I keep thinking that I’m squandering my life by working day and night, cycling and dog sitting on the weekends. I keep thinking that I’m not dating nearly enough for someone my age, for someone in this particular city, for someone with my storied experiences and love for dating.
But then I read shit like the last post and realize that I went through seven fucking girls in six goddamn weeks, not including the ones that rolled over from 2016, the Comedian and the Girl with the Extraordinary Face and the Car Factory’s Daughter and the girl with the rose tattoo and alien face – (the latter three who probably don’t count since they’ve been relegated to messaging apps only, but probably do because while they live all the way over in Bangkok, I’m pretty fucking sure I’ll end up back there shortly and will date all of them).
So I’m okay and I can relax. I’m not squandering anything. Except 10 hours of my life everyday at this job that I sort of like because of the capacity at which I’m designing shit, but then sort of despise for the incapacity to write.
Anyway, so all of those girls, some overlapping but barely (I can’t date more than one girl at a time). Some were promising, some weren’t; some are lingering in the background and some already fell off the planet and are dead to me. (What’s up, Wine Girl – what happened to taking me to the Huntington Library, you lying fuck?)
That’s what I do, I bump around around women like a fucking pin ball until a clear victor emerges, and one might have, finally, after six excruciating weeks since the Comedian left my Whatsapp conversation.
This girl, I liked her slowly and then didn’t and then did and then didn’t and then suddenly, in one night of talking on the fucking phone, I fell in and cleared my headspace of all the others. That’s a first, to teeter on the edge of liking a girl – normally if there’s any teetering at all – any indecision on my part – I’ll immediately bail. I don’t want to end up with a girl that I had to consciously decide to like, you know? That’s fucking bullshit.
This girl, I met her a few months ago in a different city. After mere minutes – minutes! – I thought, “Where do I find a woman like this? How come I’ve never found a woman like this?” Then I left and she left and we were left separated until a few weeks ago when I finally found her on Instagram.
Our rapport was still there and our conversation picked up where we left it some three thousand miles away. But all of her stories seemed sad. All of her topics were heavy, these balls of lead that weighed her down in life, that weighed me down while I messaged with her. She was still beautiful and smart and clever and charming – but I didn’t know why I would like her so much at first. What was it, what did it for me back then? What was she wearing, what did the shape of her breast look like, for me to want her so badly?
And so that’s where the phone conversation came in. We messaged for weeks while I lay in bed rolling my eyes or sighing while answering her question of my Top 10 Biggest Heartbreaks. But once we got onto the phone, holy fucking shit, it was me reading her messages wrong! It was me that misconstrued lighthearted subjects for heavy topics!
We talked and she laughed heartily, spoke rapidly. Her sunshine demeanor spilled through the phone and into my fucking apartment. Her happiness and cheerfulness was just so fucking infectious – through only her voice! Even without the assistance of her beautiful face and hourglass body! Even with the help of her smooth hair and deep tan! I would marry that goddamn voice. Also: breasts.
(What is it with 29 year olds? So many 29 year olds in my life, and they’re all so different from each other, at incredibly varying degrees of maturity. [I just realized the last long-term girlfriend I had was 29 when we started to date.]
Is this a thing, for 29 year old girls to date a man nine fucking years older? I mean, I get freaked out that they’re not freaking out. What’s wrong with them? What sort of daddy issues do they possess?)