Single File

Remember, remember
The fifth of November,
The day of the gunpowder treason and plot.
I see no reason
Why the gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot.

It’s hard to tell whether I’m at work or any other place just by the clothes I’m wearing, these days. More often than usual I arrive at the job and have to decide that I’m really not dressed for the occasion. I’ll be wearing everyday clothing and things get torn up a little now and then, if they’re not sturdy enough.

I used to have this morning (or whenever) ritual of putting on work clothes and strapping all kinds of equipment to my forehead. I had actually grown kind of attached to this quality time with my gear.
Nowadays, I roll out of my couch, turn off my alarm, and wander out the door. I get ready in 10 minutes flat.

The difference between then and now is that I now actually have a life. I’m practically always dressed in more than just boxer shorts now, in contrast to the old days.
The reason? I can’t think of any other than the fact that I quit MUDs. I always saw any reason to leave the house as a good one, but until I stopped playing, I never actively looked for things to go and do. As a matter of fact, playing very much felt like I was doing something. I even had a strong sense of accomplishment at the end of the day, even though I knew very well that I accomplished nothing at all.

I would like to point out that the positive effects of my old addiction shouldn’t be underestimated, either. Other than the constant education in English grammar, spelling and sentence structure, even. In the period that I played, I respectively dropped out of school, joined the army, left the army, moved three times, and ended a long-term relationship. I went through a few extremely rough patches and always giving me something to occupy my thoughts with, MUDs helped numb the pain when necessary.
On top of that, they always gave me a way to vent. The sky was the limit and it was possible to materialize and map my own imagination, with the constant input of others with similar ideas.
Quitting, and I can say this without shame, was one of the hardest things I ever did.

So one year later now, I’m always on the look-out for my own entertainment. And although not to the point of satisfaction, I’m getting better at it. The last two weeks have been submerged in chaos, constantly feeding me things to see and people to do. With only material possessions (as opposed to things to actually care for) I live life and make the best of it.

This of course, would be my ex’ queue to let herself be heard of again by leaving me a postcard in the mail. The message on it is personal, but suffice to say she still has the nerve to call us soul mates. Not that I disagree, though. I know things will never be the same again, that I lost something that could have been the most precious thing in my life, now degraded and desecrated to become nothing more than a memory and a forever lasting ache. Since then I’ve found the strength to move on and leave countless questions unanswered. In the end, it’s better that way. So yeah, soulmates.
The card was from Cuba, where she apparently spent some time, and had a Cuban stamp, but no markings. This means that it wasn’t delivered by postal services, but was instead dropped in my mail while I wasn’t home. This leaves me to wonder what would have happened if she did see the light burning. More pointless question marks that I told myself not to bother with. One more process I’ll have to repeat.
At first I thought it had to do with my birthday, but I know better now. The 5th of November was the day we got back together the first time we had broken up.

The world today feels… grainy. It may be the seasons changing but everything seems to have grown kind of grayish in color, and only delivers a bland, temporary sort of entertainment.
But at least I’m pretty happy, one day at a time. I can even manage some optimism about the future.



Is it spring yet? It sure feels that way. I’m starting to scare myself with how I’m chasing skirt, lately. I’ve had it bad before but I’ve come to the point where I seriously hope the female crowd around me can’t read my thoughts, lest they would universally avoid me altogether. Luckily my lacking social skills keep me from spilling the beans to the wrong person.
It seems like I’m staring through beer goggles, I don’t think I consciously spotted a single ugly girl (of course you’re all beautiful, ladies) in the last twelve years, as far as I can recall.
This isn’t what I fucking asked for! I’m this close to venting this in the wrong direction.

Additionally, I tend to fall in love easily, it seems. There’s that one girl I have a serious crush on, and I tend to run into now and again. Last time I had the privilege of hearing all about her almost-boyfriend who suddenly stopped calling. See this picture?

It’s my bubble.

That’s hardly fucking fair, is it, you asshat. What do I look like, Tupperware? You can’t just call dibs and wander off doing whatever the fuck it is you do, letting her wait like a kid letting out her canary for a spin around the house. Do you have any idea what it does with my odds if every single girl is just going into stasis like this? Thanks a fucking lot, cockwaffle.
What am I supposed to do, scream out ‘Shotgun!’ with every cute thing I see? Hardly subtle, is it.

Luckily, as I got to hear recently, I’m “not so scary” once you get to know me. Holy shit.
Can I, please? May I? Can I look like a Social Distortion fan and listen to Bloc Party, simultaneously? Can I look like I want to without being judged a punk, under the presumption that I’ll call you a capitalist whore for even addressing me?

I do voluntary work with a group of elderly people on a regular basis. I help out on a dance festival without earning a cent. I’ve been called “indispensable” in both cases. I open my door to strangers. Yes, I can spare some change. Jesus fuck, I’m the ideal son-in-law! On top of that, I’m adaptable, never stay angry for long, and pretty easy to live with (although I’ve been told otherwise).
HEL-LO!? Is it so fucking hard to see through an outside layer that doesn’t even go skin-deep? Are all women really that shallow?

Yes, I am overreacting. But, try and see things my way for a moment. I literally look what I feel like. This isn’t some attempt to look mean, as my colleague suggested, or trying to be something I’m not. It’s just what I like, how I feel like I don’t have to pretend.
I don’t want to have to spend a full day with you just to be liked, because of this. It’s rarely that I get the benefit of the doubt. I wouldn’t harm a soul, but at first sight everyone seems to assume otherwise. And the only reason I can think of, is a mohawk.

Go easy on that kid. He may just have more up his sleeve than your prejudice. He may just have feelings, too, and in fact, he may have a huge crush on you. It seems obvious to some, a total fucking mystery to others.

So I have time against me, as well as conventional social processes, for that matter. In this case, it really stings to see her go some other way without the slightest chance- if there was one to begin with.
Time to move on. This method of distant lusting isn’t working, but it’s all I have. Oddly enough, the worst way for things to go with me is the “usual” way. I tend to shine through when things are the least common. If this has an upside, it’s that girls, ironically, are perfectly safe with me, even at my worst. So far, anyway.


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