As my twitter-oos will know, my plan of a boy free three months resulted in a bout of binge texting.
The swede and GB were texted last night, the latter thankfully only resulting in minimal polite text banter which seemed to quench my need for attention and dulling the impact of the former who didn’t reply at all.
Not only did I binge text two people I care very little about and have only a very small interest in seeing but I decided to randomly message a guy I worked with almost five years ago in TV. Why ? who knows?
I know I’m not alone in this madness
I invited my friend Jade over tonight for dinner to cheer her up after her dog died.
(aside… the term dead dog originated when my friend Jessica, frustrated with the constant banter but no date invite from a guy she met, threw her phone down on the table and exclaimed- “I feel like I’m poking a dead dog with a stick” since, ‘dead dog’ had been coined for a boy that has, for some reason or another, turned out to be a loser. The activity of poking dead dogs is universally acknowledged to be pointless but at the time, a harmless bit of fun)
Jade’s dog hadn’t actually died of corse, she was merely grieving the loss of a something she thought had potential.
An entire bottle of vodka turned into a Karaoke session of singing into remote controls and jumping on the sofa to Flashdance soundtrack. I made the mistake of putting on Celine Dion when Jade slumped onto the sofa and declared that she wanted to poke her dead dog.
I knew how she felt.
If I still had Chris’s number in my phone I would have texted him in a second. If I still had PC on my Facebook I would have easily slipped into checking his profile.
You know it’s bad for you, you know no good can come of it but yet you just can’t help doing it!
But then, as I checked my facebook for the hundredth time (maybe the guy I messaged will message back after all….) I realised, there is a euphoria that’s so intertwined with doing something you KNOW is bad, that you just can’t help doing it.
Like maxing out your credit card on a last minute trip to Ibiza, or partying late on a Sunday. Have you noticed that watching Jeremy Kyle is really only ever fun if you’ve pulled a sickie?
“How have you been?” golden Boy texted me “it’s been a while.”
“Blah Blah Blah…. “ I responded, or something to that effect
“I’ve just moved to Clapham…..” he replied.
I’d stopped caring whether he replied or not. It wasn’t’ even fun anymore.
Thinking back over past relationships, not only have I always wanted what I couldn’t have, but I’ve always wanted things that were bad for me.
Is it fundamentally impossible to stop dancing the masochism mambo?