Today was something of a kick in the ribs. Over the past two years I've tried to open myself to the possibility of some sort of Meaningful Relationship, and while this afternoon's last-minute text-message informing me that my would-be date didn't have time didn't precisely come as a surprise, it left me sour.
So sour, in fact, that I'm afraid I might have reached a psychological tipping point -- and an overdue realization that I'm no good at this. I lack the social prowess, for one thing. Without an "in," I'm at the mercy of arbitrary encounters arranged by so-called "match-making" software. Hooking up, never exactly a fun activity, has become an exceptionally tedious chore fraught with tension and, ultimately, soul-scalding disappointment.
I'll always be amazed -- and a bit unnerved -- at how (relatively) easily others manage to forge genuine relationships. Imagine waking to to find that everyone in the world has somehow acquired the ability to move objects telekinetically -- except you. That's effectively how I feel right now: excluded and freakish . . . and spending entirely too much time, in vain, attempting to levitate small objects by sheer power of concentration.
But the worst of it is the wasted commitment, the labored self-trickery, the precarious notion of hope. I've shared the same basic laments on this blog before, including my sincere wish to transcend (or enthusiastically ignore) sexuality itself, fully aware of how kooky or abjectly degenerate it might sound to the uninitiated.
But I can only countenance so much loneliness before I start to crumble; indeed, I have crumbled -- or, more accurately, imploded -- in the past, and no amount of antidepressants or espresso or binge science fiction-reading is enough to keep that particular horror entirely at bay.
So, in that spirit, fuck it.