Living well is the best revenge

Whenever there is a split in any relationship, the best way to move on - and to make him/her feel a simmering sense of jealousy - is to remind him/her of what they lost whenever you have the chance. And, I've done that just by being myself.

There are the givens like the career, running my own company, living in an amazing loft, being invited to hot parties, having money in the bank (i.e. not living off mommy and daddy), and retaining my taught body and skin.

But there are also other tangible items that make me the person I am: surviving a cancer scare, having friends and family who supported me in my time of need, having people want to hang out with me, and having someone new in my life (that I can flaunt in public).

Oh, and being able to remind them without any effort (because you hear through the grapevine that you're gossipped about to your ex) on your behalf also helps.

Maybe I'm meant to be alone

Not too long ago, I received a message from B, saying how he's been alone for a few years and wonders if he's ever going to remove the stigma of singledom.

To prove his point, he wrote about a few hilarious scenarios on The Simpsons and Family Guy. Basically, he said that many people have high standards and maybe those standards are what's keeping them single.

In a series of back-and-forths between us, he mentions that some people shouldn't lower their standards, even if they don't have that special someone with them. There are those who are willing to settle, and those who are comfortable being alone.

The more that I look at my past (and possible future), the more I think I'm supposed to be single. Lord knows I've had my share of disappointments in the dating pool, leaving me gasping for air because I felt like I was drowning.

And while there are people who 'fall in love' on a weekly basis, I can't have one person fall in like with me. No matter what my friends say, I don't think I'm a catch. If I was, I wouldn't be single.

Maybe there are people who are meant to be coupled and maybe there are those who aren't. Me? Maybe I'm meant to be alone.

Be who you want to be

As A and I are talking over a cup of coffee, he brings up the topic of identity and how he doesn’t feel like he belongs in any particular group in society. He’d like to know where he stands and asks my opinion because I have the answers to everything.

"First off, if you want to be a twink, lose weight. If you want to get buff, join a gym. Goth?” I point to A and wriggle my finger around, “Black.”

There are a couple of other groups I mention, hoping he’ll find one he’s comfortable in (i.e. the preppy). Before we move onto the next topic, I leave him with one seed of thought, planted in his mind: “And, if you want, start your own group. Let them follow you. I’m sure you’re not the only one out there.”

I can understand why people want to belong to a subsection of society; the feeling of being wanted and needed is a powerful force of human nature.

I’ve never belonged to any particular group and still don’t; I always float between them. Part of it is because my interests vary in range and scope. The other part of it is because I’m stubborn. When someone wants to categorize me, I don’t let them because I fit in so many boxes (and sometimes, none at all).

Belong to one group, or don’t belong to any. Be who you want to be. Don’t feel pressured by society to be who it thinks what you are.

And if that fails, start a group and make sure you’re making - and breaking - the rules.

Trading me in for a new model

This past weekend, my friend celebrated her birthday. Crazy hosted it at his parent’s cottage and a group of our communal friends went along. I didn’t go and wasn’t invited for obvious reasons.

As I’m checking my Facebook page, I see she was tagged in a series of photos from her birthday weekend. Inevitably, there will be some that show up of Crazy, but I click on the link, anyway. Whatever doesn’t kill me can only make me vomit.

Skimming through them, I see a couple of images of Crazy. In each picture there’s a guy. His guy. I know this because I’ve seen him before in another photo album, and since his circle of friends doesn’t accept new members into their clique, my assumption is justified.

He’s nondescript and faint. Beige and boring. Resembles me in no way, whatsoever. Basically, this victim is someone who can let Crazy be the centre of attention (which is the point for someone who is selfish and self-centred).

I feel a pang. I hate that pang. That pang means there’s still a feeling there. True, it’s not as intense as it once was, but it’s still there. You never want an ex to do better and be happier than you, especially if they hurt you in immeasurable ways. The promise of karma allows me to sleep at night.

People tell me to leave it alone and to stop torturing myself, and I know it's within my abilities to do it. But, what they don't want to realize is you can’t forget the past, no matter how much you pretend it never happened.

Quickly, I scan through the rest of the images and then close the web browser.

Whatever. It was going to happen eventually. At least I have the comfort of two things: He’s going to get his heart broken, and no matter what anybody thinks about me, I'm a lot hotter than the new guy.

Rough ride on the train

Since my parents don’t live downtown, I have to make the commute to the suburbs via the GO train. I don’t mind it. There’s no traffic that I have to deal with and I can fall asleep without the danger of hitting a car on the road.

The only thing I do mind is when there’s construction on the tracks. Most often, they result in delays. This time, I could live with a delay because the trip was rough.

Somewhere along the way to Toronto, the terrain gets rocky and the train starts to shake as if the passengers are going through an earthquake. There is so much turbulence that my prostate gets stimulated to the point that I’m aroused. It’s as if I’m sitting on a vibrator for 15 minutes.

The bag I’m carrying is now on my lap and I start to look out the window, lips in a perpetual smirk and cringing inside because I want to get off the train before getting off on the train while still on it.

This goes on for another few minutes and then it stops. I am relieved. But by the time I reach the station, I feel like I need a cigarette.

Counting the numbers

For the first six months of Human Nature, I didn’t have a stat counter. For the next six months, the referrals were 98 per cent mine because I didn’t realize the importance of having links and having others refer to your site.

I know plenty of sites that get more visitors in one hour than I do in a week. That doesn’t mean they’re any good, mind you. For all I know, I could easily talk about sex and show plenty of T&A for the same outcome. But, I’m classy, and don’t lower myself to those standards (unless I’m really desperate for some attention).

Still, with the popularity of feeds, my numbers went down again in the past year. People click on the site, read what I write, and then go onto the next site. Not that I’m a stats whore, but I like to see those numbers grow larger like an accidental erection during Sunday mass.

Or, maybe I should start posting more porn online and see what happens...

I do not pick up

During our relationship, I used to pick up the phone immediately when Crazy called. If I didn’t have the phone on me, I called shortly afterwards. Sometimes the calls didn’t last very long, and sometimes they lasted for hours. It’s what you do when you’re in a serious relationship.

Now, because the relationship between Crazy and me has changed, that’s no longer the case. Crazy used to call and text, but I didn't answer. If I did, it would be after a period of time. Crazy didn't like this, but I didn't care; I didn't owe Crazy a response. In fact, I didn't owe Crazy anything.

Before the breakup, I was always there, but when Crazy decided not to be there for me, I returned the favour. It’s quid pro quo, and that doesn’t need further explanation.

And this holds true for all of the people (whether I dated them, or not) who used to be there in my life but decided to exile me to the other side of the world.

Now when I see the call display, I feel sick because I don’t want to answer because I know a series of complex and conflicting feelings (good and bad) will start to well up inside me. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to text.

To paraphrase the Kelly Clarkson song, Oh, oh, I do not pick, up, up.

There must be something wrong with me

Whenever I look at the people who are coupled, I have to wonder how they do it. There are so many odd couples out there. A lot of the times, I see one really hot one with one who didn’t win the genetic lottery. Fuck, they didn’t even get a couple of matching numbers on a ticket. But, there’s something there that I can’t put my finger on. And, if I want to put my finger on it, they wouldn’t let me because they’re not single.

So, I ask a series of questions: Why are some people terminally coupled? Why some people are terminally single? And why am I one of those single people?

There must be something wrong with me, I say to myself while shaking my head.

No matter the qualities I think are attractive, they never seem to matter. The assholes seem to make it easy. Like a moth to a jerk. I have a good head on my shoulders, am intelligent, witty, half-decent physical appearance (face and body), possess skills in language and dress, and I still find myself wondering why I’m single and alone.

I’ve heard of a million different reasons for this...

I’m picky with criteria
I’m shallow (because no one else is)
I’m needy
I'm distant (but more cautious)
I'm honest (no one likes the truth)
I'm a hard worker
I'm not always chill (because I'm the responsible one)
I’m not confident
I’m too confident
I’m smart (which isn't a turn on)

And on and on...

But, it doesn’t matter how much I analyze it, I know there must be something wrong with me.

Smiley face text reply

It’s nice to receive the occasional text message at work to break the monotony of the day. It’s even nicer when the text puts a smile on your face...

By the way, your picture on the little bio on [a website] is totally swoon-worthy. I glanced at it today... ya know, just for a second ;)

Although I know there is nothing swoon-worthy about my picture, it still makes me send a smiley face text reply back.

Crazy is his name

Ever since the ugly breakup, I couldn't bring up J's name in public because of the memories that would come rushing back - good and bad ones. There’s a very strong emotional connection with the name.

Even after all of his erratic behaviours that arose from his incredibly stupid and irrational decisions, and as he became more and more unhinged, I still felt something.

So, instead of calling him by his name, I started calling him Crazy. And, the feelings I once had started to disappear, albeit slowly.

No one around me could call him by his given name. I didn’t want to hear his name. When I stated the rules, people started following them. Now, everyone calls him Crazy.

Of course, it also helps that his new moniker suits him perfectly, so it’s not like I started calling him idiot or sociopath. That I only do in private.

I don't have the energy to be fake

It’s the birthday of a friend of mine and she's having a party. I can't go for several reasons, but I know of a few people who are going even though they hate the person being feted.

When they see each other, it’s as if there’s nothing wrong even though I know there is enough hatred to start a war. It feels so contrived. It’s all hugs and kisses when they’re together and I have to keep my mouth shut because the only thing I want to do is tell them how ridiculous they’re being.

If this is done just to have friends, then leave me out of it. I don’t have the energy to be fake. I have to use up so much of it on being myself, why would I want to spend the rest of it being someone else?

Maybe someday they’ll grow up and realize the inanity of it all. Maybe. First they have to wake up, rub the crap out of their eyes and see it’s not worth it. Be real, even if it means you don’t have 400 ‘friends’ because most of them don’t like you, either.

Someone's sweater

There is something about putting on someone's sweater that make you smile. It makes you giddy, like you know a secret that no one else knows about. And, it makes you smile.

When I'm offered one, I take it, throw it on and look in the mirror. It fits. It's like it was made for me.

The smell is one of a freshly-washed load of laundry. But, there's also a tinge of the scent of skin; the scent that is personal and individual, almost like a custom cologne.

And when I take it off, I hope a little bit of my scent permeates the fibres. Just as a subtle reminder of when I was wearing someone's sweater.

A change is gonna come

Change doesn't happen too often in my staid life, but when it does, watch out. The alterations are huge, as if a whole new world is opening up.

Recently, I have come across a period of change. Some people might think of it as a bad thing, but I looked it as a sign; a (possibly) good sign.

Instead of being scared of the unknown, I look at it as a moment when I have an opportunity to look at my life and see what I want to make of it.

Even when I read my horoscope, it said I needed to remove any old baggage (physical and psychological) from my life to start anew. Of course, horoscopes are always right, especially when they tell you want you want to know.

And, that's exactly what I did. Gone were certain elements of my past that were hindering my future. It’s time for a fresh start and new beginnings.

To quote Sam Cooke, a change is gonna come...