A sickness

I pretty much despise what I've become. This year wasn't suppose to be like this. It wasn't supposed to be this hard. 

You put some serious effort into dating, you go out with a couple of people a month, you see what happens. So why is it that my dating life is pretty much the same as when I didn't give a shit? 

I spend my nights, when I'm at home, constantly refreshing the dating sites I've signed up to. 


Why hasn't that girl replied to me yet? That one has looked at my profile, but where's the message? 

What have I put on my profiles which is an instant turn-off? I'm pretty sure I've said I'm looking for a girl, as a opposed to a guy. 

I've given quite a broad overview of me, with some specifics. Have I been too broad? Maybe I'm too narrow. I can't work it out. 

I talk about how I love to travel. A lot of people love to travel, don't they? Maybe people say they love to travel, but actually in reality they hate it. The photos of me in China is a cruelly rubbing their noses in my not-so-glamorous jet-setting lifestyle.  

I'm a foodie. I live to cook and bake and create new things. Is that bad? Is that not masculine enough? Are girls reading that and thinking 'Fucking queer'?

Fuck them. I love to bake bread. What twat doesn't like freshly baked bread? Oh you're gluten intolerant? Do you know what I'm intolerant to? Yeah, you. So sling your fucking hook. 

This is making me far too angry.

It's my photos. It has to be my photos. I never said I was an Adonis. I accept that. Am I that horrible? I can't be as bad as the Elephant Man, or indeed Macho Man Randy Savage. 

It's the hair. Girls don't want to date a guy who has longer hair than them. I always get complements from girls about my naturally curly hair. Girls hate guys with better natural hair than they can dream of. I'm not cutting my hair for anyone.

I'm spiralling into a depressive funk. Rejection in person is bad. Rejection in person is fucking horrific. I didn't realise that cyber snubbing would be this grievous.

I'm not going to give up but I don't know what I'm supposed to do. I've got no game. I couldn't chat up a lush. 

I'm the biggest of coconuts, with so little brown left I'm feeling like Michael Jackson. My cousins look down on me wondering how I'm related to them. Their the normal ones. They listen to Bhangra, and look quite the part in traditional garb. I'm the sore thumb. The 'friend' the groom must of had to invite to the wedding. I'm feeling like the rejected sketch from a Goodness Gracious Me script. 

I don't have the all singing, all dancing, Indian golden job all mother's crave their daughters marry into. I call myself a journalist, although these days it's hard to even cling on to that. Not that writing is much of a profession to brag about. At least not in Indian circles. 

It would have been better if I owned a newsagents. At least then I would be seen as 'responsible'. Responsible enough to date their daughter. Responsible enough not to dick her around too much. Responsible enough to bring home the milk, literally, from the shop's chiller. 

I'm not a monster. I'm pretty sure I'm not a monster. I hope my friends would agree with me. Although these days I wonder if they keep me around out of pity, or a warning as to what their lives may become. 

Every day is started with looking at the face of someone other people do not want to know. I make people laugh. I make them smile. Sometimes I make them so fucking angry they join the BNP.

It's the face. It has to be the face. There's not much I can do about that. Is it so bad to resign myself to the fact people are swallowed up in galaxy of consumerist vanity that I don't fit in. I'm the wrong colour card for the season, the wrong song for the time, the wrong feeling for the moment.