Very hard. The answer to yesterday’s question, for those of you still interested, is very hard. To break through the sarcasm I’ve adopted in order to chronicle this “experiment,” to ignore all of the “empirical data” I’ve collected over the past ten months, to let go of the “perfect” sentence in favor of the imperfections that comprise reality, to remember that I’m dealing with a human being here and not a manuscript…
No wonder I spent all afternoon in a funk, guzzling coffee and running through reams of stationary like most people run through toilet paper.
But I did it.
I wrote to Date #7 and attempted to convey plainly and without embellishment exactly what I am feeling, because as a very wise woman once told me, writing is not about perfect sentences, it’s about communicating.
(Okay, I did allow myself a wee bit of embellishment—embellishment is what I do!—but I did start off with something that was very heartfelt and difficult for me to say because as Date #7 himself keeps telling me, “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”)
I expect that by this time next week I’ll be either happily married or suicidal. Or swearing off men all together and attempting to become a lesbian. Or maybe I’ll take up knitting and start adopting cats because really, at this point spinsterhood seems to be the only alternative.
(I know, I know… I’m only 25. But my 26th birthday is just around the corner and there is no way in hell I’m putting myself through an experiment of this magnitude ever again. Unless I move back to London at some point in time. Then I’d have to do it, for the sake of cross-cultural comparison. And science. I mean really, it would be for the good of humanity—the advancement of knowledge, if you will. In fact, it would be negligent of me not to continue my “fieldwork” in the UK… unless of course Date #7 was there with me… in which case it might be a bit awkward. But let’s cross that bridge when we get there, shall we?)
In the meantime, I have a problem— a problem even bigger than my inability to write a sincere and coherent letter to the man who may or may not be the love of my life:
I can’t write about dating anymore.
It’s different now; it’s real now—not that the others weren’t real (Remember He Might Be a Sugar Daddy? You couldn’t make that shit up!)—but I’ve reached a point where I’m getting uncomfortable posting the details of my personal life on the internet.
And I don’t know what else to write about.
I don’t like to cook. I don’t have funny co-workers or a bitchy boss. I don’t hate my job. I don’t have any great travel plans for the summer because I’ll be working on the show I’m co-producing for the Fringe from now until September 8th. I don’t even have preschoolers telling me knock-knock jokes this time of year!
I know if I stop writing about dating, my blog will shrivel up and die and when that happens I really will become suicidal but seriously, how many ex-boyfriend stories do you want to hear?
Maybe I should start doing guest posts?
Or travel writing of the armchair variety?
I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know!
I think it’s probably time for another poll…