Your gracious host has just been given a Valentine card
which was delivered by mistake to the empty (until this weekend) flat
underneath Dom HQ and I have absolutely no idea who might have sent it.
Of course a singleton of my age should be delighted to
receive an anonymous Valentine but I’m not going to get too excited. The reason
being that recent events have convinced me that a suspicion I’ve had for a
couple of years now is pretty much on the money. The suspicion being that
there’s some kind of malign supernatural entity directing events in my personal
life for its own, warped amusement (either that or I’m actually dead and my
experience of reality is some kind of purgatorial way station where I’m atoning
for my sins before ascending to the next celestial plane).
Nothing, and I mean nothing, else can explain why it is that
whenever I get into a relationship that looks like it might provide enough
stability to build on it gets unexpectedly whipped out from under me. This happens
every fucking time and I refuse to believe that it can be down to just chance.
Now I come to think about it I can see evidence of diabolic involvement
for almost as long as I’ve been interested in the opposite sex.
- During
the 80s I fucked up all my relationships because I was too selfish,
insensitive and immature to handle them.
- In
1991, when I eventually grew out of being like that, my self confidence
received such a mauling courtesy of a certain Ms S. that for the next ten
years I couldn’t summon up the pluck to even approach women, let
alone try hitting on them.
- Between
2001 and early 2011 every woman I dated or started seeing was either a
total fruitcake, damaged goods or had recently suffered some
life-changingly traumatic experience which, for the time we were together, put
them in the same basket as the other two categories and was a major cause of the break
up.
This decade, and going on what’s happened so far, I suspect
that my personal demon has adopted a new strategy and intends visiting physical
harm on the women I become involved with - just to throw crippling guilt into
the mix along with all my other neuroses. This is something I don’t want on my
conscience and it’s occurred to me that I may be morally obliged to get myself
chemically castrated and go spend the rest of my days in a monastery. But
hopefully that’ll be a last resort.
If my secret admirer is reading this then before you do
anything else go and get a full medical check up and make sure they screen for
all the things a woman your age could possibly be susceptible to.
Oh, and if you’re a nurse then you can fuck off. Really,
fuck right off. I’ve had it with women who are, were, or have ambitions of
becoming, nurses. It’s taken me long enough to finally realise this, but to be
good at the job (and retain your sanity) you need the ability to flick an
internal switch and turn your feelings off, which is something that makes us entirely
incompatible.
