I'm working on a theory at the moment about myself. I guess it's probably my life's work, trying to figure this bitch out. I've realised I am aiming towards something, constantly, but what that is actually changes on a daily basis. I'm well aware this makes me a mere human and I'm alright about it.
The romantic love thing: sorry to ma exes (not! fuck you guys!), but I'm in serious doubt about the format of love experienced in each of these sorry, co-dependent messes. I'm rather skeptical about the role of romantic love in my life, mostly. Occasionally I get blown away by the eye contact of a friendly stranger, or a friend of a friend, unexpected, dropping in out of nowhere and then disappearing home again, making the axis of everything tilt for a moment; each time, the world sharply rights itself and I go about my day. I know romantic love exists, because of the way music makes me feel my feelings. I do not doubt its existence, but I do doubt its use for me at this particular point in my life.
Romantic love: that asshole thing that confuses your brain, makes you stop prioritising yourself, distracts you from your goals and aspirations, makes you clumsy and dumb. Like alcohol. If I have to choose, I choose whisky. You cannot put a price on waking up to a hangover instead of waking up to some bastard who wants you to laugh at their jokes and probably make them breakfast.
This isn't true. I imagine that having a person who thinks you're just grand and doesn't mind your crazy hair in the morning or your weird thing about drinking whisky from a teacup is great. I'm sure it's the best thing in the whole world. But ... something. There's a question mark here for me.
A friend who I love (in a non-romantic way, mainly because he's gay) warned me quite fairly about becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy. I've been thinking about it - the danger of putting something out into the world repeatedly and making it come true; creation through repetition. I've had my repeated self-narrative pointed out to me by smart people that I like twice in the past two days, outside of Mark warning me about scaring love and happiness away with my "romance is dumb I hate it and I don't even want it anyway" vibes.
It's a bigger post and a larger thought about performativity, I think. The things I repeat are these:
1. I don't like people touching me
2. I don't trust babies
3. Romance is dumb I hate it and I don't even want it anyway (see above).
As a direct result:
1. Less hugs/sex than ideal
2. Scared of babies, the most vulnerable harmless animals ever
I probably made these things happen. I mean, I know I made the single one happen. The men have to pass a series of nonsensical tests which the only ones I'd actually want to date wouldn't be fucked doing anyway; I steer clear of many babies. I'll pull faces at them, but that's pretty much the end of the deal. Except for the fact it turns out I love my nephew heaps... possibly because he's so good looking and I'm a shallow person. And now you mention it, there are a few small children and babies all the way in Melbourne I love too, who I am purposefully booking tickets to go and visit in a month (excitement town).
My friends are starting to ignore my stories about how I don't like to be touched and just hugging me anyway. And I actually love it. Don't tell anyone.
There are probably more stories I tell and perform on a regular basis that are wildly incorrect. We'll look into it.
But the romantic love. I am stuck on this thought. I'm reading theory on it. If you ever want to tell me your thoughts and experiences (without crying please - I'm pretty busy), get me a bit drunk and let me know. If you're going to hug me at any point, it's going to need to be whisky that I'm drinking.
My questions are these: What exact social capital is to be gained by being part of a couple? How confronting is it to be a single person not 'looking for love'? Is romantic love practical? Is romantic love a first world issue? Is romantic love a well-trodden narrative that gives momentum to human life?
What even is love, anyway?