Not all men.
Well yeah, not all men. Like not ALLLLLLL men. Right? Like, some? Yes. Most? Sure. Practically every single one? Okay, yes. All? NO. Not ALLLLLLLL.
Okay but I am hardcore dating myself right now. You know? Like not in a, fuck men I hate everyone god I’m so lonely like of way. But in a real, proper romantic courtship. Hear me out.
I smoke weed. I do. I’m fucking high right now. And like this is my relationship. Not like with the weed, I don’t need an intervention, but like the high me is my relationship.
Like texting. You like having a partner, boyfriend, girlfriend, whatever, to text throughout the day. Just share little things, or vent, or just kill some time.
I do that.
I do. I keep a notebook in my nightstand because I’m always writing myself notes. I always come up with these things that I think are brilliant when I’m high and I just really want to share them with the sober me. So I’ll jot down some words or notes or even sometimes like a full big letter, or I’ll draw a picture or something. I have actually texted myself before when I was high because I wasn’t near paper and was worried I might forget what was so important that it had to be commemorated.
So then sober me gets to wake up to a sweet note or a doodle. Maybe even just one word that triggers a whole inside joke or something. Romantic as hell. I treat me good.
My relationship has humour. I’m funny. I love making myself laugh. I know they say you’re not supposed to laugh at your own jokes, but man if I can’t even make MYSELF laugh, how am I going to make anybody else laugh? I’m always laughing to myself. We’re just so funny.
What else? What else do you have a spouse, or a boyfriend, or whatever for?
BLAME! Right?!
Sometimes you want to have a person to blame for things. Not in a malicious way at all.
Like, my sister has a joke that when she’s home alone she’s the asshole who didn’t fill the ice cube tray. Right? Shout out Ashley J. Perna. But it’s real! It’s nice to be able to go to the washroom and see that the toilet paper roll is empty and roll your eyes like ughhh it’s so frustrating that I have to do this. Even if 50/50 shot it was you. But you have a partner so you can logically have that thought, like you can realistically tell yourself that there’s a chance it wasn’t you that did the dumb thing.
I. Have. That Too!
I know full well that I am the one who left the dishes out. I know it, I live by myself, I know I did this thing. But I can still have that moment where I can be like, for fuck’s sake there’s no clean mugs are you kidding me?! And then be all grumpy while I’m washing one to use.
And yes, of course, the number one thing that “most” couples can agree on (hashtag not all couples) enjoy doing together would be……..pause…….karaoke! Okay, no, Sex. It’s sex.
Do I even need to go into this one?
Yes, it’s nice having a partner to be intimate with.
But… Come on. I get me off. I do okay.
If you think about it though, really, how many times are you with your partner and the sex is just like…meh? Like it’s good and everyone’s getting where they need to go and all that, but it’s just not quite…there, you know? It’s not GREAT.
With my romantic partner? Who is MYSELF? Fuck, I know exactly what I like. And I can get me there better than anyone else. I have the map. And I’m always agreeable with the after activity. Sometimes I like to get a snack. Sometimes I just want to go right to sleep. And sometimes I want to stay up and talk about all the mysteries of the universe. And no matter what mood I’m in, I’m there too. It’s great. It’s perfect!
It’s just so much less drama than with the other potential partners swirling around in my brain. Dudes that I’ve talked to, or been with, or thought about for the last little while.
There’s the guy who absolutely everyone ever in life has thought was gay. The guy that wanted to “fix” me when I’ve never known anyone more broken.
There’s the friendship I started with a really amazing person who then LITERALLY GHOSTED ME (for real, the poor, wonderful dude actually died).
The dude who’s my friend…who at some points was more and at other points much less. Who I haven’t seen in years? But who’s wife sends me harassing messages online?
Or there’s the rebound who I wasn’t even sure about meeting but then fell crazy fast into infatuation and ended up with even more hurt.
These are my options. Really? Dating myself sounds a lot better now, doesn’t it?
And yes, these are only a few guys in a sea of sperm. I can’t judge all guys based on few. But if a fish kept biting off an inch of your finger every time you stuck your hand in the tank, you’d probably stop sticking your hand in that tank, wouldn’t you? Yes, you’d keep that hand to yourself for awhile.
Which…yeah. Is how I got the idea of dating myself.
Thirty Something 