I’m so happy! Oli and I are officially dating now. I’ve been in that giggly happy mood for a while. It’s not something I would’ve picked (like imagined), to be honest. But it’s amazing. I really like him. It’s going great. I just really love being with him and stuff. Which is probably a bad thing at this point in time, since I have an essay due on Thursday that I haven’t started. On a topic I’ve been to one lecture on. For a subject I’ve been to about three lectures on in total, and haven’t done the readings for. But it’s so hard to teach myself about rationality and suicide and terrorism when I just keep getting distracted by Oli. Nyee. Sorry for the return of the lame mushy stuff, by the way! I’m so not a mushy person. I hate mush. But now I’m being a little mushy. Oh no. Also, I like being called Sweetie. And also, he has the most amazing bright blue eyes. And a really cute smile.
I have already established that I am quite an insecure person. In fact, the other day I even posted an entire paragraph about how I don’t find myself attractive. But there’s more to it. Or rather, more things that go on inside my head that conflict with it.
Sometimes, I have days when my make-up turns out nice. Or when I manage to blow-dry my hair dead-straight like it should be. Or when I wear a really nice bra. And the insecure thing just turns right around, and I basically become a narcissist. I look at myself in the mirror, or the window, or whatever other reflective surface is available at the time. I attempt to take photos to preserve the pretty. With the bra thing, I look down at my boobs every few minutes and give a little smile.
I am a photo person. I like having photos of memories to look back on and smile. I like being in photos – unless I look terrible, then I’ll be horrified – and I like taking photos of other people. But when photos of me exist – and I can tell you, a hell of a lot do – I look at them quite a bit. I’ll look at a nice picture of myself and think “that’s a nice picture”. And I’ll do that a lot. Because you see, even though I’m insanely insecure, and generally hate the way I look, I do still have a fair few narcissistic qualities. And it does not make sense in the slightest.
Normally I am completely tolerant of people’s religions. I accept that they have their beliefs, and they (with the exception of my nan) accept that I have mine (or lack thereof). But sometimes my tolerance wavers a bit. Namely when I see dickheads with signs spruiking God, and claiming that we non-believers are doomed to go to hell.
Now, I have a few things to say to this. Firstly, what the flip? We don’t believe in hell! Your logic is faulty. You can’t recruit me by threatening me with something I don’t believe in. It’s like saying “give me all your money, or I’ll shoot you with my invisible gun”. And that doesn’t work particularly well, does it?
But secondly, and more relevant if hell turns out to exist after all – what’s so bad about it anyway? Okay, sure, there’ll be fire and possible pain. Whatever. But I can guarantee you that the company will be much better. I don’t want to be hanging around with God and his “holier than thou” attitude. He’s screwed far too many people over for me to be friendly with him. I’d be far more likely to take his little sceptre (or whatever he holds, if he holds anything on that cloud-throne of his) and clonk him over the head with it. I’d have much more fun in hell with all the other atheists this God disowned. I think Stephen Fry, Johnny Depp, Douglas Adams, Seth Green, Joss Whedon, Billy Connolly, Christopher Eccleston, Ian McKellan, Natalie Dormer, Helen Mirren and I could have quite the party!
That is something I know. I have known it since before I can remember. At least since I was five. Usually it doesn’t bother me. But I know it’s weird. I’ve never told anyone. And it kills me in relationships. It’s not why I end them. That’s a different weirdness entirely. But it makes things different. I listen to other people talk all about their endeavors, and I wonder why they’re so normal. And I think about the amount of people I now know with such varying sexualities, and even genders, and I wonder why this thing, that seems tiny in comparison, is so hard for me to mention.
Whilst I write this, I am chatting to Oli. And since typing that last paragraph, I have told him. Everything. And he took it surprisingly well. He has not been scared off. I feel refreshed and happy. I look forward to Tuesday.
I am a strange person. A very strange person. I shan’t mention everything strange about me here. Not only would it take years to type, but it would also take years for you to read, and I don’t particularly want to break the internet, either. But one of the weird things about me is that I often think about how random things are weird. Sometimes I look at a pinky toe, and think, ‘wow, pinky toes are actually quite weird’, and start laughing. Sometimes I think of names of people I know, and think, ‘wow, I actually know someone called [name]’, and again, start laughing. Sometimes I say words over and over again, and then crack up laughing about how weird they sound. Sometimes I say two words – generally ‘moon, star’ – over and over again, until it sounds like I’m saying them in the opposite order than I started.
And sometimes, I look at a couple in a relationship. And I think of all the couples in the world. And then I think of the sheer number of available people surrounding those couples. And I wonder how it is that people end up together. There are so many people in this world, yet how is it that so many people happen to choose each other out of the bunch? Judging by numbers alone, the probability of a person fancying someone who fancies them is tiny! Which makes me wonder – perhaps there is something in our genes that makes people like each other. This might already be a thing. I haven’t looked this up at all, so I might look quite stupid if it turns out to be common knowledge that I’m right. But whatever. It is a curious thought.
This is unusual. When I talk to the original flirter on Facebook, I find myself carrying on the conversation, and not letting it die. And keeping on talking ’til like midnight. And accepting more dates. I may be kinda over the guy I like. Liked. Whatever. I still find him hot, but I have more of a connection with this original flirter. Like talking-wise. I think I need to find a new name for the original flirter. It’s too long and annoying to type.