My housemate has bought me 3 months on a dating website as a birthday present,
"You've got to do something else apart from run, eat salmon, and stay home"
This unwanted and unnecessary pity and concern has been put on me not because Elliot actually cares about my rapidly dying social life, more that Elliot is just sick of me being at home. All the time. And I think that it's fair enough to expect that your housemate might actually go out once in a while, so that you can have some fucking peace, and not have to listen to him go on and on and on about running and not eating carbs after 8pm. So I understand where he's coming from, and it's a wonderful gesture by him to do this for me, and so I allow the madness to start.
So it's been arranged, the monthly costs have been covered, some almost normal looking photos of me have been uploaded, and a short, punchy, funny profile has been written, and re-written, and updated onto my page.
And then the slow death of my own self respect begins.
Now I don't really mind the fact that I have to sell myself to strangers like some common prostitute in a neon lit doorway in Holland. This is just a different way for people to have an understanding of you, your interests, and what you look like. I get it, but I hate it. I've never had to sell myself to a girl before. My success rate with women has usually come about through following these quick stages: I befriend them, make them laugh, try to say something nice about poor people, or try to sound like I care about something they care about, make them laugh again, and before they've really noticed what's happening I put my hand up their skirt and they sort of don't mind and let me. Then for the first two weeks they're a bit confused as to why the sort of funny, sort of caring, sort of nice, bloke is now having just above average sex with them. Then eventually they find something* about me that they like and they let me stick around for a while. But now this? telling abject strangers about what I believe in, how I like to live my life, what food I like to cook, and all sorts of other crap, it's just not me. And I come across like a friendly special needs kid who just 'wants someone to go running in the park with' I am better in person, writing it down is just creepy.
And then comes the ignoring. Now, there's some really good looking girls on this site who are single, I can't understand why they are but they are. And as you sit trawling through the photos you eventually find one that's good looking, doesn't sound like she's got her head up her own arse, and might have hobbies and interests that you can just about bare to pretend to like, so you Email them. And they don't reply. Not even a 'thanks, but have you seen yourself? Have you seen me? Have you done the maths?' reply. nothing. A wall of silence. And I get it, i am not every one's cup of tea looks wise. I have been around long enough to know that my looks are very good in a certain light............darkness, and that in photos I do not look my best. But I'm not hideous, and their are small pockets of women around the GLOBE! who will attest that I am quite good looking but not every one's going to think I'm smoking hot, but to not even reply? You sort of understand why they're single if they're going to act this way.
The only part of this festival of self hatred that really grates me is the Emails I get from girls asking me out. A collection of uglier looking women you could not find in a Russian labour camp. Don't get me wrong, I'm not all about a girls looks, I can't be, people in glass houses and all that, but my god, we are talking some of the most offensive looking women since the dark ages. And they are Emailing me! Me! and I find that horribly painful because they must be looking at me and thinking 'he'll do' Like I'm in their league, as if I am really a possible, attainable man that would agree to go out with them! It's an absolute car crash. But I reply to each one, politely explaining that I have moved to Mongolia, and that I'm just waiting out the rest of my contract on the dating site.
After my slow 20 miler a couple of weeks ago I scaled back and decided to run a 12 miler as fast as I could. So I set off on my normal run, just incorporating another lap around Victoria park. On the west side of the park there's a stretch of park benches all the way down the right hand side as you run anti clockwise around. On these benches you start to see familiar faces, the lesbian sun worshiper who's skin looks like a battered, old, brown leather couch. She sits there reading a tabloid but sometimes dog walkers will sit with her and shoot the breeze. She'll always be wearing a wife beater, which I always find amusing, because she looks like she does beat her own wife, or life partner. This particular morning the weather was dreary so she wasn't on her usual bench, taking her place was an old man, coal face features, dressed in a suit and rain coat, at 8am. He was ogling the lady runners with the steely determination of a man who was just waiting for the pub to open. As I passed him he looked up, hopeful that I might be another pair a breasts, and when he saw that I wasn't he did not disguise his disgust that a man should be out running, when he knows full well that he should be dressed smartly, waiting for the pub to open, and staring at some tits if the chance presents itself. I passed his growling face and started around the park for a 2nd time. This time he saw me coming and coolly watched me glide passed, this time he sat back in his chair and said,
"Go on boy, you'll catch her" and he smiled a gap toothed smile that I returned with a grin.
His comment made no sense to me, in fact, it freaked me out a little, but then I crossed the little road that runs through the park and saw a tall, long haired girl jogging in front of me, and as I passed her I knew exactly what he meant. If she hadn't turned right out of the park, I might have followed her all the way home. I get home in 1 hour and 19 minutes. I think about the Bristol half and start to hope that I can make a personal best over there, and push through to Chicago injury free.
The last few weeks I've had some really unexpected praise from people about my writing, so much in fact that I now think that I'm the Welsh Irvine..erm..Welsh. Luckily I am blessed with the famous Potter 'you're not as good as you think you are' chip in my brain, it immediately counter acts anything positive that you think about yourself, and turns it round so that you actually end up thinking that you're worse than you already thought you were. A fantastic invention that has kept my feet on the ground for years, and possibly cost me a few jobs, some girlfriends, and a stable mental health.
Questions have been pinging around my head this week, things like, How fast will I run Bristol? How fast am I running now? How big is Liam Neeson's cock?** Why can't I act with a little more grace sometimes? When will I stop dreaming dreams that are so vivid that I wake up thinking they've happened, when they actually will never happen? What is the probability of me actually having sex again this year? How fast will I run Chicago? Why does my back hurt when I stretch my legs? When will I stop feeling like this? Do people really like reading my blog? Why do I still write a blog? Which way shall I run home? Where's that tall girl gone? What is the probability of me having sex next year?
* - I have no idea what women see in me, and I am consistently shocked when it happens. And suspicious.
** - http://liamneesonscock.tumblr.com
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