Sunday, 11 September 2011

Dave's Big Blog of Dating 2: The Disappointing Franchise Sequel Reboot

It has been brought to my attention (by me) that my previous blog, ‘Dave’s Big Blog of Dating’ (‘A woefully inept and frequently risible exploration of self-pity – 1 star’ ~ The Daily Express) was perhaps a smidgeon biased in my favour. Insofar as it focused almost exclusively on incidents which portrayed me as the tragic put-upon victim of evil female soul-sucking harpies who sunk their claws into my unexpecting back while I fed starving vagrant kittens from my bare hands.

So in the interest of fairness, this blog is about the times I have been a dick. It’s less a sequel, more like one of those films that happens at the same time as the previous one and fills in holes that were never there in the first place. Like The Lion King 1.5. But less shit.

Let’s strain a metaphor for a moment. My relationship with women is much like my relationship with biscuits. I love biscuits. I admire biscuits. I covet biscuits. Yet when I get my hands on biscuits, I become riddled with doubts. Do I really want these biscuits? Is it the right thing to eat these biscuits? Despite my love for the biscuits, I will always find a reason not to eat them because it isn’t the right thing to do.

Biscuits are awesome. But I can’t make them last.

I’ve had 2 girlfriends in my life, and I broke up with them both. One of them via a shameful combination of text and Facebook message. As far as I’m aware, both of them were quite fond of me, and I was fond of them. Yet I found reasons to end those relationships. When I lie awake and think of these reasons, sometimes I still think they were valid. Other times I don’t understand them, and wonder why I shot myself in the foot. I don’t know if I was justified. But neither girl saw it coming.

I wish I’d treated both of them better.

I lack self-confidence and I’m also a coward. Think of the character in a rom-com that’s supposed to be ugly because they wear oversized spectacles. Then take away the inner fire and determination that redeems them and eventually wins the popular person’s heart. This is another strained metaphor, this time for myself.

A few times during university I had girls interested in me, but I wasn’t sure if I was interested back. So I’d entertain their attention for a while, until I decided against it. Then I’d act aloof or cut off contact.

I’m sure none of these women went away distraught and threw themselves under the nearest racehorse. Yet I know I could have handled it less like periphery beefcake in an episode of Sex and the City.

Fate offers easy absolution. We just weren’t meant to be together! Those biscuits just fell into my basket! You weren’t supposed to see me trying on your underwear! The theory I operate under when I need to lighten the guilt, is that the majority of the girls I was a dick to found earth-rending love soon after. It wasn’t meant to be! I would have unwittingly kept them from their soul-mate! I was just the My First Walkman of boys, the nappy before they became a big kid.

My lasting hope is that an interminable awareness of my indiscretions means that this blog need never have a threequel. They’re always shit anyway.

...except for Die Hard With a Vengeance. That movie’s awesome

No comments:

Post a Comment