Absence

For the next week or so I'm not going to be at home. I won't have access to the internet so my streak of consecutive daily posts must end here.

I think the break will do me some good. Hopefully I can use the time to clear my head and figure out how I'm going to spend the rest of the year. Once I get home I'll start posting again, at a rate of one post per day. All the best to all those who read this.

Angst

Today, all day, I was tremendously anxious. I still am. I don't know why - I've got no more to worry about today than I had yesterday. It's not particularly uncommon for me to feel that way but not to the degree I felt it today. Most of the time I'm aware of a low-level anxiety which has pretty much just become the background noise in my brain but it can get worse. When it's bad it can be difficult to manage as it often results in physical symptoms, leaving me feeling pretty awful.

After months of relatively little in the way of major anxiety, today I had a taste of the sort of nervous nausea I used to experience regularly. It wasn't serious, just an upset stomach and a kind of heightened nervous perception of things but I don't really understand what precipitated it. It did, however, remind me of a particularly difficult time in my life when I was so anxious that I felt physically sick almost every day.

It was during my last semester of university and I just wanted the year to be over so I could graduate and move on with my life. The degree I was doing wasn't a difficult one but as I entered each new semester I began to feel more anxious and less confident about my ability to complete the coursework. I wouldn't let myself quit because, at that point in my life, I felt I needed to get a university degree; I didn't think I'd be able to respect myself if I didn't finish the course. Incidentally, getting through it and graduating didn't really make me feel any better about myself, but that's a story for another time.

I'd done reasonably well in my first year; not exceptional, but I hadn't been very happy and that got in the way of me doing as well as I possibly could have. The beginning of my second year was tough. It was probably the lowest point in my life up to that time. I became increasingly depressed and I was struggling to find meaning in my life. I also was seriously doubting my abilities academically; I began to see myself as an idiot incapable of grasping even the simplest concepts, unable to complete basic tasks. I worried constantly about failing and, poisoned by my negativity, became extremely unproductive. I still attended all my classes, completed all my work and also worked a part-time job but often I felt like I was about to fall apart. I didn't want to get out of bed in the morning. Everything was a struggle. Despite that, I don't think I ever let on to people how I really felt; I don't think any of my classmates or colleagues knew how low I was. I am pretty good at holding myself together when I need to and managed to go about my life like everything was fine.

It was at this time I started seeing a psychologist and I began taking anti-depressants. I was also prescribed an anti-anxiety drug but I don't think I took it more than a couple of times. None of these things really made me feel any better: I'd leave my sessions with the psychologist feeling awful and the anti-depressants didn't seem to lift my mood at all. I made it through the semester and, although I received the worst grades I'd ever got throughout my entire schooling life, I still passed all my subjects reasonably comfortably. That didn't make me feel any better - I still felt like a failure.

By the time I was in my final semester my anxiety had become even worse. I couldn't concentrate and I spent just about every waking hour making myself sick with worry. Even though I had made it that far and not failed a class I still doubted my ability to make it over the finish line. In fact, inversely proportional to my level of depression and anxiety, my grades had been improving every semester since the beginning of my second year. Even though I was now doing quite well, I still didn't believe in myself. Before exams I talked myself into believing that I would fail, irrespective of how much I had studied. The way my brain was working defied logic. I could believe I would fail an exam, worry about failing until I was physically sick, yet take the exam and score ninety percent and still not flinch from my position that I was incompetent. That I was actually doing well didn't matter at all; I put all my success down to good luck and told myself it wasn't a reflection of my abilities.

I don't know how much longer I could have continued on that way. I think, eventually, I would have reached a point where I did myself some damage, physical or emotional. I didn't ever get to find out because I managed to hold myself together long enough to graduate. I had stopped taking the anti-depressants a short time before then since I was experiencing no real benefit from them - not even any sort of placebo effect - but maybe it wasn't my brain chemistry that was the problem. Maybe it was just a pattern of negative thinking. Or maybe it was my brain chemistry and I just wasn't taking a high enough dose. Instead of trying to get to the root of the problem I swept it to one side.

For a short time I was just glad to have completed my studies and didn't experience much in the way of anxiety. I started working full-time and that became my life. Once the novelty of having graduated university wore off (it really doesn't mean much) I started trying to eliminate feeling anxious by avoiding situations likely to result in me feeling that way. That meant keeping more and more to myself. And so, a few years on, I find myself in my current situation, with no real responsibility and with little to worry about. From here I could, at least in theory, choose to do anything at all with my life. Despite that, feel like I have no options. I am still depressed - probably as much or more than I was a few years ago - and I'm becoming increasingly unjustifiably anxious. I suppose I was never going to be successful at running away from myself.

Habit

Every night, sometime around midnight, I instinctively sit down at the computer to write a blog post. Even when I don't have much to say. Like tonight.

I've been thinking a lot about what happened yesterday afternoon, a period of about fifteen seconds in which I managed to make myself feel more foolish than I have in quite some time. I feel stupid for saying what I said but I don't regret it. I think that in some perverse way I'm enjoying feeling empty and hopeless. It's not like I'm taking pleasure in being miserable or anything but feeling this way is simultaneously uncomfortable and yet comfortably familiar.

If I try to think about the future, it all seems very murky. Ten years from now or even just ten days, I can't see where I'll be. I don't even know where I want to be. I feel so disconnected - it's almost like I'm just observing life while others around me are living it.

Resignation

I feel like an idiot. I finally asked out the girl who works at the place I play tennis. She said no. That pretty much sucks. But it wasn't just that she turned me down, it was how she did it. We'd been making a little small talk the last couple of times I'd been there - nothing big, just a few words - but today we struck up a little more of a conversation. She remembered our names without us having to remind her what name the booking was under so I thought that might be a good sign that I was in with a shot.

I waited until after we'd finished playing tennis and then, when returning the key to the court, decided to throw caution to the wind and just do it. I made a throwaway remark about her having worked a long day and then, in a moment that was very un-me, asked her if she had a boyfriend. She replied that she didn't. Since I'd already gone that far, I then asked her if she'd possibly like to go out with me sometime. She hesitated, then laughed at me and said 'no'. I think I detected a little condescension in that no.

Beforehand, I'd figured that the worst that could happen was that she'd say no. I'd even thought that, even if she wasn't interested, she'd at least be flattered that someone had asked her out. What I hadn't counted on was her laughing it off the way she did, as if indicating that I was stupid to have even bothered asking. I think she may have been a little insulted that a guy like me (read into that whatever you like) thought he was in her league. But it's done now and I can't take it back.

I know it's not the end of the world. It's just one moment that didn't go the way I wanted it to. That doesn't mean it doesn't hurt. And not just because in this one instance I put myself out there and got knocked back, but because I really feel like this is how things are always going to go for me. I don't think I deserve better. What bothers me is that I've just given up. I've resigned myself to the idea that I'm not going to get what I want because I'm not worthy of it.

There are plenty of guys out there with girlfriends. I saw some statistics in the newspaper a few days ago stating that fifty-nine percent of people over the age of fifteen are either married or in a de facto relationship. A lot of guys who are less than attractive, guys who are unintelligent, guys who abuse alcohol and drugs, guys who cheat on their partners, can find girlfriends so what is that saying about me? Am I less likeable than the ugliest, stupidest, alcoholic, unfaithful scumbag out there? It feels like it.

And I'm tired of hearing the same platitudes about how one day things will turn around for me and I'll find someone and I'll be so happy... blah blah blah. I know it's advice usually offered with the best of intentions by friends who really do care but it just sounds empty and patronising. Especially if it's coming from someone who has just turned you down when you've asked them out: "You're a really great guy and you'll make someone really happy one day," leaving out the most important part, which is implied: "just so long as that someone isn't me". Sometimes it seems like people only say it because it's the kind thing to do. No-one's ever going to tell you that you're destined for a life of loneliness, even if that's what they really think.

Shorts

I spent tonight watching the sixteen films selected as finalists for this year's Tropfest (a short-film festival). A DVD of these films came free in the weekend paper. Overall, I didn't think the films were particularly good. To be fair, there were a few I quite liked - a couple of them were pretty good - but most of them were disappointing. The festival gets thousands of entries every year and if these were the top sixteen films this year it doesn't say much for the rest of the entries received.

Short films are strange beasts. They can be an acquired taste. Often, they're student films, which generally means they're a little on the experimental side. There's nothing wrong with experimental films but they can be very unsatisfying to watch if you're expecting a classical narrative. You know, a story. If they're done well, experimental films can be quite powerful and thought-provoking but quite often student experimental short films are incoherent, meaningless, and seem almost randomly slapped together in the absence of a real idea or story.

It's not easy to make a short film. A good one at least. Packing a story into ten minutes or less is tricky. I'm by no means an expert but I have some experience in this field having majored in film at university. With each film I saw tonight and disliked, I began to wonder more and more about why I've never bothered to make any of the short films I've written over the years. It's funny, because as hard as I am on myself and everything I do, I've actually written a couple of short film scripts I'm quite happy with. I've also written several others that have potential but the two I'm happy with are, if I may say so myself, pretty good. I don't think I could really improve them much. So why have I both scripts in a drawer for more than five years? What's stopping me from shooting them?

Manners

I saw something on TV last week that, despite the fact that it was mindless, daytime-TV filler garbage, irritated me to no end. One of the morning shows invited some lady on to discuss etiquette and table manners, etc. After spending quite some time talking about the precise angle at which your knife and fork should be placed (and the orientation of each implement in terms of upside down or right way up) on your plate when you have finished your meal, she went on to discuss more important things. Like how the correct reply to the greeting "How do you do?" is not "Fine thank you," but instead is "How do you do?" or "Nice to meet you". She explained that "How do you do?" actually means "Nice to meet you" and that it was inappropriate to reply as if you had been asked "How are you?"

First of all, I think manners are incredibly important; they are a way of conveying respect to people and I'm really big on that. What irritated me about this particular 'lesson' was that everything seemed entirely irrelevant to modern society. Does it matter if you eat your main course with a salad fork? Or if you reply "I'm fine thank you," when someone greets you with "How do you do?" When was the last time anyone even used that phrase when not addressing the Queen? I mean, when people greet you with "How are you?" or "How you going?" they're not actually asking how you are, it's just a greeting people use instead of just saying "hello". That someone would be so pedantic about such trivial things infuriated me (yes, I know it's a little hypocritical to say that given how trivial many of my musings are but I'm still going to say it). Why should this sort of information be widely distributed when the vast majority of people are ignorant of far more important issues?

Perhaps I was just having a bad day.

Scent

Today I decided to tidy up a little and I tried to rationalise some of the junk I've accumulated over the last few years. It started out as an attempt to make room for my growing DVD collection but once I got going I thought I might as well keep going. I can't take credit for a job well done just yet because I'm only about half-way there; there's a whole lot of stuff on the floor just waiting for me to find a place to store it or throw it away. That'll be the hard part but I'll worry about that tomorrow.

While sorting through some of my toiletries - I have far more cologne and deodorant than I ever realised - I discovered a near-empty can of a deodorant I haven't worn for about seven years. I sprayed a little on myself and ever since then I've been thinking a lot about who I was and what I was doing all those years ago. I know, like I needed something to stimulate me to ponder my past any more than I already do.

The scent of something can cause it to be so vividly remembered that it almost feels like you're living that part of your life over again. And not necessarily in a specific way. For me, the smell of something familiar or meaningful not only brings back specific and concrete memories of particular events and people but also more general, atmospheric-type memories of eras in my life; ethereal and non-specific feelings indefinably encapsulating years of emotions into a single moment of recollection. This particular fragrance instantly rewound the last seven or so years of my life and reminded me of who I was back then. Back then, like now, I didn't have much faith in myself but I kept myself busy and productive at work and university. I was depressed and had no goals, lofty or otherwise, but within me there was sense that, in time, I would overcome all that and I would eventually find my place in the world. Back then, despite my somewhat negative outlook, I didn't have such a closed view of who I was. Things still seemed possible. It seemed possible that I could do great things and that one day maybe I would.

The biggest difference between me then and now is that I have lost that sense of possibility. I can't pinpoint exactly when it happened - although, ever so often I experience it again, albeit fleetingly - but I've definitely lost it. At the time I don't think I even knew I had it but in retrospect I realise that I did. What happened in those intervening seven years?

I'm not sitting here trying to say that I've wasted my whole life; I know it's only seven years. Seven years isn't that long a time, except if it represents more than a quarter of your life thus far. Looking at it that way puts things in a different light. If seven years, more than a quarter of my life, has passed me by and the only thing I have to show for it is the loss of hope and possibility, where does that leave me? I haven't outgrown my flawed, pessimistic outlook - I've grown into it. And I've lost that little bit of me I didn't want to lose: the part of me that believed, despite all my anxieties, that I would be okay; the part of me that believed that I might one day be happy.

Maybe this is what I need right now. A reminder that every moment I spend dwelling in the past is a moment of my future wasted. I need to use the time while I've still got it. Otherwise, seven years from now I'll find myself doing the same thing I'm doing now only I'll be even further away from what I want.

Adaptation

Do I have an original thought in my head? My bald head? Maybe if I were happier my hair wouldn't be falling out. Life is short. I need to make the most of it. Today is the first day of the rest of my life. I am a walking cliche. I really need to go to the doctor and have my leg checked. There's something wrong. A bump. The dentist called again. I'm way overdue. If I stopped putting things off I'd be happier. All I do is sit on my fat ass. If my ass wasn't so fat, I would be happier. I wouldn't have to wear these shirts with the tails out all the time. Like that's fooling anyone, fat ass. I should start jogging again. Five miles a day. Really do it this time. Maybe rock climbing. I need to turn my life around. What do I need to do? I need to fall in love. I need to have a girlfriend. I need to read more, improve myself. What if I learned Russian or something? Or took up an instrument? I could speak Chinese. I would be the screenwriter who speaks Chinese and plays the oboe. That would be cool. I should get my hair cut short. Stop trying to fool myself and everyone else that I have a full head of hair. How pathetic is that? Just be real. Confident. Isn't that what women are attracted to? Men don't have to be attractive. But that's not true, especially these days. Almost as much pressure on men as there is on women these days. Why should I be made to feel I have to apologize for my existence? Maybe it's my brain chemistry. Maybe that's what's wrong with me: bad chemistry. All my problems and anxiety can be reduced to a chemical imbalance or some kind of misfiring synapses. I need to get help for that. But I'll still be ugly, though. Nothing's going to change that.
- Charlie Kaufman, Adaptation (2002).

That's how Adaptation begins, with Nicholas Cage's (as Charlie Kaufman) voice over a black screen while the credits fade in and out, in tiny print, at the bottom of the frame. This is how you first come to know the main character in the film, by being immediately thrust inside his head. Charlie is the film's main character but he's also the screenwriter who wrote the film, which is an adaptation of a book called The Orchid Thief, by Susan Orlean. Well, sort of. The film is not only about what's in the book upon which it is based, but also about Charlie Kaufman's struggle to adapt the book into a screenplay. You need to see this movie to understand what it's about; it's not something you can really comprehend until you've seen it. And even then, it might be a struggle to figure it out.

It's one of my favourite films. Not just because I identify with the main character, but I think that is a factor. I don't have to be concerned about a receding hairline just yet but, based on that opening internal monologue and his behaviour during the rest of the film, it's clear that we worry about the same sort of things. When I say 'we' I am referring to the character Charlie Kaufman, as portrayed by Nicholas Cage in the film, and not the real Charlie Kaufman who wrote the film. I don't know enough about Charlie (the screenwriter) to say whether he and Charlie (the character) are the same or even particularly similar. I just want to make it clear that I make the distinction between the writer and the character, and don't believe that Charlie Kaufman, in real life, is just as Cage portrayed him on screen. I understand that the film is a work of fiction.

Now that the disclaimer's out of the way, I can get back to talking about the movie. There's a lot in there. I watched it again last night to refresh my memory and re-examine my favourite scenes. There's a scene at the end of the film where Charlie and his twin brother, Donald, (a character the real Charlie invented for the film - he doesn't have a twin) are talking to each other while hiding from some people who are trying to kill them. Donald is like the anti-Charlie; they approach life in completely different ways. While Charlie is miserable, Donald is anything but. Here's the scene:

Charlie: I don't want to die, Donald. I've wasted my life.

Donald: You did not. And you're not going to die.

Charlie: I wasted it. I admire you, Donald, you know? I spent my life paralyzed, worrying about what people think of me and you, you're just oblivious.

Donald: I'm not oblivious.

Charlie: No, you don't understand. I mean that as a compliment. There was this time in high school. I was watching you out the library window and you were talking to Sarah Marsh.

Donald: Oh, God, I was so in love with her.

Charlie: I know. And you were flirting with her, and she was being really sweet to you.

Donald: I remember that.

Charlie: And then, when you walked away, she started making fun of you with Kim Canetti. And it was like they were laughing at me. You didn't know at all. You seemed so happy.

Donald: I knew. I heard them.

Charlie: Well, how come you were so happy?

Donald: I loved Sarah, Charles. It was mine, that love. I owned it. Even Sarah didn't have the right to take it away. I can love whoever I want.

Charlie: But she thought you were pathetic.

Donald: That was her business, not mine. You are what you love, not what loves you. That's what I decided a long time ago.

"You are what you love, not what loves you." Those few words represent such a powerful idea. Imagine strong emotions not contingent on what someone else said or did or thought. You would never be heartbroken, at least not in the same way you could be if you based your feelings on what you mean to someone else. Is it possible to really do that, to love - and live - like that? I want to believe that it is but I don't think I'm capable of it at this point in my life. It's an incredibly liberating thought, to unashamedly let yourself feel whatever it is you feel, uninhibited by how your feelings are received by others. This is what's holding me back. Rejection after rejection has broken me, I feel undesirable, and I don't let myself love anymore, or at least I don't believe that my love is worthy of anyone. I used to be passionate; I used to love wholeheartedly, believing that my feelings might even be reciprocated, but I don't anymore. I don't know if this is my way of trying to protect myself from pain or whether I genuinely believe I'm unlovable but, either way, it's how I am. I don't know how to change.

Filler

Tomorrow (today) didn't bring anything. I'm not going to write anything real today, just some more filler material. I'm going to make a concerted effort to unstick myself tomorrow. But a new day won't change me, not if I don't want to change. First I need to figure out where I want to be and then I can work out how I'm going to get there. Right now, I'm going nowhere and in no hurry to get there. I know I don't want that.

Indifference

It has been suggested that, in order to clear my head, I should take a couple of days off from posting on my blog. While I think this is good advice, I'm only going to half do that. Instead, as was also suggested, for today at least, my post is another trivial one; a post for the sake of it. I feel as though I need to keep posting every day and if I break the chain, even just once, I'll stop completely. Daily posts on this blog are the only example in recent memory (or even distant memory) of me making a commitment to myself and actually sticking to it. I need to keep up the momentum as long as I can.

So, these words don't really exist. They were typed just so I could get the date stamp and give myself another day to snap out of this less than productive, indifferent state of mind. I already know what I want to write about tomorrow, I've just got to force myself to sit down and do it. We'll see what tomorrow brings.

Night

Here are a couple of the pictures I took while house-sitting a couple of weeks ago. As it was a first attempt, I'm reasonably pleased with how these particular photos turned out. I'm sure as I get more proficient with the camera I'll take better pictures but this isn't a bad start.


You know what they say about pictures and words. That was the easiest three thousand words I've ever written.

Same

The last couple of posts have been a struggle for me. While I'm determined to write a post every day for as long as possible, I really haven't felt like sitting down at the keyboard for the last couple of nights. Hence my two most recent posts have been short and rather frivolous - posts for the sake of posts. I've put the list of future post topics (the one I made the other day) aside for the time being because my heart's not in it at the moment. I think I just need to give myself couple of days to get motivated again.

So far this blog has been a pretty positive experience for me - I've been able to unburden myself of some of the baggage I've been carrying around with me for a long time and I'm now starting to think about things in a more constructive way (instead of thinking myself in circles).

I've still got a lot more to say but need to find the desire and energy to say it.

Static

Today was just one of those days. Nothing bad happened (actually, nothing happened at all) but all day I was bothered by the mild yet persistent recurring thought that I am wasting my life. I can't really make a case that I'm not wasting it - I really am and I realise that - but I just don't know where to go from here. I'm so bogged-down with regret and pessimism that I feel like I'm just idly watching the days go by.

I feel like I don't belong in this world, like I don't understand how it works and can't contribute anything to it. I need to do something to get me thinking more constructively. I need a goal, long-term or short term, something I can work towards. I need to stop whinging about my life and start doing something. And I need to stop thinking so much - it's hazardous to my health.

I hope this mood will have passed by tomorrow morning but such moods seem to occur more and more frequently these days. I really need to figure myself out or this is just going to keep happening.

Forgettable

I don't expect people to remember me. What I mean is, when I meet people through friends or at a party, if we happen to see each other again, I don't expect those people to remember having met me before. I just don't see myself as a particularly memorable, life-of-the-party type of person. Perhaps it's because I am chameleon-like in my ability to blend in to the background as I try not to be noticed; I'm just not very comfortable around people I don't know. That said, it's not as if I lack social skills - I can talk to people once the ice has been broken, and even occasionally break it myself - but I usually just awkwardly keep to myself when in those type of situations.

It's probably because I have an inferiority complex. Actually, it's really quite simple: I feel inferior to people; maybe I should call it an inferiority simplex. Stemming from that is my inability to correct people when they make a mistake. For instance, I met a guy who either misheard or forgot my name. The second and third times I saw him he called me by a name that sounded like, but was not, my name. Most people would probably have a laugh about it and then say something like, 'actually, my name's ...' but I didn't want to correct him. For a week or so after that he called me by this name until someone else realised and brought it to his attention. I pretended that I hadn't noticed that he had been calling me the wrong name. Pretty pathetic really.

Dignity

I couple of weeks ago I made reference to an incident in which I asked a girl out in such a way that a friend later told me my actions were a disgrace to men everywhere. It is another one of those stories that doesn't end happily but, in retrospect, I find the whole experience pretty amusing; it's not something that a lie awake thinking about, wishing it had been different.

A few years ago, during my first trip to America - and my first ever solo international trip - I met an English girl and developed a bit of a crush on her. (Is the term 'crush' still in common use or am I way off?). We were both on a working holiday and both working at same place - a summer camp - along with about sixty other teenagers and twenty-somethings from all over the world. By the end of the first day at work, about three other guys had decided they were interested in this particular girl but the two of us seemed to have hit it off so I thought I was in with a chance. As I would learn over the next couple of weeks, I wasn't.

In hindsight, there really wasn't anything very special about this girl. She was attractive, but she really wasn't very nice. It took me a little while to work that out. Initially, she was friendly and flirtatious and gave me the impression that she liked me. We spent a little time getting to know one another and seemed to be becoming friends.

About three nights a week, every member of staff would have to work a night shift. Not much work was actually involved, you were basically just stationed somewhere on the property and had to make sure the kids didn't sneak off. Often, it meant sitting by yourself at one of the activity areas for a few hours while the majority of the other staff were down the road at a bar. A couple of times when this girl was working a night shift and I had the night off I went and kept her company. We'd sit and talk or if she happened to be stationed by the basketball court we'd shoot around a little while we chatted. It wasn't just superficial banter, I told her I could see that behind her confident and carefree persona she was frightened of something. There was just a hint of an underlying unhappiness in her eyes. She began to open up to me about her tendency to be attracted to guys who would only make her unhappy and that it might have something to do with the fact she didn't have a very good relationship with her father; basically, she told me how her whole relationship history was coloured by poor choices. Dropping the facade, she told me how she feared she'd never end up in a healthy relationship. I thought this was a pretty big thing to admit to someone you'd only known for a couple of weeks and, at the very least, it meant she thought of me as a friend. It later became obvious that in her eyes I was somewhat of a nonentity.

I should have realised it much earlier than I did. It was a giveaway that she never really asked me anything, never made an effort to get to know me, never went out of her way to even say hello to me, and not once did she return the favour and keep me company when I had a night shift. If I may put on my analyst hat for a moment (when my analyst realises I took his hat he's going to be pretty upset with me), if the experience taught me nothing else, it made me realise that I'm often attracted to girls who aren't particularly interested in me - it's a mistake I've made on more than one occasion, but that's something I'll write about some other time. With my analyst hat still resting on my ears, I can also make the observation that she felt the need to be desired. I think that's all I was to her, someone who looked at her with adoring eyes. The only time she ever really gave me a strong signal that she was interested in me was one night when I was sitting with some friends and she came over to me, sat on my lap, and started having a conversation with me. This was probably just her way of keeping me interested.

In the end, she actually ended up with none of the guys who were actively pursuing her. The guy she really liked was someone who wasn't particularly interested in her but had no problem hooking up with her at the bar a couple of times, despite the fact that most of the time he treated her like she didn't even exist. Believing her to be more fragile than she let people realise, I felt sorry that she was being treated in such a way. It seemed we at least had something in common: we were both attracted to people who weren't attracted to us.

After about a month, armed with some chocolates (a mistake), I took her aside one night and asked her if there was any chance of a relationship. Her reply was that it was clear I was more attracted to her than she was to me so a relationship wouldn't be on equal terms - it wouldn't be fair on me. This is the part where I sacrificed all my dignity. In pretty much the exact words that follow, I told her that I would probably never find anyone as attracted to me as I was to them and that even if she was only mildly interested in me that would be enough for me. I told her that an unequal relationship was fine by me, moreover, that I even approved of a relationship where she treated me like dirt. Strangely enough, this didn't change her mind. Really, what was I thinking? Who would say something so stupid? But it gets worse. Even though I accepted that she wasn't interested, I'd pretty much described myself as scum, and told her how wonderful I thought she was, she somehow managed to take offense and angrily stormed off as if I'd somehow insulted her. And I followed her, trying in vain to apologise and make her feel better.

For the next week and a half, she completely ignored me (and the letter of apology I'd written her a couple of days after our discussion). I really don't know what possessed me to believe I owed her an apology but, as should be clear by now, I'm not exactly the most level-headed, objective person when I'm attracted to someone. After ten days, I confronted her. I asked her if there was any reason she had been ignoring me. Her response was, 'Maybe you've been ignoring me.' In those five words I saw how immature she really was. It became clear that I had only been seeing what I wanted to see; I had been manipulated, both by her and by my own subconscious, into seeing her as perfect. I think I at least managed to salvage some dignity back because, after that instant realisation, my reply to her was, 'You know that's not true. But okay, enjoy the rest of your summer.' And I didn't speak to her again for the duration of the summer. If nothing else, I am at least proud of the way I ultimately resolved the situation because up to that point, I sure hadn't handled it very well.

As I said, I can look back and laugh at the situation now. She doesn't mean anything to me and, as strong as my feelings may have seemed at the time, I think the whole experience had more to do with my own insecurities and desire to be wanted than it did with her. Incidentally, she contacted me a few months ago and sort of apologised for the whole ordeal. I say 'sort of apologised' because she simply asked how I was going, told me that she was sorry that we'd parted on bad terms and that she felt responsible for that. I had long since moved on and told her that there were no hard feelings. But it was a reminder that, even if I don't realise it, I'm not the same person I was three years ago. And three years from now I'll be different again.

Vice Principles

No, that's not a typo. This is the first thing that came to my mind yesterday when I started thinking about potential blog post topics. Here goes.

If I think about what constitutes a writer, of what a typical writer might look like, the stereotype that appears in my head is a middle-aged man - perhaps more towards the upper end of that age bracket - sitting alone at a desk in a room strewn with papers, both stacked and crumpled. The room is dark, except for the dim, white glow of a table lamp which illuminates not only the workspace and typewriter but also a glass of whiskey and the wisps of smoke snaking their way towards the ceiling, slowly drifting away from the cigarette resting in the ashtray. Basically, I think of a reclusive, alcoholic, chain-smoking old man. Granted, that is a stereotype - and one which is probably not representative of even one percent of working writers around the world - but for some reason this, to me, is what a writer looks like.

That's not me. Okay, I'm making progress on the recluse part but certainly not the rest. I am a non-smoker who has never been drunk and never used drugs. I don't even swear. Despite my almost universally left-wing ideology, I lead quite a conservative life. Sometimes I think even a nun or a monk might consider me a square and tell me that I need to just chill out. They'd probably be right. It's not for any particular reason that I don't do any of those things, not for religious or even moral reasons, it's just what feels right to me. I just try to be a good person. But trying to be a good person has not made me a happy one. Quite the opposite.

Maybe it's because my conscience is so loud and difficult to silence that I find it hard to be happy. I don't allow myself to make mistakes and rarely forgive myself when I do. I'm not suggesting I'm about to throw in my values for a bottle of vodka and a packet of smokes but I do think that a little reckless abandon wouldn't go astray. It might serve me better than a logical, reason-based approach.

It seems I've got myself a little side-tracked. I wanted to focus more on my idea of what a writer is and what I think my shortcomings are in this respect. The type of writer I described above is someone so full or emotion, so complex and deep, that they need to self-medicate with alcohol. If I don't dull my emotions with alcohol, and I don't, does that mean I'm not feeling things as deeply as someone who does? Does that mean I haven't experienced sufficient pain and don't have the insight to write something meaningful? At this early stage in my life I know I don't have the life-experience required to really have any measure of understanding of the world, let alone the ability to express anything profound, but I don't take myself seriously. But later in my life, when I have seen more and experienced more, will the depth of my experience be proportional to me need to drink myself into a stupor? I don't think so but right now I just feel like some goody-two-shoes, middle-class, white guy who really doesn't have all that much to say.

As you've probably gathered by now, this is just near-incoherent, stream of consciousness stuff that doesn't really make a lot of sense. I would delete it and start again but I'm just too tired. It'll have to do as today's post. I'll try to be a little more comprehensible tomorrow.

Coming Soon

Earlier tonight I sat down and made a list of things I would like to blog about over the next few weeks. To my surprise, in very little time at all, I came up with seventeen different things. And here I was beginning to think I was running out of stuff to say.

I'll get started on the first one tomorrow night. And I'll try to post some pictures (like I said I would about two weeks ago...) in the next couple of days. I might even come up with a profile picture for myself. Obviously, it won't feature me but I should be able to think of something I can use to visually represent myself. That's something I can think about over the next few days. For now, I think a silhouette and a question mark sums me up pretty well.

Split Up

I found out yesterday that my cousin has just separated from her husband. They have been married less than eighteen months. I don't know any of the details about whether they've split for good or whether they're trying to work it out or even why they decided to separate in the first place.

They had a beautiful wedding. The thing I most remember is the groom performing a song he'd written for his bride. During the reception he slipped away from all the guests and then called for everyone to turn to the back of the room, where he was sitting behind a grand piano. He nervously announced that he was going to play a song he'd written and then began to play and sing. Despite the hours he had practiced, he was overcome by the occasion and his voice was a little shaky; you could hear the emotion behind the words he was singing. He was more vulnerable than I'd ever seen him. I suppose that's why it stuck with me. Not only was it a lovely romantic gesture but the groom wasn't someone who ever appeared uncomfortable or emotional. True, I didn't know him very well but you get a sense about people and the sense I got about him was that he was always a picture of confidence and control. He was a good-looking guy who came from a wealthy family and he was always very friendly. It was almost as if he was too friendly and sometimes it seemed artificial, as if he was just putting up a front and not letting you see the real person behind the perfect facade.

The two of them did that as a couple, too. They always seemed like they had the perfect relationship. I know better than to take stuff like that at face value - if something looks too good to be true it almost always is. I hope that's not all their relationship was, something just for appearances. If that's the case, what are they left with? Some great wedding photos and a year and a half of wondering what went wrong? I hope not.

Catch-up

Falling asleep at eight-thirty on a Saturday night is a sure sign you're tired. I've just woken up at around ten o'clock after accidentally dozing off about an hour and a half ago.

I gave both the house and the dog back to their owner today and now I'm back home until next time I'm due to house-sit for someone. Incidentally, that was supposed to be right now. Another friend was due to go away with her family for a few days and asked if I could mind her dogs, cats, fish, etc., while she was gone but at the last minute her plans changed. In a way I'm glad I don't have to look after more animals right now because I just feel like being at home for a couple of days and relaxing. And I've already started doing that - as evidenced by my falling asleep very early on Saturday evening, the party night of the week.

Just out of curiosity, what did everyone else do with their Saturday night? Anything fun?

Work

I'm back at the place I'm housesitting and that means back using the dial-up connection. For that reason, and also because I'm still pretty tired, I'm going to keep this short. Today is the last day I'm house- and dog-sitting. As for my plan to get into a writing routine: it didn't really happen. More accurately, it didn't happen at all. Due to various unforseen circumstances, I ended up spending far more time back home than I planned to and while I'm at home I tend to just watch TV. Home is not where I'm at my most productive. I need to find somewhere without any distractions, somewhere I can think of as solely my writing space, and make a time everyday to go there and write. I was thinking of using a library so I might try it through the week.

One of the writers on The Simpsons (the show's most prolific writer, actually), John Schwartzwelder, used to do all his writing in a diner. He'd go there in the morning, sit in his regular booth, and spend the day chain-smoking and drinking coffee while he wrote - that was his daily ritual. He felt comfortable in there; he needed to be there to write. When anti-smoking laws forced the diner into becoming a non-smoking restaurant and John couldn't imagine writing without being inside of a cloud of smoke, it seemed he would have to find a new place to work. His solution: build a replica of his diner booth inside his home. Once he did that he happily began doing his writing from there.

I think that's pretty cool for a couple of reasons. Firstly, he significantly reduced how long it takes him to get work. Secondly, it's a solution that most people wouldn't ordinarily think of when confronted with the same problem. Lastly, it makes for a great story. I suppose it also goes to show how some things are more psychological than anything else. He needed to be at the diner to do his writing and he didn't feel like he could do the work from home. But now he is working from home; he just had to trick himself a little to make it happen. Maybe I need to convert my garage into a diner.

Sleepy

Puppies are hard work. After having had very little sleep last night I spent the day chasing after the latest addition to our family and trying to make sure the other dog I'm minding didn't get too jealous. I imagine what I'm currently experiencing is a less intense version of what it would be like to look after a newborn baby - except that babies don't have sharp teeth.

I really don't feel like staying awake beyond the next fifteen minutes so tonight's post is going to be short. I'm dog-sitting for another day and a half so once the weekend comes daily life probably won't be such a tiresome ordeal for me. Then I'll have more energy and be able to sit at the computer for hours on end every night, diligently posting about my failed attempts to find a female companion. And hopefully a successful attempt in the near future.

Sunset

Today was one of those days. We got a new dog yesterday, a beautiful little puppy, so I am going to stay home every day for the next couple of weeks to keep it company. I've also been looking after my uncle's dog for the last couple of weeks; he's a much older dog - still a very lovely, friendly dog - but I don't think he likes having the puppy around. It's not really a big deal, I just have to make sure to keep them separated.

The big dog likes to be around people so I've let him come inside for the last week or so. He's not a very demanding dog - so long as he gets walked in the morning and afternoon and I feed him his dinner, he's happy. He pretty much sleeps the days away. Of course, having a very curious and playful puppy in the same house as a sleepy old dog is a bit of a problem. The pup wants to play but the dog definitely isn't interested. While he hasn't bit her yet, she keeps trying to make friends while he's trying to sleep so I fear that, as placid as he is, he might bite her. I don't want her to be scared of other dogs so I spent a lot of today trying to keep the puppy occupied so she didn't bother the other dog.

Today we had a lot of rain. It absolutely bucketed down for an hour or so and the puppy began to get restless. Her razor-sharp teeth kept finding their way around my toes, fingers, and if I happened to be lying down, my ears. I couldn't put the big dog outside while it was raining so I had to be vigilant about watching where the puppy went. I was beginning to get tired of chasing her around all day and was looking forward to my brother coming home so he could play with her for a while. At about four-thirty my brother got in touch with me to say that he'd been in a car accident and his car had been written off. No-one was hurt but it means he will be without a car until he can get the insurance company to pay up so he can buy a new one. My mum just so happens to drive home from work along the same road where my brother's accident had taken place so on her way home, in the pouring rain, she was confronted with an accident scene involving her son's car. I'll bet she was glad to see that he was okay. Anyway, my mum left the accident scene having made sure that everything was being sorted out only to call me about ten minutes later to tell me that her car had broken down and she was waiting for some roadside assistance. It wasn't my family's lucky day today.

A little while later that evening, while I was trying to eat my dinner (and a certain puppy was intent on trying to eat my feet) I got another call from my brother to say that his car had been towed and he needed a lift home. The rain had more or less stopped by then so I finished my dinner and headed out to pick my brother up. As I was driving, the sun began to break through the clouds on the horizon, producing one of the most beautiful sunsets I've seen in a long time. The whole western sky was saturated with dozens of shades of orange. By the time I got to where I was going, the sun had fallen below the horizon and the sky had changed from deep orange to competing hues of pink and blue. I only wish I'd had my camera.

Progress

I feel a little drained after sitting at the computer for hours last night, re-living what was rather an emotional time in my life. But, all in all, I'm pretty happy with yesterday's post.

The girl mentioned in last night's post was the last girl I've really been interested in. I mean seriously interested in. Before the Canadian girl there was the girl in the coffee shop I spent two years trying to find the courage to talk to but never managed to. At least I'm making progress. It might be inordinately slow but I consider it progress nonetheless. At this rate I might have myself a girlfriend before my fiftieth birthday...

Attraction

The song was called Dublin Sky, by Darren Hayes. I had bought his album because of one particular song, a song called Darkness, and I don't think I really listened to the rest of the album. Maybe I played it through once, I don't remember. Either way, I didn't remember hearing Dublin Sky before.

As I do when I buy a CD (which I still like to do - I like having something tangible, a physical object with the liner notes, lyrics, and artwork, as opposed to just downloading music online) I usually just put it onto my mp3 player. That's how, months after I bought the album, I came to listen to that song for the first time.

I was on a bus in Seattle, Washington, where I was spending a week or so after a working holiday on the east coast of the USA. The previous couple of months had been really good for me - I'd worked really hard and, though tired, I'd enjoyed the experience immensely and had met a lot of great people. Most importantly, I'd been so busy I hadn't had a lot of time to think or worry and as a result I was enjoying myself. That enjoyment continued as I transitioned from the work portion to the holiday portion of my working holiday. Spending most days exploring the city of Seattle, each night I rode the bus back to where I was staying and I passed the time in transit listening to music and writing my notebook.

I heard the song for the first time. When it finished I played it again. I don't know how many times I listened to it but I remember really connecting with it, and thinking it was strange that I'd never listened to it before. Why I bring this up is that whenever I think of that song, or even think back to riding the bus in quiet contemplation of each night that week, it makes me think of someone I didn't meet until a week later. I associate that experience and those lyrics with someone I met once I got home to Australia. It's as if, in my memory, I was thinking about this person while I was riding that bus and listening to the song, even though I hadn't met them yet. Of course, you know I'm talking about a girl.

Two days after arriving home, we were having a quiet little gathering at home and this girl came around with a family friend with whom she was staying for a week or so. She was Canadian and had just arrived in Australia for a three-month vacation. I had come home from the US feeling quite optimistic about my life, and although I didn't have any idea of the direction I wanted my life to take I had a pretty open mind and almost anything felt possible. I felt like I was finally getting some self-esteem. Maybe that's why I wasn't intimidated by the fact that she was gorgeous and I could actually act like a normal person in front of her, laughing and joking and happily telling stories about my recent overseas trip. I wasn't overcome by my usual anxiety and nervous mannerisms.

As an aside, I don't know whether I should take a leaf out of OnePic's book and give my friends (and anyone else I may talk about in this blog) pseudonyms. I don't like constantly referring to people as 'he' or 'she' or 'my friend', etc., but I don't think I want to assign everyone new names either. And I can't use their real names because that endangers the anonymity of this blog. For now, I think I'll just keep doing what I'm doing but I might change my mind down the track.

Anyway, since this girl didn't know anybody besides the woman she was staying with, I agreed to spend a couple of days showing her the sights of the local area. A couple of days later I picked her up and off we went. We had been driving maybe fifteen minutes when she commented that I was much more reserved than I had been when we first met. She wasn't wrong. The more I'd thought about spending time with her, the more nervous I became. Now that she was actually in the car with me I was pretty much keeping my mouth shut so as to avoid saying something stupid. But, now that she had mentioned it, I made an effort to relax a little. There was something very disarming about her and in no time at all we were getting along like old friends. It was quite amazing how much I felt I knew about her by the end of the day and even before I dropped her home that night I was already looking forward to spending the next day with her.

The following day it was more of the same. We went down to the beach in the morning and spent the afternoon talking and looking through the photographs she'd bought from home. I figured she must have known I was attracted to her - I couldn't stop myself from smiling while she was around - but she hadn't said anything about it up to that point. I also figured that someone so beautiful and wonderful would never be interested in me. What can I say, old insecurities die hard. It also occurred to me that she probably had a boyfriend but I felt too nervous to ask her about it. It turned out I didn't have to.

I was looking through the photos on her laptop, asking her about the people and places they featured. She happily narrated me through her albums until I came to a picture of a her and a guy and asked, "Who's that?" For a second she didn't answer, and then, "I don't know who that is." It was obvious she wasn't trying to tell me that he was a stranger but I was puzzled by her response and asked her to explain. "Is he your boyfriend?" She fumbled for the words. Assuming that meant he was her boyfriend, I dismissed my question and told her she didn't have to explain anything to me. I was disappointed that she wasn't single but I didn't let on. But she continued. "I don't know who he is. I mean, I don't know what we are..." and she began to explain the situation to me. He was her boyfriend, or at least he had been until a few weeks earlier when he had moved more than a thousand kilometers away from her, leaving things unresolved in the weeks before she left for Australia. He hadn't tried to contact her at all (phone, e-mail or otherwise) in the intervening weeks. She didn't know what he was thinking and wasn't sure if they were still together. From the way she was talking, it sounded as though she wasn't sure she still wanted to be in the relationship at all. The whole situation was... complicated.

Despite that, I started to get the impression that my feelings for her were being reciprocated - although perhaps not to the same degree. We went out for dinner with some friends of mine and the more time I spent with her the more I felt she was the person I wanted to be with.

She was planning to go away for a few days and visit a friend who lived about two hundred kilometers away. The night before she was due to go, as I was dropping her home, I wanted to say something to her, just in case she didn't realise how I felt. I didn't want to come on too strong so I settled on, "I really wish you were staying a little longer so I could spend some more time with you." I knew that she understood what I meant but she didn't say anything about it. I dropped her home and a little while later I received a text-message from her: "You know it could never work, I belong in Canada. I'm sorry." I took it as her way of politely telling me she wasn't interested, trying to protect my feelings in the process. I suppose it had been foolish of me, based on the circumstances, to think that anything could happen between us. But I couldn't help it and I took the rejection personally. I knew she had tried to let me down gently but I was still hurt.

While she was away for those few days we talked via text-message and she even called me a couple of times, just to chat. She had decided to come back for a few more days and I suggested that we get together again. Although she didn't know what her plans were she told me she'd think about it. Over that same weekend I attended a local film festival and heard that in the upcoming days there would be some evening entertainment, including a fire-twirling show. I mentioned this to my friend and she agreed to come with me. I picked her up, very happy just to be seeing her again, and we went to the show. It came time to take her home and I suggested that, although it was late, if she wasn't in a hurry to get home maybe we could do something else.

We ended up getting something to eat and then driving around for a while before parking the car under a tree (that for some reason was decorated with fairy-lights) and talking for a couple of hours. It had been on my mind for the past few days so I asked her if the distance was the only reason she didn't want to get into a relationship with me or whether she wasn't attracted to me. I don't remember the exact words of her response but she told me that if she didn't have to go home, I'm the sort of guy she would go out with. I didn't know whether she was just trying to protect my feelings or whether she genuinely felt that way. She told me something that she had been wondering about: that I seemed like two different people, sometimes outgoing but most often significantly less so. She told me she didn't believe that I was a shy person at heart and asked for my explanation. I told it to her as best I could, that I wanted to be more outgoing but for whatever reason lacked confidence and self-esteem. I sensed that she was attracted to the outgoing side of me, which was in fact the real me, that had become concealed behind a facade of shyness and introversion. I tried to forget about all that and just tell her how I felt about her, so that I didn't forever regret not putting myself out there. I told her that although we'd only known each other a very short time I felt there was something between us and I didn't want it to end with her just going away.

As I dropped her home in the early hours of the morning I felt glad that I'd been honest with her. She hadn't exactly given me an answer one way or the other but gave me the impression that she was conflicted about the situation and that she did have feelings for me. I hardly slept that night. We had one more day together before she was moving on and I wanted to make the most of it. First we had breakfast together and then we visited a friend of mine who had just had a baby. That night I took her to meet the people I'd traveled through Asia with and we all played a couple of games, including Trivial Pursuit. It's a favourite of mine and I think I impressed her with the amount of (trivial) information stored in my brain. She kept joking that I must have wasted days of my life memorising the questions and answers. In what was the most imperfect end to what had been a pretty good day, I got sick and had to go home early. I didn't even get a chance to really say goodbye.

As luck would have it, after spending a week with a friend elsewhere, she and her friend decided to come back to my town and I got to see her again. Thankful that I at least has a second chance at saying goodbye I pained over what I should do. Since she was only back for a day or so I decided, against the advice of a friend, to write her a letter. I didn't want to seem too serious but I felt like I still had so much to say to her. I chose my words very carefully but perhaps, as my friend told me over and over, the letter was a mistake. I told her how beautiful she was and that she was one of the most amazing people I'd ever met. I think I was way too honest. It probably erased her memories of me as a more outgoing person who she had connected with and replaced them with images of someone so obviously depressed and heartbroken. I try not to regret it because it felt right at the time but she never responded to what I had written. We remained in contact but neither of us brought it up. I guess I had my answer.

Soon, she left to spend a couple of months practically on the other side of the country. Immediately after she left, I became a wreck. I basically stayed in bed for two weeks and I couldn't bring myself to eat anything for days. I had never felt such depression. It was so pervasive - I felt broken. I cried a lot. I think it bothered me so much for a few reasons. In only a couple of weeks I'd developed incredibly deep feelings for this girl and they obviously weren't mutual. But more than that I think I viewed that rejection as symbolic, signifying that I would never find the love I was searching for because I didn't deserve it. I told myself she had rejected me because I was unattractive and unlikeable. I began to despise myself - I couldn't look at myself in the mirror for weeks. I think I blamed myself for not being worthy of the person I desired. The progress I had made during my time away, the self-esteem I had finally found, was all gone. I think that made it worse, the fact that when I got back from my overseas trip I was happier than I'd been in quite a while. I had further to fall. All I could think of was that I was being punished for something, like I was being told, "This is what you get for being happy."

We remained in occasional contact while she was still in Australia. She sent me a message explaining that she was going home a couple of weeks early because her boyfriend had asked her to move in with him. I guess that meant they didn't split-up after all.

That was about a year and a half ago. We've stayed in touch since then. I got an e-mail from her a couple of days ago, asking how I was going. It's hard for me to know what to say to her. I want for us to be friends but, even after more than a year, I still have deeper feelings for her. Of course, I know better than to bring them up. I still wonder how she really felt about me while she was here and how she remembers me. I don't suppose I'll ever know.

Development

I've been thinking about the sort of things I've written about over the past few weeks and I'm starting to wonder whether I sound like I'm stuck in high school, chasing girls and worrying about what people think of me. It's true, that's what I was like in high school, pining over one particular girl and spending far too much time concerning myself with what people thought of me. For the most part, however, I didn't let that get in the way of the rest of my life. Now, in my mid-twenties, I'm concerned that I haven't grown up as much as I should have since then. While I'm certainly not living the hedonistic life of an eternal teenager, I don't think I've outgrown my teenage flaws and insecurities yet.

Every year, more and more people who graduated from school years after I did are getting married, becoming doctors and lawyers or whatever they've decided to do with their lives. I just don't understand why I'm not moving on. I'm not comparing myself to people in a keeping-up-with-the-Joneses type of way, just as a frame of reference. I don't begrudge anyone their success, I just don't know why I've arrested the progress of my life and have, for so long now, remained static.

I don't want to get into it too deeply right now; the main thing I wanted to get across tonight - and it seemed I got more than a little side-tracked on the way - was that I hope I'm not coming across as extremely immature. All this talk of 'I like this girl but she doesn't like me...' is most at home in the hallways of a high school and I don't want to come across as vacuous. I realise there are far bigger issues worthy of discussion so please don't think I spend my days recycling these thoughts in my head. It's just that whenever I sit down to write a post, that's what comes out. Like I think I mentioned once before, for a little while at least, blogging is going to be my therapy.

Duplicity

Something that really bothers me - and something I'm quite paranoid about - is duplicity. Strictly speaking, duplicity refers to deception or deliberate misrepresentation but, even though this is stretching the word's literal meaning, I consider duplicity to refer to the act of not meaning what you say or even not saying what you mean, even if you've got the best of intentions while doing so. Basically, regardless of why someone might feel the need to distort the truth, it's lying.

Yes, they're often what people regard as 'white lies', told to protect people's feelings when it's thought that the truth would be too painful. You know the ones: 'you don't look fat in that dress', 'I really like your cooking', 'you've got a really nice singing voice', and so on. These sorts of things are, to a large degree, quite understandable. When a friend asks you to evaluate their appearance or their cooking or their singing ability or whatever else, there's a lot to be said for being tactful in your response. Well, being tactful or distorting the truth a little bit so as not to hurt their feelings if your opinion is likely to do so. I will concede that it can sometimes be justified. Still, you've only got to look at some of the tone-deaf people who audition for Australian (or, insert-home-country-here) Idol to see how telling someone they've got a nice singing voice when that's not exactly true can lead to them being humiliated.

But I'm not talking so much about that. What concerns me more is the way people patronise someone with a phony compliment and then turn right around to someone else and say what they really think. I've seen it so often; a lot of people do it. If you haven't experienced it for yourself, all you have to do is listen to people at parties, at school, in the workplace, or anywhere else you happen to be in the course of your daily life and you'll see what I mean. I can't see how this is justified because, if your intention was to protect someone's feelings, why then go and laugh at them behind their back?

I'm occasionally guilty of the first infraction, distorting the truth so as not to offend people. As much as possible I avoid doing it but sometimes it's unavoidable. What I try never to do is tell somebody one thing and then make it known to everyone else I don't feel that way. And yet a lot of people have no problem doing this on a regular basis. I'm not talking about big stuff here, I'm talking more about situations like when someone leads someone else to believe they're friends and then, as soon as they're gone, talks about how much they can't stand them. When people behave in that way, how are you supposed to know if they're talking about you in the same way when you're not around?

You can't know, it's just a matter of being secure in who you are and trusting people. I wouldn't say I have a problem trusting people but I often wonder about people's motives for doing things. It's not much of a stretch for me to assume that someone is only paying me a compliment because they don't want to hurt my feelings by telling me what they're really thinking. I'm not good at taking compliments and most of the ones I do get are thought of in that regard. But that's got much more to do with my own insecurities than my ability to trust people.

What got me thinking about all this (in terms of writing blog post about it) was a conversation I had with a friend a few weeks ago. We were talking about a mutual friend, one who neither of us have seen in quite a few years. The three of us used to spend a lot of time together, going to movies and just hanging out. I drifted apart from the mutual friend but my other friend continued to see her quite regularly until a few years ago they too, due to their lives heading in different directions, went their separate ways. My friend and I were talking about her the other day, wondering what she was up to. We got to talking about her mother, who we had come to know quite well over the years, and my friend told me that she had once told him that her daughter, our friend, thought I was a creep. I didn't care what she thought about me (I wasn't particularly upset that we'd drifted apart years earlier...) but it did get me thinking.

About five or six years ago I went on a date with a friend of a friend. We really hit it off and I felt comfortable enough around her to lose some of my ever-present nerves and relax. We talked about a lot of different stuff and I even made a few jokes (my sense of humour only emerges when I'm not plagued by anxiety) and, at the end of the date, it was clear that I wasn't the only one who had had a good time. I asked her if she'd see me again and she didn't hesitate to say yes. In my mind, the day couldn't have gone much better than it did. I re-evaluated that when a few days later she wouldn't take my phone calls. I later learned that going out with me had given her the confidence to approach the guy she was really interested in. I was more or less instantly forgotten. I didn't even get the "you're a really nice guy, but..." speech, code for 'I don't like you'. The whole experience bothered my for a while, and even now it makes me question whether I can read how someone is really feeling. Do they mean it when they say they like me or is it just lip service? I still find it hard to open up to people, just in case the same thing happens again.

As I said before, all this has mainly got to do with the fact that I am deeply insecure. I don't like myself and I want other people to like me. It's not so bad that I'd betray my own values in order to get someone to like me but I still want to be liked. I don't like that about myself, that I'm always looking for approval from others. What makes it more complicated for me is that, because of my insecurity, even when I get that approval I often don't believe it to be genuine.

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On another note, still on the subject of not telling the truth: if you lie once, for how long are you subsequently regarded as a liar? I've often wondered about this. If you commit murder, you are forever and always labeled a murderer, and I don't disagree with that label in that case. But what about other situations? What's the statute of limitations on being regarded as a liar?

Milestone

Today I'm just writing a short post to congratulate myself for achieving my goal of posting once every day for the entire month of January. For once I can say that I actually admire my resolve. I'm not big on celebrating my own accomplishments but, although this is rather minor, I thought I'd better at least acknowledge my effort. So, from me to me, well done.

Enough of that. As of tomorrow, this blog shall return to its regular schedule featuring my lamentations about how difficult it is for me to pick up girls or figure out where my life is headed.