Confessions – P vs. G

Confession time.

Despite all the fun (of any description) I have with P, getting all the cuddles and affection I could want, and exchanging verbal affirmations of that love, sometimes I feel alone. or at least, unhappy, maybe dissatisfied.

I went for drinks last night. I drove 4 other uni mates from their college residence after much faffing about over where we were going and what time we were starting. Can I just say, big groups of say, more than 4-5 people meeting up for a drink can be such a hassle when no one is decisive? Anyway, one of the people who came was G. I spent a not insignificant amount of time noticing how good G smelled and thinking about running my fingers through G’s hair. G’s outfit was not attractive at all; it was rather the opposite. G is a frustration, a dilemma. I try and make conversation, and I get nothing. It’s maddening, when the other person doesn’t give anything back in return. What do I care if someone else is interested in G? I don’t even know why I’m so intrigued.

I should say, G is not the same gender as P. This is causing some inner consternation, though there would be more if this was the first time.

I kept going. I went into another bar despite wanting to go to bed, smiled, laughed, had another drink, and made conversation. Then I ran like hell for the parking garage when I realised it was 12:20 and remembered the gates shut at 12:30. I drove for 10 minutes, had a glass of water with a Panadeine Extra, brushed my teeth, and slipped into bed next to P.

Is it so wrong to wonder? It could be. Do you know why girls love The Notebook? Because it’s emotional porn. One of my female friends once told me that she’d flirted and gotten emotionally attached to some guy even though she had a boyfriend. Technically, she didn’t cheat on her then boyfriend. But did they stay together? No.

~

Maybe I’m just stressed out by exams with only 3 weeks of uni left and I’m projecting by creating tension where there isn’t any and focussing on that instead of the very real challenge ahead. Maybe … I shirk at thinking of the alternative if it isn’t. I wish I knew what the hell I was doing.

I’m going to be sensible, focus on study, starting running after my week break, and see how I feel once these damn exams are over. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, feelings are fickle and can change. A little caution never hurt.

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Hunt the Racist

teddy bear w/ ornament

Image by blahmni via Flickr

I went to a party last night. It was for a fashion designer. I didn’t really want to go, but the stack of lectures notes wasn’t very appealing to be perfectly honest.

I went with Nineteen, who I’ve known for three years now. Eleven and One-six-three are close friends of Nineteen. Before the party, I’d met each of them once: on the street (Eleven, introduced by Nineteen) and over a dinner (One-six-three).

I spent 3 hours that morning with Nineteen, who agonised over what to get the aforementioned designer and birthday girl, One-six-three. One-six-three emphatically did not want vouchers, jewellery, or fashion books. Nineteen and Eleven got earrings anyway. At the party, One-six-three opened them, declared them gorgeous, and put them straight on. Girls.

I went as a teddy-bear hunter. I borrowed a old-man vest and safari hat with a teddy bear strapped on it from Eleven, threw on a collared white shirt and tan slacks and off I went. Pretty swashbuckling, but I could’ve done with a toy rifle.

Where’s the racism in that?

Well. For you, reader, I’ve transcribed a couple of choice conversation tidbits.

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At Eleven’s house, when we went to borrow the items for me from Eleven:

Eleven: I’m going as an Indian.

Me: A what? … a Native American?

Eleven: Yeah, an Indian.

Me: haha… you can’t say that. It’s kind of racist.

Nineteen: Oh well, I had someone come up to me and say … (mumbles), “Fuck you, you dumb white bitch.”

Me: Who?

Nineteen: Some aboriginal guy.

Me: Oh.

Eleven: See, you can’t call me racist!

Later at the party:

Eleven: I went to [Country Town X] on a nursing placement and came back more racist than before I left.

And even later:

Eleven: ..and then he accused me of being a racist!

Brisbane-boyfriend (of One-six-three): That’s stupid. We’re all descended from Africans.

Me: I’m …not going to claim I’m African. My point is that you’re using politically incorrect terms when you said Eskimo and Indian.

Brisbane-boyfriend: Well, my point is that it’s their fault if they’re offended by what you said.

Eleven: It’s all about context.

Me: You can’t use the n-word in a context where they wouldn’t beat you up if you said it to their face.

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I don’t see where you get off thinking you’re that so much better than me because you think you’re “less racist” than me. A sense of entitlement and abuse of the health system and its funding is not ok, regardless of your skin colour.