars Attacks!, The Other Boleyn Girl and so on.

From what you can tell through interviews, through her commitment to various social causes, she seems like a wonderful human being on a personal level, too.

Also, she happens to be very skinny - tiny, elegant, graceful.

Yet, there is seldom to never any harping about her weight in any of the tabloids - other celebrities get the heat for being too skinny all the time.

Still, despite her being just as thin as other actresses (oh my gosh, look at those stunning claviculae - do want!) - despite her shoulders being as bony, her collarbones as protruding, her waist as narrow, her chest as flat and her arms as tiny - her thinness isn't subject to a lot of debate.

Which seems graceful too, in a way, as being skinny is very obviously not her only defining quality - there is more talk about her talent and her movies than her weight; she simply is skinny on top of that without ever raising a fuss about it.

Again with a quality I would so like to emulate.

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.

Ineffectual Musings

Perfection... I've always been obsessed with that little world, and I know I am far far from alone in that.

It is often curious to me why human beings work the way we do, and why that little word holds so much power over us.

How it is that the concept of perfection can motivate us so much, elevate us, crush us, excite us.

How the thought, that every little part, every centimeter of our bodies, minds, even souls could be perfect, seems so liberating and promising, and daunting all at once.

Still, it is all that sustains me often.

My life is far from perfect right now.
My flat isn't perfect - it's a bloody mess.
My mind isn't perfect - it is equally messed up.
My "career prospects" aren't perfect - I am letting it all go to hell, and I'm not even sure I have chosen the right direction with what I'm doing at uni.
My "love life" isn't perfect - I am still painfully in love with a boy who doesn't even deserve it, King of Cowards that he is.

And finally, my body isn't perfect - it is farther from perfection than it ever was.

I dare not even step on the scales at this moment, but I reckon (and I am an unfortunately gifted soothsayer in that regard) it might be as high as 60kg, 132 lbs, a BMI of a square and scary 20 (defined, of course, as perfectly "normal and healthy for your age". Blech. Whoever comes up with these definitions obviously hasn't seen the state of my thighs. Or my behind for that matter.).

60kg would be the absolute highest I have weighed since the day I was born, and I swear I'm going to die if it goes any higher than this right now.
I need to regain control but I am struggling, pitifully, to rediscover any fragment of my former strength, any semblance of my old composure.

And yet, amidst all this chaos, I hope and dream of a state where perfection can be attained.
No matter how unrealistic it may seem - if I didn't cling to the abstract hope that perfection was possible, I would have thrown in the towel on life long ago.

It is all that keeps me from giving up when submerged in the darkest, dankest recesses of my personal Void... the possibility of perfection.

PS: re: first picture - that sunrise, on that day, was perfection to me.
Nothing quite like watching the sun rise from aboard a boat...

The girl below, of course, displays a different form of perfection. And yet she seems so forlorn - the atmosphere in that image is pretty much how I'm feeling right now, so I like it.

Lies

You know how they tell you "Oh, even if you DO get skinny, that will not suffice to make you happy!"?

How they tell you that the perfect weight is not the gateway to the perfect life? That you need to see that skinny doesn't equal happy, that reaching your goal weight won't satisfy your craving to be whole, fulfilled, perfected, complete?

It's bullshit, if you ask me.
I have been there before - never as skinny as I wanted to be, never perfect - there is always room for less, how couldn't there be.

Still, I have been skinny-er before, I have been starving myself and exercising vigorously, and yes, I have been happy.

Hell, less than a year ago, I was ever-so-close to where I wanted to be with my body - I was thin, I was toned, clothes were falling off me and people were commenting the way they always do, with a mixture of awe and concern, of jealousy and curiosity.

"My, you have become ever so thin!", The Blonde Girl would say to me, and I would smile, all oblivious.

"Really? Hm, if you say so, must have been the fact that I took up running again..."
And she would laugh, unbelieving, flabbergasted "What, you didn't even notice?", clearly envious, so skinny herself, and yet in awe of my progress.

Those were good times, and I can honestly say that I was SO much happier then - not only happier; more complete, more in control, of myself, my life.
The "simple" fact of my body being closer to perfection made a whole world of difference in controlling my messed-up mind.

So there, I never want to hear those again, those lies of "It won't really make a difference" - It does.
If only I could get strong again, if only I could reach my goals, make up for the time I slacked.

If only...

Stay strong, and take those offerings of "wisdom" with a grain of salt.