The last time I blogged about love I might have given you the impression that I’m a flippant, heartless automaton. I’ve felt weird about that post ever since I wrote it as it did not reflect the sheen of sharp devotion that my spirit is capable of emitting. It came instead from the same place as that post I wrote called The Hatred, i.e: the bitter depths of my lonesome soul. I’ve moved somewhat since May though. I tell you what, this single thing, it’s not that great in terms of contented companionship, but there’s nothing like it for learning all about yourself, and why you sometimes act like a wanker. Usually it’ll be because you’re a little bit sad.
I do believe in love really – even if I am fairly jaded towards romantic love due to rejection from various caddish scoundrels and the long term effects of a torn apart heart muscle, barely stitched together in a patchwork of fury and lipstick. A heart which won’t stop secretly yearning for what it can’t have. Like steak for dinner every Wednesday (due to prohibitive price margins), and a fairytale love affair (due to me not being a seventeenth century princess). Life’s tough, innit. I didn’t truly believe it was when my Mumma used to scream those words at me during fits of teenage tantrum–rage, but it turns out she was correct about that – and less correct about the impact of drug use and bad company on my future life options. Oh well, nobody’s perfect.
Anyway, now that I’ve decided love does exist it’s been a bit perplexing in terms of the continuation of this blog. Surely love, if anything, is a reason not to be single; the kind of glitter for grown-ups that blows my theories about steam trains and sleeping into tiny little laughable fragments by including fizzing acid tummy butterflies and sexual pleasure. The latter of which, as I’ve frequently admitted, is something of a drawback in terms of my current situation, which doesn’t include much opportunity for carnal debauchery. Unless you count getting stoned and eating fried chicken naked with the curtains open as carnal debauchery. You probably don’t though. If you’re normal.
The question I’m faced with then, having conceded that love is indeed non-fiction, is this: will I let the existence of romantic love scupper this blog? No, of course not. I couldn’t let that happen. Love has been far too cruel to me and can therefore go fuck itself. Yes, alright, love exists and it might feel blissful and cosy and make you emotionally and mentally stable and all that (of course, it can do the opposite if it all goes tits up and you realise you’ve put your trust into a fat, deceitful mound of flesh and bone-matter who’ll happily receive your love and then leave it in someone else’s knickers, but that’s not the point I’m making here), however, it will also make you well boring if you do it properly.
Serious. I cannot think of any coupled friends or family members who are not 300% more fabulous when they’re single. This is not only because single friends have more time to spend on leisure activities that might involve me, but also because single people (even the ones with babies) tend to be more interested in the big wide world and all it’s scary darkness than the (un)happily coupled – whose points of reference begin with their ‘other-half’ and, if you’re desperately unlucky, morph into conversations involving one or more of the following: mortgages, other people’s relationships, weddings, camping holidays, housework. This is why I always do an inner leap of joy when I hear that a close friend’s relationship has ended. Although, as legions of my dumped mates will attest, I cover this very well with outward sympathy, and good advice.
I’m not sure whether it is immaturity or jealousy which leads me to find stable romantic relationships so crashingly dull that I overdose on whisky and Prosecco whenever I’m faced with someone else’s. It might be neither. I really don’t care what causes my response though; I just want to say this: love might well be a lot of fun for those involved, but let’s acknowledge that it’s also very, very selfish. Think of your mates people, on a night out, peeling the sticker from a warming bottle of Becks and daydreaming about that time you did promiscuous felching while you do a show and tell of six million colour swatches for your new kitchen.
I know my romantically attached friends reading these words right now will be all offended. But you know I’m right. I mean, I still love you and everything, but we had much more funtime before you settled down and started measuring your success with socially normative milestones. That’s a fact, rather than a judgement.
So alright, love exists, but it’s not going to fuck this exercise in cyber-literature over, because it is impossible to juggle a relationship and participate in being regularly socially fabulous. Thus, I’m happy to report that you’ll still have to take my advice and be single if you want to be remembered for posterity, or invited to the pub. There’s no other option, if you think about it logically.