No fancy stories about ladies, no eye contacts, no happiness.
Just plain old ranting.
Fuck.
No fucking.
Just fuck.
Here I am, sitting in my own living room. Pretty pleased with the room, though.
My first “own apartment” in about 8 years. No-one saying how to furnish or when. No-one stating there needs to be green, brown or some other colour I don’t like. No-one saying that Tiffany lamps are waaay better than globes.
Fuck.
Still not satisfied.
There’s too much something and not enough everything in my life.
Too much work.
Too much duties.
Not enough good times.
Not enough love.
Fuck.
Random musing: there were two movies on the telly. First was a romantic comedy, the other was “Independence Day”.
Which one did I choose?
Well yeah, what do you think, my nonexistent reader?
Don’t get me wrong, I like romantic comedies. Really, I do.
I like them so much that at least Miss M, Miss Cherry and Miss Red have had some serious good laughs.
But yeah, I didn’t choose it this time.
Or actually did, for a while.
And what good did it do to me?
Nothing.
Just left me gloomy.
Fuck.
“Cause if it’s coming for you
Then it’s coming for me
But I will be there
Cause we need each other in the dark
And if it’s panicking you
Then it’s panicking me
But I will be there
So we’ve got each other in the dark
In the dark
In the dark
We’ll need each other in the dark
In the dark
In the dark
We’ll hold each other in the dark
Now we’re saved together in the dark
Cause we’ve got each other in the dark”
– DJ Tiesto: In The Dark
Me, yes.
You?
No.
There’s no you.
Bah.
Gloomy.
Gloomy as hell.
Perhaps this is one of those moments they write about.
One of those clear moments where one learns something and becomes a better person.
Or maybe not.
Remember, my reader, what doesn’t kill you hurts like hell.
Why all this?
It’s been two years to date today (yesterday?) since we moved apart with Miss S.
Yes, I do think it was the only proper way out of that particular hell.
Yes, it’s been better since.
Yes, I’ve had my smallish share of “it’s complicated” during these two years.
Still.
As I sit here, alone, in my proper-sized apartment littered with toys and “design furniture” from Ikea I can truly say I need something else, too.
I need someone.
Someone to talk to.
Someone to share my joys and griefs.
Someone to tell me I’m going too fast, slow down.
Someone to love.
Someone to share my life.
Bah.
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