Fuck ‘em

I can be so… helpless, at times. At moments like this I have the intense impression that somewhere in the past, I lost an essential chunk of myself and moved on without even realizing. I spent many a sleepless night -including tonight- in wonder about what caused it and what might be the answer. For some reason, it fails to dawn to me. Of all the personal issues I pried apart and traced to their roots, this one is still a fucking mystery to me.

What is the worst thing that can happen when you try to approach a girl? It seems that many think that she could only say “no”. If you are one of them, picture me this:
Trying to get someone’s phone number, something I never ever once before in my entire dogfood life, I not only failed, but managed to make myself the laughing stock of an entire table in a bar with my clumsy attempts. Friends of mine, and what was worse, hers.

I get these decisive moments once in a while, I call them ‘fuckit‘ moments. It’s when I figuratively, briskly turn around and walk away. If it’s in a discussion with someone, I will actually bark out “Fuck this” and drop the matter. I would advise you to give it a rest, should you ever get me to that point.
Right then and there, I had one of them. Something just… pops and I’m done. Fuck it. Fuck you. FUCK. YOU.
I don’t want to care, anymore. Her definition changed from an object of desire to the face of yet another failure, and I am so done with it. There’s millions of them: every attractive face that I pass on the street is another personal failure. Every single time I go through that same thought pattern carved inside my skull: “It’s a shame I can’t work up the nerve to ever talk to you.”

And it is. It’s a gut-wrenching, dead crying shame. Time and time again. Opportunities missed, bridges burnt. I am beginning to intensely hate these frozen seconds. I’ve got a whole bag of them, dragging them from the ankles. Everything of beauty becomes a source of pain. It eats me up if I let it, and tonight I did.

Don’t think I haven’t tried to work around it. I’ve tried pretty much everything within my power. When my friend asked about it the other day, I nodded towards the Schelde, a river running through our city.

It’s like wanting to jump over the river. You know it’s better on the other side and there is nowhere you would rather be. But you don’t jump. Because you believe you won’t make it. Even if you’re told that it’s possible, you don’t know how to work up the strength. You’ve never tried to jump, so technically there’s no way you could know if you can. You are just so convinced that the water is too wide, that you don’t even bother. And what’s the worst that can happen? You’ll dry if you get wet. But still you won’t jump simply because the very idea seems irrational.”

It’s as simple as that. A hard no. A wall.
If they were to cross and come stand on my side, the problem would pretty much be solved. Make the first step and we can go from there. It’s that easy.

No one on this planet wants to see this changed as much as I do. There is no “just do it”, or other mental trick.
So where does this push me? After tonight, I don’t know anymore. This paralyzing pain is getting so terribly old. The strain that I feel when I try to push myself, gets worse every time. I don’t want to try anymore. These sorry attempts to read someone I don’t know without projecting my own wishful thinking onto them make me lose my mind- literally.

Why why why is it so hard…? Why doesn’t it work? It’s as if I’m missing gears where a machine should function. An emptiness inside my brain. A hole I can’t reach the bottom of. I don’t want to give up, but I’m going mad if I don’t. I’m sorry. I could cry me a river, but I won’t.



Twenty-five today. One more step into adulthood. The very idea makes me nauseous. Pushing thirty, forty, sixty, ninety, dead. I don’t want to die- I’m too young.

Meh. Another thing I don’t want to think too much about. Party and get it over with, at least I have the feeling my twenty-fourth seems ages ago. Progress of age bothers me because no one can stop it. Additionally, birthdays always appear to be laced with irony.

I got out of bed in the afternoon. On my birthday.
It rained all day. On my birthday.
I had to go out and arrange some agreement to pay off my debts. On my birthday.
Of all people I invited to come have a drink, three showed up. On my birthday.
I had to leave early because I had to work the next morning. Technically, no longer on my birthday.

It’s funny how much pressure it brings. A day like any other on which you are obliged to have a good time. A mediocre birthday is simply unacceptable.
For your information, I spent the day in good company and had a wonderful evening with a bunch of great people; I won an epic game of chess and got to talk with my ex after 364 days of radio silence. Things were brought up, (largely) talked out and for once I didn’t have to sleep alone. It was everything I could ask for on any November 17th. I even got a present or two to remember the occasion.

I think people focus on their birthday so much because they forget to genuinely experience the rest of the year. It appears that they want to catch up on lost time by drinking themselves a new liver, or celebrate their awesomeness with grotesque celebration.
I would claim humility in how I experience my date of birth if that didn’t negate itself. To me, it’s just the change of just a number. A number I don’t even like all that much to begin with.
Luckily I don’t look my age. In fact, I was asked to show my ID inside an Amsterdam “coffee shop” because I was thought to be underage. Take that, universe. I should shave more often.


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