Monday, 25 June 2012

A Fairly Laboured Metaphor

When I go to work in the morning, I have two options.

I can get the Number 7 bus, or I can get the Number 18.

The Number 7 is direct. It takes less than ten minutes, the stops are few and far between and it gets me into town with more than enough time to spare.

The Number 18 takes about twenty minutes. It stops every five seconds, travels through quite an unpleasant area and makes me late almost every single day.

I always choose to get the Number 18. Always.

 The Last Stand (Fare Lady), Gil Elvgren

There are two boys.

One is interested. He’s more than willing to enter into an actual grown-up relationship. With him, I know that things would be easy and straightforward. And he’s lovely. He really is.

The other one doesn’t know what he wants. He knows he doesn’t want me to go away, but he doesn’t know why. We argue on a daily basis. He is so far away from being ready for a relationship that it would probably be quicker to grow a boyfriend and wait for him to reach legal age.

Like I said, I’m always going to choose the Number 18.


Friday, 15 June 2012

Emotional Troublemaker

Been a while, hasn’t it?

I like a boy.

Oh, I know. We’ve heard it all before. It’s usually swiftly followed by news of heartbreak, and somehow I’m always surprised by it.

A winning formula. No wonder you keep coming back.

Anyway, this one is my favourite ever. Let’s ignore everything I’ve ever said about boys before. I like this one the most.

Unfortunately, I am insane and I’m going to kill our relationship.

This Doesn't Seem To Keep The Chap From My Lips, Gil Elvgren

My problem, readers, is that I sabotage every conversation we have.

I don’t know how you go about ruining your own relationships, but my way is particularly stupid. I like to get upset about things that haven’t happened yet.

You know, like if my potential boyfriend doesn’t have the psychic ability necessary to GUARANTEE that we’ll be happy together forever and ever, I just assume that he has already planned our break-up in an elaborate and humiliating way.

That kind of thing.

It's complicated. I am a many-layered woman.

Not unexpectedly, considering that I do tend to believe my own neuroses, I become quite upset about whatever paranoid notion I’ve focused my attention on, eventually becoming so unbearable that whoever is in the line of emotional fire has no choice but to join in with the entirely fabricated argument that I am having with them.

It’s nonsense.

And I don’t just do it once. Oh no.

Crazy. Bitch.

To his credit, Doughnut (because that’s what we’re calling him here, twitter in-joke fans) hasn’t once (with any real conviction) tried to rid himself of me after these ridiculous episodes. In fact, he’s nothing but sweet and understanding.

A complete fool, if we’re honest. I’d run if I were him. I almost judge him for not running.

As someone wonderful put it on twitter this morning, “if there is a problem, I think it’s the end of the world, and if there isn’t a problem, I make one.”

Are you nodding right now?

Then you’re a Crazy Bitch too.