Bitter, Moi?

What is the point of relationships anyway?

Am I too young to realise what great importance they provide us?

You’re raised from an early age to believe that this is the aim of all things (that and a career obviously). I don’t mean this in a feminist way. I’m not going to get on my high horse about the wrongs and misguided notions of Walt Disney. Men have been raised the same way. And it isn’t the fault of the fifties, the golden age of unbroken marriages and prosperity. It isn’t the fault of idealistic notions of marriage and children. It isn’t the fault of all the love songs we have all listened to all our lives. It’s the fault of the human need to organize everything, and make it mean something, and be recognizable to someone else.

It doesn’t mean anything. Who the hell said nothing means anything else unless it’s recognised by someone else. I’ve never been the romantic type. I’ve never thought anything I do is going to end happily. I never minded. Until now. Until the guilt was put upon me by parents, friends, friends of boyfriends, and boyfriends themselves.

What the hell are you doing?

That’s what they ask.

Some out loud, and some by inference.

Well, what the hell are you doing? Feeling proud? Of course you are, it’s written all over your face. Well, answer me this. Without me, without the fuck up, the useless yardstick by which you measure yourself, what the hell are you doing? If everyone were like you – building a home, holding down a paper pushing pointless job, making plans you’ll never follow through, getting engaged with whichever ring outdoes the ring the other guy in your department bought – where the fuck would you be?

You. Coasting along without being noticed for anything either pitiful or proud. You’d have no one to patronise without me. No one to belittle. No one to look at and persuade yourself that you’ve done better. I may not be happy, but neither are you. So run it off after work. Buy the matching shirt and tie. Act rebellious and sleaze on the secretary after work when your missus isn’t there. Take her to business dinners and try to impress her. Or your Boss. Or anyone who is bored enough to notice you.

You’re still an attention seeking child, still a rebellious teen, just as much as I am. And if learning to hide it is being successful and adult, then here’s my adult response. Fuck you. Shove your judgement up your arse. We’ll both probably die in the same boring, ephemeral, drawn out way. But I’ll do it with a glass of wine in front of the fire, and you’ll do it with an earl grey in front of the Aga.

And neither of us will deserve it more than the other. We’re both as pointless as each other. So what’s the difference fool?

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