“Never close your lips to those whom you have already opened your heart.”
“Have a heart that never hardens, and a temper that never tires, and a touch that never hurts.”
-Charles Dickens
Hey guys,
Today's blogpost is
going to get weird. I'm just going to come out and say it, before I get
started. I didn't intend to write down what I'm about to tell you, but in light
of recent events, I might as well. I promise it'll make some sense in the
end (I suppose). It's a little embarrassing, but those usually make for the
best stories. Just bear with me.
I earned my 12th
Panda Point today. Yes, you read that right—I've officially gone one whole year
without sex. For those of you who don't
know what Panda Points are: It's an incredibly juvenile system I learned about
back when I was still a surf coach. You get one point for every month you go
without doing the no-pants dance (one week if you're in college) and once you
hit 12 points, you have to throw a Panda-party. Which means your friends invite
a bunch of attractive, willing women and you dress up as a panda—everyone at
the party knows you're "it," guaranteeing your dry spell comes to an
end that night. Please, for the love of God, don't throw me a Panda-party.
This is officially
the longest I've ever gone without sex since I lost my virginity. It's not that
I used to be a massive playboy (to my knowledge, I've never slept with more
than one girl in the span of a week), but let's just say that I got around. I was
a surfcoach, and a bit of a celebrity. In general, it was easy.
What started as
something that just sort of happened turned into a conscious choice not to have
sex for a year after a couple of months (I think about a month into my London
adventure). It just felt right, after everything that had happened in the past
two years. I have a tendency to fall in love far too quickly, only to realise I
had it all wrong. One year of no hanky-panky made sense. It helped that I
hardly dated, either in London or Belgium, and in total, I only had to decline
specific requests for fornication on two occasions (you may remember the
Tinder-incident). Sure, I still joked about sex and one-night stands constantly
(I think I asked Elise to set me up with her hot friend about a million times),
but I actually took it pretty serious near the end. I think on some level I
figured that after an entire year, I'd actually "save myself" for
something special, as ridiculous and juvenile as that may sound. I mean, there
were times I would have jumped just about anyone. But now, 12 months later, I
actually feel great. I'm glad I decided on this celibacy-thing.
Now, why am I telling
you all of this? I'm sure you see where this is going. Yes, I met someone. Sort
of. I'm not going to go into details regarding who she is or what happened. All
I'll say is that for a very short time, she was able to brighten my day like no
one has for a long time. In light of what you just read in the paragraphs
above, that was kind of a big deal for me. Not on a sexual level—I just hadn't
been this intrigued by a woman in a long time.
In the past year, I
went on one real, actual date with a real, actual woman. And she was really great
and really awesome, and then she stopped being all of that and became a distant
b*tch for no reason. Like, literally. She went to bed texting me to ask whether
I wanted to see her again soon, and then she woke up and gave me the whole
"I seriously couldn't care less what happens to you-"treatment women
appear to be so fond of. Ladies, in the future: Guys like to know what happened
or what they did wrong. If you don't like us, tell us. Seriously. We can take
it. And if we f*cked up in any way, we'd appreciate the opportunity to learn
from our mistakes. We're just as lost and insecure as you are.
But I digress.
I've spent the past
two weeks desperately trying to convince myself I didn't make a horrible
mistake leaving London. Life goes on for all of us. I work, talk to my friends
and am generally a productive member of society. But if I'm being completely
honest, I'm not fine. At all. Most of the time I'm too busy with work and
generally surviving to worry about it, but once the lights go out and I try to
get some sleep, I realise I'm seriously not okay. We all feel like this
sometimes—I'm not worried. This is not a cry for help, in any way. I knew the
whole process of coming home and readapting was going to be hard, and I was
right. It is hard, and there are days
where I have to stop myself from booking the first ticket back to London and
telling all of you to go f*ck yourself (I'm very sorry for typing that). I'm
not going to—I made my choice, for better or for worse. And most of the time
I'm glad I did.
And then I met this
girl, and for a brief time, everything made sense. She was funny and witty and
mad as a balloon, to quote Douglas Adams, and as far as physical appearances
go... Well, no. I'm not going to go into that. That'd be rude. She was cute,
let's leave it at that. Use your imagination.
Nothing happened. It
was all extremely early and very casual, but it was fun. And because I hadn't had fun
like that in such a long time, I did what I always do, and what I hadn't done
in years—I grew way too fond of this girl way too soon. And what happened next
is, sadly, all too predictable.
She asked whether she
could see me this week (several times, very keenly), set a date, wished me good
night and never texted me back. The days went by without a response (though she
had time to engage in other virtual activities, confirming she had in fact read
my messages and nothing terrible had happened that would warrant complete and
utter silence) and that was that. I don't know what it is—maybe women google me
and find a list of reasons to get as far away from me as possible. I don't
know.
I'm over it. Today
was a sh*t day I mainly spent glancing at my phone and cruising my Facebook
page, but it passed and I'm over it. It's okay. She was really cool and really
pretty and that's it. This won't keep me up at night for the rest of the week,
I don't feel the inclination to listen to sappy music and wonder "WHY
DOESN'T SHE LOVE ME??" All of this, this entire entry isn't about her.
Because there are thousands of girls just like her out there. I've felt this
way before, I've felt way, way worse and I'll probably feel like this again.
It's something we all go through, and in this case, because it was literally
the briefest of things, it hardly registered. No, this isn't about her. It's
about me.
I love the idea that
after everything that's happened, it's still possible for me to come across
someone who can sweep me off my feet in the shortest amount of time, and make
me forget that I really, really hate the situation I'm in. I've always known
that to be the case—according to all of those Hollywood films and fairy tales,
there's plenty of fish in the sea and we each find our happiness, sooner or
later. I'm a romantic and a pessimist. I want to believe in love and happiness,
but I've convinced myself it's not for me anymore. The latter part simply isn't
true—nothing is final, except death and late-stage syphilis. If there was ever a
time for me to believe I'll be happy with someone again, it's today. If only
they'll stop running away. I need to google myself.
So let me take this
opportunity to address this woman, knowing she will never read these words
(because I made the mistake of making my opinion known to someone who was not
waiting to hear it post-whateverthef*ckwentdown before, and it only leads to
pain and misery, for all parties involved). If you're lacking in the
y-chromosome department, feel free to pretend like these words, in some
variation and by me or any of my fellow men, were once directed at you, without
you ever knowing it:
"I'm sure you
have your reasons for deciding against seeing me, and that's fine. As much as I
would love to know why you're not talking to me anymore, you don't owe me
anything. It's the year 2014—a woman shouldn't have to explain why she doesn't
like a guy, or isn't into a guy. She just isn't. And that's okay. I wish you
the very best, because I know you and I will never speak to each other again.
Not because I'm bitter or angry, but because that's how the world works. So
please, whatever happens next—be happy, and find whatever it is you're looking
for.
But you're missing
out. I'm a really nice guy, trying to find his way in a world that is cold and
heartless, and I'm having trouble doing it on my own. I don't need someone who
will carry my luggage for me—all I need is someone who will put her hand on my
shoulder and tell me it's not that heavy. I'm funny, smart, reasonably
good-looking and the sweetest boy you'll ever meet. And there is nothing I want
more than to make you happy, and help you with your luggage. I don't care if
there's plenty—I'll carry it for you, because I've gotten used to it by now.
Sure, I have my
defects. We all do. I'm short, neurotic, far too emotional and as f*cked up a
person as you'll ever meet, probably. I'll go crazy from time to time and I
live in a perpetual fear of the most ridiculous things. I can't make up my mind
and I always wonder whether I've made the right choices. There will be days
where you can't stand me.
But I'm worth it,
because I promise I will love you more than any man ever will. I know I can't
make that promise, because I don't know these other men, but I'm still going to
make it. I'm not waiting for love to find me—believe me, if you knew me at all,
you'd know it's more or less the opposite. But I have so much love to give. I
have seen the world and all its beauty, and to this day, I've yet to see
something more beautiful than the eyes of a woman who is deeply and madly in love
with me. I'm only 25 years old, but I've already lived a lifetime. Somewhere
along the way I got lost, and I need your help before it's too late. Because
I'm not sure how much longer I can hold on. I need your help, but I swear it'll
be worth your while. Because if you help me find my way again, I know I'll make
you happier than any man ever could.
You're walking away now,
and that's fine. You've made your choice, and you chose poorly. You're
making a mistake. You made the wrong choice."
Boy, that got real. I
told you this was going to be a weird entry.
This is usually the
part where I tell you about the Song of the Day, but as luck would have it,
I've really gotten into this one song this week and it happens to be a really
depressing post-break-up anthem. I want to stress this has nothing to do with
my current mood (very foul today, but I'll be good tomorrow) and I got into
this song before I even met her. So, I'm going to leave you with two songs this
week, just to balance things out.
Song 1: A Great Big World - Say Something (the original version, which I think is way better than the one they did with Christina Aguilera):
Song 2: Alvvays - Archie, Marry Me
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