A Good Man Died Today

A good man died today, and like it always does, death has a tendency to make us think about life. So here I am, thinking about life. My life in particular. We’re all selfish when it comes to these things. He was a good man, this man who died today, and he raised good people and loved a good woman.

He died happy with almost a century of his own life’s memories to keep him company in those moments, and that good woman I just mentioned, well, she was right there by his side when he got called up. That’s the kind of death that you can sleep with at night. It’s a just death, a righteous death and, in a solemn way, it’s comforting. That with all the blood and pain and confusion, someone good died a good death in a sleepy little hospital comfortable and calm with the woman who gave him the majority of the life of he had and who was there, like she’d always been, when a muggy grey Wednesday in August became the last day they ever heard each others voice.

So I’m sitting here in a t-shirt that that man’s son gave to me once upon a time, listening to a band that neither of those men would like, with a candle burning like my grandmother taught me and a pit in my stomach. What that pit is, I don’t know, but somewhere in between going to sleep last night and sitting down at my desk right now, something has lodged itself there and refuses to leave. It feels nervous, watery and bitter but most of all, it just feels sad.

I may never have known this man and I may never have found myself sitting on the floor with a cold cup of coffee in one hand and a hand rolled cigarette shaking in the other, crying amongst the broken glass on the floor listening to Nothing Lasts Forever by Echo and the Bunnymen without a hint of irony. The man that introduced me to the man would have found the irony in it. He finds the irony in everything, that man.

I may never have known the woman that the man has left behind or felt the softness of her hands on mine or enjoyed her sharp, sometimes shocking, sense of humour. And to the rest of them, these people who today mourn the loss of a good man who died a good death and relish the memories of his idiosyncratic life, I feel my heart bend and bow for them too. He always hated my hair. He had that in common with his son. That and his laugh. I miss them both. Horribly.

And even more so today because like we said – death has a way of making us think about life and what it is and what it means to us and what we are going to make of it.

There are two ways that this train of thought can go I think.

One train of thought is to sit here and be thankful for the people I have, for the health I have, for the day I was given today that was taken from someone else. To be thankful that I have a job and that I have a home and that when I come home I am safe and warm and fed. To be thankful that at various times in my life I have laid in bed beside people who at various times in my life loved me, irrevocably and absolutely. To be thankful that I live in a country where I can do and say what I wish regardless of my age or gender or sexual orientation. To be thankful that I have a voice. To be thankful that I have a future, however tenuous and transient it may be. To be thankful that the people I hurt moved on and that some of them, I hope, forgave me my disgraces. To be thankful that I am sitting here now with the literacy and intent to write these words and publish them to strangers who may take comfort or reflection in some of the absurdities I ponder.

To be thankful to be alive and here and ready for tomorrow whatever it may bring.

Another train of thought is to be filled with remorse for the people I lost, for the health I destroy, for the day I wasted when someone else had it ripped from them. To complain about how tired I am and how much I hate my job and about how small my home is and how when I come home I am alone because the people I love aren’t here because I’m difficult to love and even harder to live with. To feel my chest cave in when I think about the people that at various times in my life I laid beside in bed that used to love me, irrevocably and absolutely that eventually got over those feelings the way someone gets over a flu that leaves you delirious. To shake my fist at a government that has given everything I’ve always wanted to someone else at every turn and torn my family apart and taken my best friend away from me because I refused to kneel. To loathe myself for the things I did a million years ago and to mourn the hearts I broke, some unintentionally and some more forcefully. To hope that they never forgive me because that would mean forgiving myself. To think of all the potential these hands and this mind had and the tools that they were given that I destroyed and where I could have been had I chosen to be a different person. To wonder whether all of this, these words, this endeavour is pointless and fruitless because who the fuck would ever read this shit?

To feel like it’s not worth waking up in the morning.

Because all of those things are true – two sides of the same treacherous coin that betrays us all.

And now sitting here the sun has broken through the clouds and it feels like summer is whispering into autumns ear. This is the first sunset he will never see and the first sunset that his son has ever seen without him. And it’s beautiful. Looking at that sunset, levelling that coin before it, there is only one side I can see. It’s beautiful. It’s not sad or hateful or intrusive. It’s beautiful.

And that’s how I know that that man was a good man.

Because he raised a son that taught me how to love myself and how to keep going. Even when I don’t want to and even when he’s not here, I hear him. You can do it and even if you can’t, well, honey you’re going to have to figure out a way to do it.

And he instilled in me a desire to make him proud.

And I still want to.

A good man died today and I lit a candle for him like my grandmother taught me to do.

A good man died today and left behind a good man that changed my life.

And for that, I’ll keep him in my heart and savour this sadness while the flame still burns.

Because I never got to thank him for the man he made.

So I’m thanking him now.

The only way I know how.

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Just Two Young Punks Pissed Off In Love

 

There’s this song by a band you’ve never heard of called Fuck Shit Up, the song that is, the band is called Ghost Mice. There’s a line in that song that goes “this world was never good enough for us, just two young punks pissed off in love, we’d put that record on and sing tonight we’re gonna fuck shit up” and even though that song is about someone’s best friend dying, it always reminds me of you.

Do you remember that night when you showed up at my house at three in the morning and we listened my records and you wore my cardigan and we fell asleep on the floor, platonically and content, in each other’s arms a million miles away from everyone else? That’s why that song reminds me of you, because it’s about people that love each other although love is something they cannot comprehend, are numb to. Shut off, closed in and denied. These incredible people so full of life and energy and explosive lust allowed to wither together constantly comparing themselves to the people around them that are oblivious to the walls closing in.

Two young punks, pissed off in love.

Man. That was us.

And when we woke up in the morning nursing hangovers and heartbreak I waited with you at the bus stop and I gave you my iPod for your journey home because I knew that you were the only person that I’d ever known that needed music, any music, to get through the hangovers and heartbreaks. Your phone was dead but you text me later that day and said you listened to The Offspring all the way back to Ashford.

Funny how they never remind me of you when so many other things do. And funny how when all I was trying to do was hammer home how different we were, how incompatible and estranged our hearts were, you always managed to make the best of our differences. I pretended that it pissed me off, your enduring niceness, when in actual fact it gave me butterflies. That’s more than likely why I tried to suffocate it. The last thing I wanted to do was like you.

I remember there used to be this hunger to be near each other. You’d call me at stupid o’clock in the morning and tell me how much you loved me and I would get on a bus after a fifteen-hour shift and haul my arse to Staines just on the off chance that you were drunk and horny and alone and that we could relive that first night over and over and over again. It was a loop, you see? And it only worked because we let it.

You were in love with someone else. So was I. And we jumped around in this mosh pit of self-loathing, slamming each other up against walls, drawing blood and inflicting pain, punishing ourselves for not being worth enough to get those people whom we desired so terribly. And we told ourselves that it didn’t matter, that we didn’t like each other like that and that the moment that those people who truly held our hearts held out their hands, the lights would come up and the smoke would clear and we would walk away from each other and leave that dark, sweat stained room behind us.

We measured our failures against each other and found an equal in pain and loss. So, to say that we were in love with each other is incorrect. We were in waiting. Keeping each other warm until the storm cleared, disappointed romantics scraping the hearts from our sleeves. And then you went away, or more to the point I went away. I gambled with a good guy and ending up stamping his heart into the pavement and in those moments, when I thought I could hate myself no more, suddenly you’re there, on my doorstep just as beautiful as I remembered you being.

But you don’t get that. You never got that. Why anyone would ever call you such a thing. I mean because you’re not, right? You’re not worthy of someone’s love or attention or god forbid, attraction? Because all the people you’ve ever really wanted it from have never given it to you. They’ve never seen it in you and therefore it cannot possibly exist. You must be deformed, hideous and too much to bear, otherwise why would they not have loved you back? Why this constant denial of your most base urges and desires if you are all these things that I constantly tell you that you are? Well I’m here to tell you now, whether you read this today or tomorrow or someday or never at all – you have always been, and will always be, extraordinarily beautiful to me.

Not just in the way you look but in the way you are and shortly before my world fell apart in earnest you laid on my bed in my freezing cold, empty flat, with me and kissed me, topless and sober and I thought…well, fuck who knows what I thought. That maybe it was starting to sink in. Maybe, just maybe you were starting to understand the way I saw you and stripped down from ego and bravado and drunken declarations of anguish and lust – you may just have been kissing me instead of the idea of me and I may just have been kissing you instead of the idea of you.

I never dreamt of waltzing off into the sunset with you, of going to dinner with your parents or introducing you to my world, but I dreamt about you. Even in the arms of other people who laid claim to my heart for a time or two, I dreamt about you. And these are all the things I think and feel and have never been able to articulate because to admit that I felt these wonderful and fucked up things would be to admit that I was wrong and weak and, in essence…in love with you.

And why the fuck would I ever want to admit that? Because it wouldn’t change anything. You’ve spent your entire life feeling like no one ever loved you back, loved you properly the way you deserved and after knowing you as a friend, a lover and a stranger I can probably vouch for the truth in that sentiment. But I loved you. Then and now, still now. And if you really want to know the reason why we would never work out, why we will never be anything more than two young punks pissed off in love, it’s simple – I will never be good enough for you.

I’m not the girl that you want to say these things to you and you cannot look past my inherent flaws the way I can look past yours. And that may in part be my fault. We’ve spoken of armour and how the weight of it increases with years, and though you’ve thrown your armour onto your bedroom floor and given me all of you a time or two, I’ve never really been naked in front of you. I ridiculed your aspirations and pretended not to like your music and belittled your intelligence and slated your friends and mocked your maturity – because it was easier to hate you than it was to love you.

Because hate, well I knew I might get it back.

Love on the other hand – I knew you were never going to love me.

So, I’m apologising. For the walls, I built and the blood I spilled and for every time I ever made you feel like anything less than everything. You’ll always be that one, Carlin. That one person who will forever leave me wondering where my words went and how you so deftly and efficiently stole my soul from right underneath my nose. And here it is, in black and white, forever and always.

I’m sorry I broke our hearts.

And be beautiful.

Because you are.

The Past – Why It’s Worth Dragging Up.

Invariably in every confrontation we have with people who have known us long enough to know our past behaviors, we’re taught not to drag up the past. We’re told that there is no use talking about stuff that cannot be changed and that the past is in the past and should be left there.

However, when dealing with present behaviors, I have always found it serves well to remember how people have acted and what they have said in the past. In the moments that we attempt this comparative study of past and present however, someone, usually the other party in the confrontation, will throw one of the aforementioned leave the past alone sayings into the mix and then you look like the regressive moron.

But why do we do that? Do repeat offenders not get their old rap sheet hurled into the court room? I know, I know, I know – but Ronnie, they’re criminals, they’re a danger to society etc. But isn’t the entire reason we argue with other people in the first place because offence has been caused on one or more usually both sides? Doesn’t that make us offenders of a sort?

I have been going of my mind for the past few weeks caught up in a confrontation that I didn’t see coming and seems to have largely been caused by the age old fuck up of people talking about each other behind their backs. In this instance, it seems I am the offender and that seems to be what has knocked the wind out of me. Me?! What the hell have I done now?! Yes, these were my initial thoughts.

So I originally intended to go into this confrontation with all guns blazing and lay waste to the lies with my super-mega-awesome-laser-gun-of-truth but instead I tried to listen and understand what the other person was saying, and in turn, try to detach myself from the situation as much as I could in an attempt to retard my own emotional investment and rectify the situation because the truth is – no one wants to be the bad guy.

And I don’t know what it is about arguments that bring out the worst in people but suddenly you remember every single negative thing that that person has ever done and you simultaneously forget for the sake of winning the argument that that person is in your life for a reason, whether you chose for them to be or not, and that hurting them is the last thing you want to do. But still…you know you can do it.

And when bullets start flying in your direction, why is the first instinct to pick them up, load them into your gun and fire them back? Why not just leave them on the floor and accept that the pain of wounds inflicted on you by that someone else’s words are the price you pay for having been the offender? Why are we programmed to have to “win” arguments? There is nothing at stake here – no land, no beautiful forlorn Greek goddesses, no treasures to keep – so why are we stuck in this passive aggressive cycle of modern warfare where no one actually says what they mean until they cannot contain it anymore and it comes spewing from them like so much frustrated hurt?

I have always endeavored to be a person that other people could talk to and no, I don’t like having my past brought up, and yes there is always a context, a series of circumstances, whether they make sense to the person bringing them up or not, that can directly explain why someone acted the way they did or said the things they did at any given time. I don’t attempt to defend most of the mistakes I made because most of the mistakes I made have no defense. They were the mindless acts of misdirected anger, immense confusion and pure, unadulterated pain. I will not defend the things I did when any of these three emotional states were in play. All I can do is apologize for the hurt that I caused whilst in them, ask forgiveness for any wounds that haven’t healed since them and ask that I am given all the right opportunities to make sure that history does not repeat itself.

But, in the end, context is everything. The wrong things put into the right context suddenly don’t seem so random and cruel as they did before and likewise were you to take a seemingly innocent incident and put it into the wrong context, scandal and fury would abound. So – you want to know the catch here ladies and gents? The past has no context.

Because it’s gone. There aren’t really even any facts left over to paw bravely out of the dying fire of the memory either because people disembowel their pasts and re-digest every single day without even noticing that they’re doing it. Things that we thought had been laid to rest so many years ago have a tendency to creep into our subconscious and sit stoically in our minds like unwanted house guests that refuse to leave. It’s these things that keep you awake at night going over and over in your mind again and again the actions and circumstances that brought you here, now, to the place you’re sitting at now reading these words, the inherent, almost base need to go back as much as we go forward, to relive our lives as much as we plan them and to take comfort in the fact that the only person we are actually responsible for is ourselves.

We are not responsible for the actions of those around us and we cannot be held to account for things that are done or said in our absence, even if they are done or said in our name. And responsibility is a transient thing. It’s not locked in the past behind an iron gate of impenetrable force. If you didn’t take responsibility for something in your past, you let it slide, you excused it away and walked carelessly into the sunset away from your unaddressed disgrace – it’s never too late to take responsibility and ownership for the stuff you did wrong.

And no, not everyone is going to follow suit and yes, most people will willingly throw your past in your face and use it in an attempt to keep you from getting off of your knees, but if you face your pass, you drag it up kicking and screaming from the deepest depths of your tattered mind and you address it, you learn to understand your past and why you yourself did the things you did and why you yourself said the things you said – then you come out on top whether or not their is a victory to be won in your personal confrontations or not.

Because the people that don’t want to talk about the past are the people that are afraid of it. They’re the people that are afraid of becoming fallible to those around them and they’re the people that will never understand why you did those things you did and why you said those things you said. It serves one great purpose though – you can stop trying to convince them that those things don’t matter anymore, that you’ve worked through them, that you’re better for it now – marginally at least, because let’s face it, exorcising your demons…not a lot of fun.

And the time we spend trying to convince everyone around us that we’re good people would be better spent trying to behave like good people, void of petulant passive aggressiveness and ever mindful of the fact that once in awhile – everyone deserves to be forgiven.

A Series of Ambiguous Questions

Love is not a new subject for my rants, in fact, it is one of my least favourite but most committed sources of anger, confusion and genuine exasperation, hence its appearance as those three emotions are usually at the core of all of my rants. However my friends, I am not going to knock love to the floor and kick its teeth once again, no, I am going to ask you a series of questions that I want you to answer in your minds. I want you to answer them in your minds because were you to vocalise them, to me or anyone else, you would not be telling the whole truth. Love and truth are the mistresses of the mind, enticing us and crippling us in a matter of moments. They go hand in hand and as such, you must keep them away from each other as much as possible. We all know what chaos they can cause together.

In my experience on this earth, which after all is what this entire charade is about, I have come to accept that when love is on the cards, there are three types of people in this world – those that are IN love, those that WANT love and those that HAD love. And so comes my first question to you, my inquisitive readers … Will you read on?

Are you IN love? Do you share your heart, your mind, your body and your soul with another human being, so carved from the heavens that even the mention of their name sends your stomach tumbling in on itself? Do you perish at the thought of that love dissipating, or *gulp* disappearing altogether? Do you hold hands in the street and steal glimpses of each others infatuation when at the dinner table? Have you got that crooked grin that all lovers wear, that says “She is mine and I am His”? Do you wake up in the morning just to watch them sleep? Is the thought of any harm or pain coming to your love so overbearing that you would literally die before you saw them shed a single superfluous tear? Have you found the only other hand that you will ever hold on this mortal earth? Are you in love?

Do you WANT love? Do you want to commit yourself to another entirely and regardless of fault or flaw? Do you want to belong to someone else’s family and be enveloped in to their pasts and futures? Do you want to sign birthday cards with two names instead of one? Do you want to have someone there for you whatever the need or cause? Do you want someone to hold you and tell you that everything is going to be alright, even when in all honesty things probably won’t? Do you want to be able to say “This is my boyfriend/girlfriend”? Do you want the kisses, the cuddles, the commitment and the confusion? Do you want to be so consumed by someone else’s body, that the worries about your own no longer matter, because someone genuinely thinks you are beautiful already? Do you want love?

Did you HAVE love? Did you have those moments that felt like they would go on forever? Did you have those perfect trinkets of your love together, however meaningless to the rest of the world, that meant everything to you at the time? Do you find a stray item of their clothing and find yourself powerless to bring it to your face and inhale the scent of what you lost? Do you hear a song or see a movie and feel a hot prickle of tears in the back of your throat? Do you walk down the street and convince yourself of the words you would say to them were you to bump into them again? Do you find yourself powerless to tense up whenever their name is mentioned, intentionally or otherwise? Did you ever think it was possible for a human body to produce the amount of tears yours has? Did you have love?

They are my questions to you my eager love fuelled companions. Now comes the fun part. It will only happen with a few of you I am sure, but it will happen most certainly with a few. I am going to ask you one more question and I want you to answer it again in your mind. When I stated at the beginning of this rambling mess that there were three kinds of people in this world, I know you subconsciously allocated yourself one of the labels without the need to read the questions posed. You decided whether you were IN love, in WANT of love or indeed if you did HAVE love at some point. Here is my final question – Did you change your label after you read the questions?

My point is this – love is not a static emotion and what you want from it changes as your experience with it does. Those who have never been in love long for the tiniest things that those that are in love mostly overlook. Those that are in love fear losing it, but those that have lost it, well some of them are regrettably happy to have done so. Love is blinding and that’s why as human beings we are obsessed with it. The wrongs in the world seem a little less sharp when someone holds your heart and somehow love helps most people to function, gives their lives a deeper meaning and they find stability and calm when completely consumed by another’s embrace. The world is a horrendously ugly place at times, but to go home to the comfort of your love’s arms, to hear their voice and feel their heartbeat beneath your face, well, that’s a very special thing indeed. However I propose that this love, this one integral, ball breaking, would-die-without-you love, only comes but once a lifetime. Its logical really.

If you have bore the first label in my list and no longer do then by default you have also had to burden the third label. Subsequently, by bearing the third label, you will find yourself wearing the second soon after your heart begins to work again. There is no adult human being on this earth that has ever experienced love, that will not at some point feel all three of these labels pressed against their forehead.

Now you’re probably thinking, well what if you fell in love and that love lasted forever, and I think you know what I am going to say to that. Those that convince themselves that every love is THE love of their life are cheating themselves out of a wealth of experience, because the world is not black and white. In order to make the extraordinary shades of grey that shape us as individuals you have to mix the black and white, the good and the bad, the love and the loss – otherwise, you will find yourself perpetually blinded to the TRUE power of love.

Being love is an amazing feeling and one that I wish every human being will experience in earnest during their lives, but losing a love, well that my friends is a whole different matter. All the gooey emotions of being in love fade, they don’t disappear if it is real love, but they slowly begin to fade into the background as life steals you from your lovers bubble. All the tormented emotions of losing love, however, well they never really fade. To experience loves better side, that is beautiful, but to experience loves ugly side, that my friends is real. If you have never felt what its like to be at the bottom, you will never truly appreciate what is at the top, even if you remain there your entire life.

People fall in love too quickly, put rings on their fingers, children in their bodies and hope in their hearts, and as much as the media would have you believe it, teenage pregnancy, marriage and scandal is nothing new. Ask you grandparents how old they were when they met, married and had your parents. It may surprise you. But when a child is born out of love, even if that love fades, that child is a lucky one indeed. So many people have children to literally manipulate feelings of love in those that have lost the capacity to love them back. Love has become a weapon and a powerful one at that.

I disarmed that weapon a long time ago and threw the ammo into the Thames. I used to wear the second label, of someone who wanted desperately to be loved and then I was lucky enough to wear the first and finally, had the pain of bearing the third as we all inevitably should. Now I don’t think about love in those terms, which is hard for someone as neurotic as me to do but I try. Now I don’t try to think about love at all. My theory, because you knew I would have one, is that if love wants me back it will come and find me. In the words of Allen Ginsberg I gave it all and now I am nothing.

And I would rather remain nothing to love, than ever have the duty of any one of the three labels mentioned above. Love shouldn’t be a duty, it shouldn’t be something that comes quickly and fades like wise. Love should be real, it should be true but only one love will ever be forever. The words “I love you” are thrown around far too much by people who have no real understanding or respect for the word. Love has become a notion, a card once a year and a broken memory of what it meant to find the other half of your soul.

Love in those words has no place in my heart, nor I in its. And we get along just fine that way.

You Are Not a Princess and This Is Not a Fairytale.

Men get blamed for a lot of stuff that I don’t think is necessarily their fault, namely what I like to think of as the “Prince Charming Curse”.

All women whether they want to admit it or not have a Prince Charming in their head. Now he may be different to the Disney princes we were raised with as children, but the general logic is the same. It doesn’t matter if the Prince Charming in your head is covered in tattoos or straight off of the factory line, what does matter is that in your head, in every woman’s head, there is this perfectly charming man that was made by some great force, just for them.

To pick apart the PCC we have to look at the different ways in which men and women view each other. It is a commonly held misconception that men do not have their own notions of Princess Charming, because a hell of a lot of them do, but women, especially when they are little girls, are taught to subconsciously develop this notion of “perfection” in terms of who they choose to love and who they choose to leave.

Like I said at the beginning of this post, men get blamed for a lot of stuff that isn’t their fault as a result of the way a lot of women think about members of the opposite sex, whether they are conscious of the fact that they are doing it or not. No man, whoever he may be, has any chance of living up to the Prince Charming label and it isn’t because men suck, or men are evil beings, I quite like men – the point is men aren’t Prince Charming, because women aren’t Cinderella.

There seems to be this idea that all little girls are princesses, even the ones that play in the dirt, but that men have the ability to grow up good or grow up bad. Women do get called some horrendous names like skank, whore, slut – take your pick, my point is that it doesn’t put all men off of them. Some men actually prefer that kind of woman because they know that they don’t have to be a gentleman, or if you will, a Prince Charming. These girls are low maintenance and good for one thing, and if you are a man looking for a fix, there is nothing better than someone giving it away for free. I hold nothing against these women and in a lot of ways I envy them.

I envy people who can have sex with absolutely no strings attached, who look at members of the opposite sex with one thing in mind and only one thing. Who will overlook even the most blatant discrepancies to their Prince/Princess Charming criteria in the face of such unadulterated and uncompromising lust. I envy people who can forget that they are human and switch off their emotions for an hour or two and for those moments, be whoever and whatever the person desires with no prior assumptions of how they are supposed to act.

I think this is why a lot of women hate the whore/skank/slut kind of women; when it comes down to it its jealousy. You see them firstly as a sexual threat, because when someone has no morals your boyfriend, brother or best friend could be on their menu, but you ultimately see them as a personal threat, their mere existence causing you to feel like one of you is doing something wrong. People don’t like to question who they are and I think this is what the age old battle of sexually promiscuous men and sexually promiscuous women comes down to.

Disney is a classic brainwashing tool for young and old alike and it is in Disney movies that I founded most of my abhorrence for the Prince Charming idea. Something I noticed as a child and I still notice now is the amount of men in a Disney movie versus the amount of women. Take Pocahontas for example. You have a ship load of crude, most likely half-drunk men and an entire crop of young untamed, wild spirited women. Why is it then, which even at the end of the movie when the savages and the slave masters are equal, are Pocahontas and John Smith the only two that fell in love? I know the answer, and I think that if we taught our children, both male and female alike the true nature of love and what the world wants you to think it is, we would save them a hell of a lot of heartache.

The truth is simple – you are never going to find your perfect person, no matter how hard you try or however much you think you may have already found them. You will never know a love like John Smith and Pocahontas, because you are not a “princess” little girl and you are not a “prince” little boy. You are most probably a middle class child with a life time of disappointment and compromise ahead of you. The sooner you learn that life is not a fairy tale and that dreams genuinely don’t come true, the sooner life will begin to get better.

It’s not that women keep falling for the wrong guys, it’s that women keep trying to convince themselves that the person they love is perfect for them and instead of realising that all the things they don’t have in common, all the times they irritate each other and argue pointlessly are actually signs that they are not right for each other, they convince themselves that compromise and changing themselves slightly to benefit the other is what relationships are all about.

No. If you have to change who you are to be with the person you think that you are meant to be with, you are not meant to be with them. Eric didn’t make Ariel dye her hair because he preferred blondes and Tiana married Naveen when they were both still frogs. The only Disney movie that teaches children what life is really like is the Hunchback of Notre Dame. Quasi loves Esmeralda and she loves Phoebus. Now she does not love Phoebus because he is any kinder, braver or smarter than Quasi, no, she loves Phoebus because he is better looking.

We are preprogramed to think that the personality we wish for in a mate comes pre-packaged in a box that is also fit to our description, never mind the hundreds and hundreds of perfect matches we skip because they do not fit the Disney brand “Prince Charming” ideology. When people say that they genuinely prefer personality to looks, these people usually being the same that despise those brave enough to admit that looks are important, I wonder what they would do put in Esmeralda’s position? I can almost guarantee that none of those self-righteous people would choose Quasi. The “princess” only ever falls for the “prince”.

So what happens when you realise that you are not a princess? Does that automatically mean that you should except that fact that Quasi is as good as you are going to get and abandon all hope that Phoebus will ever love you? Seems like a depressing thought when you metaphorically use characters than you know and love instead of pointless celebrities or random acquaintances.

There appear to be two options. Either make yourself more like Esmeralda – change who you are, so that Phoebus will love you. Or accept the fact that Quasi is a person just like you – be who you are and be happy to be loved for who you are, by someone who would have you no other way.

The Disney Delusion has left a trail of broken hearts in its wake ever since Snow White bit the big one way back in 1937. Since then women have been convincing themselves that they are worthy of their Prince Charming and men have been convincing themselves that love is an elusive beast, often being left with feelings of inadequacy at the end of a relationship. The amount of men whose hearts are broken at the end of a relationship because they felt like they simply weren’t good enough is staggering and mostly overlooked.

You never find out Prince Charming’s story in Cinderella. You don’t get to go back to his palace and see how he rolls. He appears out of the pages of dreams and sweeps Cinderella off of her feet. The only way you are ever going to find your Prince Charming, is to never get too close. The moment that you see that a man is a real, living, breathing, feeling entity with emotions and aspirations just like you, who is weak and insecure and has the ability to break just like you women do, that is when the Prince Charming illusion shatters.

My best advice is to remember as the great sage Swift once said – you are not a princess and this is not a fairy tale. Abandon your hopes of every getting Esmeralda, Quasi, girls like her only want the Phoebus’ of this world and girls likewise give up your search for Phoebus, he will only settle for you if he cannot find his Esmeralda.

People will call me cynical, but I would rather be cynical than delusional. Anyway, I haven’t completely given up hope of finding my Prince Charming, but then again I never really liked Phoebus. I’ve always been a Quasi kind of girl.

“Anti-Tech.” (2015)

sf

Whilst moving at the beginning of this year and becoming a homeless rambler with a blog in the process, upon telling one my friends that I had finished packing the living room, he asked to see a photograph of the empty space.

This was all that was left when I was done.

Yeah, we kind of never had a television.

Midget model in the corner is none other than my Molly.

I raised her from an egg.

She likes books a bit too.

Blame her mother.