The bitch that is Rona summoned me home from my dreamy year abroad to my new, lonely, pitiful state. My bored, asexual, forgotten-what-a-bra-is existence. I refuse to leave my bed, listen to sad music until 4am, and take extreme pleasure in sitting in a bath, eating ice cream and channelling every, single, two dimensional girl featured in a noughties film.
My suitcase still sits unpacked in my room. A big, black box that taunts me, reminding me every day of the future that never played out. If there ever was a queen of sulking – I’m the real deal hun.
To add to this extremely depressing state of affairs – before Rona cut my year short and broke my heart, a boy did. To add salt to my injured ego, it was in the most pathetically cliché way possible. A stupidly American, overachieving, tall, dark and handsome captain of the football team old me: “it’s not you, it’s me”. I will allow you to throw up at this point. It’s insanely laughable.
So that’s where I’m at. A double heart hangover. Just some context for y’all.
Other than that my isolation is swell. I’ve been hitting tennis balls at walls. I dirty talk my mirror. I’ve dyed my hair pink, gained weight and lost my sanity. The neighbours donkey licked me the other day.
But, I am coping really well. Breezing my way through this lockdown. Zero chance I’ve cried into my pillow at the fact I now have to have a personality instead of relying on my ‘sexy British accent’. I definitely don’t lie asleep at night thinking I hit my peak sexually and now it’s one dusty, dickless path to celibacy.
I’ve definitely never sat down to eat a plate of vegetarian nuggets, just to burst out crying and through snot and tears declare ‘even the nuggets were better out there’. I have been the utter vision of maturity, positivity and respectfulness (particularly towards peoples’ privacy).
My new tactic to evading the reality that my year abroad is over, involves continuing to message most of the boys I had various flings with to keep the fantasy going. I will likely never see them again, yet this thought seems to escape my attention-whoring mind. Online scrabble? Sending tik toks? Insta challenges? Whatever keeps them from dying like my cold, dead heart.
In moments of boredom, that big old Atlantic ocean is crossed by only two quick finger swipes. On snapmaps that is. I roam the streets that I used to call home, passing the stupid bitmojis of boys who think they can pull off the bumblebee outfit – no one’s fooled, you’re still a prick. My own bitmoji is no longer among them, she’s chilling across the ocean where I left her. But unlike her, I’m not constrained by my GPS location. It’s almost like I am still there through my adamant imagination and the power vested in my battered iphone 6. Don’t deny it, we’ve all done it, just maybe not to this level of utter creepiness. Am I truly going insane?
It is not normal, in fact it is frankly brutal, to have the power to see what an ex/ex-fling is doing at most times of the day. A cruel force of technology, that sits there tempting you like a fuckboy on a lonely night.
I ask you: if society says you shouldn’t, then why does technology provide me with the tools? Why give someone the power to do it, and then declare her a weirdo for doing it? The total modern dilemma of our times, I reckon.
To all my fellow psychos – all I’ve learnt is the joy you get from seeing them tucked up at home at 11pm is far outweighed by the pain of seeing them at the same random house at 3am and then 10am. Lesson learnt. I’ll return to crying over nuggets and staring at my unpacked bag of clothes, thanks.
No more snapmap stalking.
I’m signing out and signing off,