16 January 2003

J’ai tout oublié

I realize… that far too many of my sentences begin with I realize… It doesn’t look good, and I’m really wondering what it means about me. That I’m that big dork who discovers life everyday? Uh, nah, couldn’t be. Could it? Couldn’t. Let’s say it’s just a sign of the way my memory works, of my perpetual state of amnesia, my ability to discover the same things again and again, for a thousand times. Which is sometimes fun. And sometimes exhausting. Well, anyway.

I realize… that I had completely, absolutely forgotten what it meant to be single. In fifteen days. I don’t waste time, do I? Well, I waste plenty of time, but just not when it comes to forgetfulness. Looks like the previous paragraph wasn’t a digression after all. So I did remember there was this thing called a chat room where I used to go when I was single, but I only remember the nice parts: that it kept me busy in the evening, and that my sixteen hours awake (to be accurate, let’s say between thirteen and sixteen) went by faster when I was there.

But I had totally forgotten the depressing part of that activity. It’s like when you go shopping and you’re poor, but only worse. Because, in a store, the products you dream of don’t give you a disdainful not my type, bye. They’re more polite. And the items you don’t want don’t throw themselves at you, shouting I like you! I like you! (And now I’m picturing an army of Furbies, oh please save me from them!) Or so it seems. Maybe you don’t go to the same places as I do. Well, I tend to avoid the little shops where salesmen are liable to jump at me. Because I’m that kind of autistic customer who doesn’t like to be botered. But I digress, as usual.

So… Depressing it is. And it’s only my first night. But still, I’m really amazed by the way I can rediscover that, suddenly, after only a couple of weeks. This thing was so easy. Alright, I wasn’t in love, I wasn’t experiencing perfect happiness, but it was still… fine. And I know that some people—lots of people—are perfectly able to be content with that. Comfort. And I just can’t. I need to go the Ally McBeal way. Over and over again. When the screenwriters finally decided to grant Ally a husband, they had to cancel because he went to detox, or to jail, I don’t remember. Will it happen to me, too? When I find love, will I lose him because he uses too much drugs? Oh, that would be so me. I just have to be attracted to that kind of boys—tortured, anxious, self-destructive and all.

Oh crap. I’m back to square one.

And I am not allowed to complain, because I’m the one who chose to start again.

Hey now, do you really think I’m not gonna complain? Is this one of your dreams of yours? Then wake up, because I couldn’t say I’m enjoying it.