On Relationships

When it comes to relationships, the world can be parted in three different, clear-cut categories: the ‘serial monogamists’, that jump from one relationship right into the next with a break merely long enough to be reputed respectable; the ‘sex addicts’, who don’t really look for relationship as long as they can find a willing partner to spend eternal nights of debauchery with; and, finally, the ‘eternally lonely’, the Bridget Joneses of the circumstances (and I do mean the original Bridget Jones here: the Mark-Darcyless, sorry excuse from a human being Bridget Jones), who find themselves drowning their sorrows in alcohol and hot chocolate solitary night after solitary night. Guess what category I belong to? But the last one, of course! Only I like to replace alcohol with hot chocolate.. doesn’t do any good to mix flavours (plus, liquor and I don’t get along very well. He’s mean to me, and so annoying as to unfailingly leaving me with a feeling of having unintentionally done some irreparable damage to my social life. And a nice, stinging headache in my right temple).

If you analyse the three aforementioned categories, you will notice that while the first two have, at least in some capacity and accordingly to the various situations, some sort of , if not resemblance to fun and happiness, and least an innate closeness to pleasure, whether it be physical or emotional, the last one is, in its innermost essence, basically and genuinely an horrific way of experiencing your love life. And having said that, how could I be tempted by the promising joys of boyfriends or sex-friends when I could be perennially and undeniably miserable for the rest of my days? I could not pass on that brilliant opportunity. So, since the age of twelve, I have basically made it my point to grow up to be a pathetic spinster, someone who will wake up at the crack of down every morning to go get the first newspaper (because who would want to get used news?), form the same pimply teenager with an oily baseball cap, just to run back home and start baking a whole lot of incredibly distasteful food no one will ever eat anyway. Apart from the herd of domestic mouses I will have adopted, that by that time will be completely house-broken and trained to chase away any human form that shows even the most remote form of impulse of coming near to my door. How does that sound for a bright future?

Alas! Who am I trying to fool? We all know that is only a plan B (and a particularly ingenious one, if I might add. Who else could come up with such a marvellously decadent, low-maintenance, Tim Burton-esque idea? Oh, also, now that I think of it, I want to be dressed like Helena Bonham Carter in Sweeney Todd while doing all the stuff I mentioned above. So gothic!). Obviously, plan A involves what every single girl on this planet (and I mean it, every single one, even those that swear it is not true, even the declared, hardcore feminists that claim it’s an insult to our feminine nature. Literally every single girl) and maybe some on other planets as well dreams of: Prince Charming on a white horse, come to save me from my prison bringing a shiny sword and armour. But my prince will have to come on a Harley Davidson (secret passion. Actually I could probably do with no prince if only I could have the motorbike..), save me from my self and my repeated attempts to crack my head open by bumping into furniture, and a big, old box of chilly chocolates.

You think that is not likely to happen? So do I, but hey, a girl has got to dream, right? And for someone whose most ardent dream has always been being a writer, finding Prince Charming actually seems like a piece of cake. Oh and Zeus, just so you know, it’s not like I believe looks are everything, but it’d be very very nice of you if just for once you could send someone that doesn’t look like a mad plastic surgeon decided to use him as a guinea pig for unearthly experiments. Much appreciated, pal. And it wouldn’t hurt to find someone who could actually read a whole sentence before falling into an enchanted sleep that can only be broken by the kiss of true video-gaming, because I may not be a smart kid, but I love to pretend so, and I’ve learned in time that surrounding yourself with smart people is a great way to look intelligent. Thanks, Zeus. I’m counting on you.

How do you all stand in the whole relationship business? Happily paired or in search of your soul mate? Any recipe for finding true love, or, at least, surviving the search?

On People and Alcohol

I was sitting at my desk literally just a moment ago, staring at the blank page and wondering what I could be talking about tonight, when my oh-so-lovely, absolutely formidable and momentarily very very drunk (or in her own words ‘a birtd djrunks’) friend T, who is supposedly working as an intern for an NGO in India, messaged me simultaneously on every social media on the face of earth. Now, T is a totally adorable drunk, and to prove my point I’m going to record here part of our conversation, taking the poetic license to correct her typos (the poor girl is wasted after all!).

T: I am a bit drunk.

Everyone is vomming.

I am not, though.

I’ll be back soon.

I danced with an Abercrombie hottie.

Woooooo.

I had to leave him.

Because everyone was vomming.

I was the only one standing.

Had to help.

I hate that bitch.

I’ll bring you an Abercrombie boy back. 

And to L, too.

I can’t find you on Facebook

Me (finally being given a chance to actually type something): Are you writing the right name?

T: Of course!

Ftanceaca.

Me: Maybe you should try with Francesca.

T: Oh. Found you!

❤

That is indeed an utterly enchanting shit-faced girl, isn’t it? Some drunks are very funny, some become sweet and cuddly, some give loads of love to everyone. Some, like T, go for all of the above. And some are just bad drunks. They get sad, and melancholic, and aggressive, and bad-tempered. Or all of the above. Not a pleasant combination. 

I don’t believe for a second that alcohol changes who we are, though. The I’m-sorry-I-was-drunk-I-didn’t-mean-to-do-what-I-did-so-let’s-pretend-it-did-not-happen apology that is so often used is not good enough for me. It is not an excuse I am willing to accept. Man up and admit that whatever crime it is that your inebriated self decided was a good idea to commit while your brains were temporarily out of order is actually exactly what your innermost, ashamed and prudish ego wanted, only you wouldn’t have been able to admit it without a little help from your intoxicating friends, Tequila and Sambuca (positively charming guys, if I may give my opinion. You should definitely hang out with them once in a while).

What’s the nicest thing a hungover guy has ever said to me? ‘Oh, sorry. I didn’t intend to try and sleep with you. I was just very very high on booze’. Wow, that’s flattering. Thank you very much. Yes, the guy really knows how to pick up a girl. A true gentleman of the best kind. They don’t make them like him anymore. Well, I didn’t take it too badly. I only (very accidentally, obviously) sabotaged his next three or four relationships. A girl has to make justice for herself, right?

Are you good or bad drunks? What’s the worst thing you have ever done while wasted? And no, I’m not going to tell you mine, ever, not even in a billion years, not even while inebriated, so don’t ask.

On Having a Crush

I though I was supposed to stop having crushes once I were all grown up and mature, that crushes were childish and therefore would be naturally abandoned with a coming of age/initiation party.  Which apparently is not the case for I am a twenty-one-year-old, slightly stalker-like, very obsessed girl.

The thing about having a crush is that it is incredibly frustrating. It must be some sort genetical condition that allows us to only ever have crushes on people that are so far removed from our reality to be absolutely and utterly unreachable and untouchable. Unnerving. And irritating. My latest target is none other than a super-popular, totally gorgeous movie star. I mean, SERIOUSLY? What am I, two? And before you ask.. No, I’m not going to tell you who that is. I’ve already embarrassed myself enough and I intend to keep my last shreds of dignity close to me (if there’s actually any left at all).

I have spent the last couple of days daydreaming like a teenage freak and following the person on every social media available (taking the precautionary measure to add a couple of plausibly fake accounts to my list as well, just to be on the safe side). Honestly, poor poor guy. It’s humiliating the way I can still do this kind of things. And potentially sad. And reputation-damaging. A complete act of self-distruction in the long term.

When I eventually wake up from this obsessive-compulsive trance I have fallen into (a moment which I sincerely hope will come soon, and that will be welcomed with loads of heart-warming chocolate chips cookies), I will realise the problem is the outright absence of a suitable candidate for the leading male role in my life. Woeful but true. So if you happen to see a breath-takingly, heart-breakingly, jaw-droppingly handsome man walking down the street, who gives you the impression of being also smart, fun, passionate about things and a art/music/book-lover, could you please give him my phone number? (Yeah, like that is likely to happen..)

Honestly though, am I being very unreasonable and silly? Are my expectations way too high? Am I too picky? Or am I just the most unlucky, miserable girl in the universe?

On Fooling Myself

When my parents suggested the last stop of our road trip be the place where I used to live, I thought to myself it would be a great opportunity to see friends, visit places and just generally catch up. And the thought I might be seeing my ex call-me-in-the-middle-of-the-night, mess-around-with-me, spend-the-night-every-day non-boyfriend didn’t even brush against my innocent, gullible mind. 

It’s all a matter of talking myself into believing what I want the truth to be. And I’m usually very successful at that. It’s like when people says calories consumed over the weekends don’t count. Or when a smoker convinces himself that he’s going to smoke just one last cigarette. Only every cigarette is the last one, and the calories will still be there in the morning. 

However, in my case I did manage to utterly persuade my spirit I was not interested in a reunion. Which is why on the first day I put on all of my best items of clothing, the amount of make up a circus performer would wear and started wandering around his workplace. And why I wasn’t at all disappointed and frustrated (read ‘I was on the verge of committing a murder’) when I walked past me and pretended not to have seen me. Fat, fluffy-haired jerk (or ‘oh-so-gorgeous, blue-eyed man’, depending on my mood).

It’s not that I expected a film-esque scene in which I would run towards me, arms outstretched and lift me up in a long and passionate kiss. My fantasies may have slightly resembled this kind of encounter, but my realistic idea was that we would exchange some polite conversation and then part peacefully, knowing we both felt very uncomfortable and awkward. So now you see my problem. I am feeling pretty vexed, while he just ignores me? This calls for revenge.

Or should I maybe try to be the bigger person here? And if not, any idea on out to carry out my vendetta? I am open to gruesome and macabre suggestions.