Have sex for the first time. Stay with him forever.
Happy 7-year anniversary, CJY.
Last night I beat my Minesweeper score by a full 11 seconds and finished the Expert level in 86 seconds and I’m feeling like a FUCKING SORCERER.
I don’t care how fucking lame this is, this is the crowning achievement of my whole goddamn year.
Like, can I put this on my resume? Or my LinkedIn profile? Like, ”Skills: Minesweeper Sorcerer"
I can die now.
In my time living in San Francisco, I’ve tried out a handful of online dating sites and apps. I’ve activated and deactivated my OkCupid account at least 3 times, went on a Grouper date, and have played around on Tinder, Hinge, DuoDater, and god knows what else. The only conclusion I can come to based on my brief forays into the world of online dating is that I’m really just too fucking intense to do this shit successfully.
As one who has consistently written in a journal for almost two decades, I spend a lot of time thinking about my interactions with people and the way that I intentionally, or unintentionally, carry myself around others. In the moment, I often default to exchanging sentiments that are sarcastic, crass, or almost chronically apathetic. So I spend a lot of time attempting to define and articulate the manner in which I approach interpersonal relationships; I regularly dissect my conversations and consider how my words might cause me to be perceived in a certain light. I know I’m not a bad person, and those who get to know me on any level of familiarity know that I actually emit more warmth than my typically cold demeanor would initially suggest. It’s just that sometimes I feel as if my entire personality is the product of years of careful calculations. And I feel like it’s this consciousness, this aggressive overdiagnosis of my character, that causes me to be completely useless when it comes to flirting with someone over the internet. I seriously find it fucking impossible.
I mean, fuck. Did you just read all that? Do I sound like a fun, sunshine kind of person who would be a joy to go on a first date with? I’m too skilled at describing myself. I reveal too much. Overconfidence and aggressive self-awareness coats everything I write. While I like to consider myself pretty pro at flirting IRL, I think my general intensity renders me completely incapable of replicating this effect online, because everything I say just kind of sounds bitchy and narcissistic. But when you write about yourself as often as I do, it’s a struggle to not occasionally sound bitchy and narcissistic.
I guess what I’m trying to hint at is that I think I might be too intimidating for online dating. But maybe that’s giving myself too much credit. I guess I could just be ugly.
I find there’s productivity in feeling sadness. For the last couple of weeks, as one event after another unfolded itself around me, I’ve been almost too busy to process the recent changes and losses in my life. I’ve shed tears very sparingly, not allowing myself to sit in the sadness for too long before moving on to the next activity that necessitated my attention.
Isn’t it silly how we tend to associate tears with weakness? Why is distracting ourselves from feeling considered the brave thing to do? Why can’t tears also be an act of bravery? An outward indication that instead of running from our sadness, instead of pretending that it doesn’t exist, we are allowing ourselves to feel vulnerable, and are mustering the courage to share this vulnerability with others?
I’m not a vulnerable person. I’m controlled and calculated almost 100% of the time. I am the rock my friends turn to in times of distress, I am the voice of reason to almost everyone I talk to, even strangers in passing who engage me in brief bouts of conversation. I find the experience of emotional extremes exhausting, which is why I’m largely an apathetic person; whether happiness, sadness, anger, excitement, or otherwise, I don’t venture far and wide across the emotional spectrum.
But now that I’m here, alone in my room, I’ve decided to allow myself this rare opportunity to process the melancholy that has sit quietly yet persistently in the back of my thoughts for weeks. I’m just tired of dreaming every night about conversations that have never happened, only to wake up every morning with the annoying reminder that my situation remains unchanged, that the words we exchanged were only inventions of my subconscious.
So tonight, here, in this empty apartment, I’m just going to lie in bed and write and reflect and think about you, wherever you are, and wonder if you are also lying and reflecting and thinking about me.