Mandatory Valentine’s Day Post (in English for your inconvenience)

There’s no rose without thorns (well, at least not here, though I’ve heard in Japan they are developing something) and there’s no blog without an MVDP (or it’s what they made me believe), so here’s my contribution to the most romantic day of the year. I will explain you what love means to me.

In my mind, love rhymes with fear and pain. To be more precise, fear of loss and pain derived from the absolute certainty that loss is going to happen. I know it sounds like a helluva lot bleak, but that doesn’t make it less true.

I’m 27 (28 in April) and I’ve only kissed a girl just once (and yes I know “only…just once” is redundant, but give me a break, I’m talking feelings here, so screw redundancy). I was 2 years old, and she was too, and she kissed me only because her mother (who had met my mother the day before) told her so. They (our respective mothers) wanted to take a funny picture with two toddlers kissing. That’s just about as much kissing as I’ve done in 27 (almost 28) years. I won’t mention any deepest, more meaningful kind of physical contact, because you can imagine where it would lead, and frankly I doubt there would be much interest in a story in which nothing ever happens.

After that, I’ve never managed to convince a human female I was even worth a try. Ever. Usually, when I meet a potential love interest, if I manage to strike up a conversation, no matter how brilliant, intelligent, polite and good looking I manage to be, I won’t be seeing her again. It doesn’t matter how clean, polite, well groomed, cultured, well dressed I am. It doesn’t matter that I haven’t any interior or exterior disqualifying flaw, they won’t give a rat’s fuck!

It’s gotten to a point where when I meet an interesting woman (and by interesting I mean someone who can carry on a conversation politely for 30 minutes without making me feel like the most intelligent person in the whole world in comparison to her, I’m not that picky when it comes to looks and body types), while I’m talking to her, when she smiles, I can’t help but feel a deep fear and a soul-rending pain, because I know that she’s not interested at all in me or in what I say, she’s just being kind to me, repressing her feeling not to disturb the other people around.

It’s gotten to a point where meeting an interesting lonely woman of approximately my age at a bar and talking to her nauseates me, because I have to play the counterpart to her show, being polite and smart and brilliant and interesting, not being able to smother my interest for her, while deep down I know that despite her smiles and appropriate responses to what I say and do her only desire is for me to disappear and never show up again.

It’s gotten to a point where I’m actually relieved when they tell me they are not interested, so I can stop trying to keep up the illusion in my mind that maybe this time it’s going to work out, I can stop trying to be interesting and revert to a state of dull numbness.

It’s gotten to a point where even if I manage to keep up the illusion in my mind while I’m with someone, it will inevitably crumble like a dry sandcastle as soon as the other person is out of sight.

It’s gotten to a point where I can’t bring myself to touch a woman that’s not been around me for at least a couple of years, because I’m not used to it and it brings out deep anxiety, pain even, and I don’t fucking know what to do, not even the basic things. That’s why even if I manage to see a woman for a second time, I won’t even try to hug her as a goodbye: I’d fear to do something wrong.

It’s gotten to a point where if someone says: “I’ll introduce you to a friend of mine, she’s a single like you! You’ll get along well!” the first thing that comes to my mind, after some sort of perverse anxiety, is that the friend I’m going to be introduced to must be a really, deeply fucked up person to even think that meeting an emotional wreck like me would be better than complete loneliness.

It’s gotten to a point where I’ve started donating blood because it’s the only way to get a young woman to play with my body, and yes they enjoy it I know that, and I enjoy it too because being spiked like a pincushion is less painful to me than being alone with myself.

It’s gotten to a point where I no longer think of myself as a human fucking being, because let’s be real: if you can’t convince a woman that spending an hour with you is better than numbing herself with the latest episode of some obscure television series, you stand way lower than a dog on the social ladder.

It’s gotten to the point that I don’t want to live like this no more, because if nobody wants me then why should I want myself? But since I can’t manage to completely resign myself to failure I can’t even think of suicide, yet being dead sometimes feels oh so appealing.

Happy Valentine’s Day!