An ex girlfriend once told me, when I asked her which animal I would be if I was one, that I would be a sloth. It`s the eyes, she said. I left her the next day. Was I offended? I cannot tell you. It is not even offensive, rather stupid. It probably hit a nerve. I have always had the inexpicable, crippling fear that I am lazy. LAZY. A lot more than other people. Which is not true, by the way. Most of my friends at some point of my life sat me down to express their concerns about me overworking myself. I am the absolute worst when it comes to outings with friends. I cannot even try and count the number of times when, deep in the middle of work, my phone rings and someone I used to go to school with would say, I`m here already, what do you think when you will be here? I`ve been waiting for 20 minutes now…
I am very certain that ex girlfriend was not thinking anything like this when she called me a sloth. But I did, and that was enough. Soon after that, I returned to the UK from Australia. I could also, finally, stop working for Buzzfeed and call myself a journalist without shame. I was working as a research assistant for BBC documentaries and I started making friends and meeting new girls. I did not want to go out with any of them. I now realise, that ex girlfriend hurt me a lot more than I thought. Any time a new girl said or did something nice to me, I would dump them straightaway. I could not explain this to myself, but it just felt right. Breaking up with someone because they offered to cook me dinner. Or because they said I looked like Alicia Keys, their secret crush.
I am admitting now, with loads of embarrassment, that I was desperate to build myself a persona, to be, you know, *somebody* within my social circles. I went to loads of gatherings to wine bars with fellow creatives and I kept telling everyone I am writing a novel, which was an absolute lie. I have never written a novel. Nor had the intention to ever do so. But I thought that is what intelligent artistic people do in their spare time. Especially the ones like me, who spend unreasonable amount of money on strategically oversized clothes from Cos and French cigarettes, and openly have multiple girlfriends at the same time.
People kept asking me, is it a lesbian novel. I do not know what they were thinking. That lesbians just go around being lesbians all the time, nothing else? Bullshit. So eventually, I stopped saying I am writing a novel and said I started seeing guys as well. Another lie. I did try, but it did not work out.
“ Slow the fuck down, you bitch” I cussed quietly at the old lady from the Youtube knitting tutorial on my phone sitting in Seven Dials.
Often people can not really reconcile Queerness. Even within homosexuality, people still try to assign the masciline and the feminine within. I guess I do it too to myself. Picking the black and white out of the grey. It is a symptom of insecurity from within and a reaction to the suspecting social exterior. In a world of people seeking an angle, I am trying my hardest to escape an imposed exoticness about me. It is uncomftable and yet reassuring.
I brushed up the dried coffee foam from the old college scarf sitting on my lap. Winter lingers on and on, in a city that is perpectually somewhat raining. A pigeon size of a toddler’s head wobbled pass me with urgency made me giggle out loud. Startled was the a well-dressed man fell asleep between a cold cappuccino and his pink broadsheets. We exchanged an obligatory smile and stared away from each other.
It hurts soemtimes how frequently sex came to my mind. I don’t think women talk about it, but I know I am not the only one.I never felt ashamed about it, as much as it intrigues me so. Yet, nothing ever compelled me to act out on it in an antisocial manner.
It is stupid to drink coffee al fresco in Feburary London without the excuse of consuming a cigerette. I am sitting in the cold knitting to a video on my phone on a weekday. Envious? You should. I feel fucking awesome.
