Tuesday, October 25, 2016

Foolish Musings of a 19YO on Gap Year.

I travelled the world for a year when I was 18. Northern America, UK, Europe, South Africa with a layover in Asia for 8 hours on the way home. I was directionless. I knew what I wanted to do in life, but I wasn't brave or emotionally stable enough to do it. At some point I was given a diary to fill in. Which I thought would be more prolific and insightful than what it actually is. It's exceptionally mundane, and disappointingly, not well written.

Here's probably the most entertaining or disturbing excerpt I found:

March 1999... 

Young girl who likes old men
Looks into their lives and plays with them
They don't give stones, money or bright
They share ideas, experience, insight
Wanting some sort of intimacy
I'm seeing it more intricately
Relationships differ, age widens gap
Eventuates into some serial mishap
Old men that like young girls
Someone needs to question their integrity
That should be someone like me. 

I still think Heidi Fleiss was right. Anything over 40 does look right. One can make the odd exception in the case of materialistic beauty, style and aesthetics only if they converse on an educated level, with a mature outlook. They should be over 30... 25 if you're really feeling generous. Unfortunately, in some cases lots of 30+ men will have a hereditary balding gene. These people should be avoided if it can helped, for having relationships with young girls that is. 

I don't know, what does one look for in a partner, I haven't the foggiest idea. Charisma, style identifiable to oneself. I can't handle a person who doesn't have some devious characteristic. Deviancy, yes thats something much more exciting. They are at least interesting. Naughty, Darker. I think some degenerative-ness is definitely attractive. Not heaps mind you, just a dirty mind and untamed imagination. With less morals than the god fearing christians. 

Something wicked, foreboding, mysterious, passionate. 

Emotionally intelligent, I can work some things out, intellectually, I am fucked, lets face it. 

I perused through the rest of the year, didn't seem to have any other badly written poetry. It had no particulars apart from the day to day of traveling around, dealing with different family and people. The mundanity of working in bars - a lot of description about cleaning them after hours. I smoked too much, I drank too much, and took too many drugs. Occasionally I did dance classes, and there is of course the random entries about men. I suffered from crippling insomnia referred to in every entry unless I was completely shitfaced. Being inebriated, I seemed to get a decent enough night sleep, but the aftermath wasn't pretty. 

The over-all tone over the year is of someone who is incredibly hard on themselves for underachieving goals and not meeting expectations set too high. Not many days where I was exuberant but as time goes on my language becomes peppered with colloquial english idioms. 

There was highlights of Living in a 2 bedroom Bachelor pad with four other men who were all on different timetables. Museums, Madame Jojo's, seeing Underworld and Les Rhythm Digitale at Brixton Academy on scalped tickets, attended solo - which I found freeing. On reflection, I don't think I saw going to music events the same ever again. And a few amusing late night marriage proposals from men in nightclubs. On one occasion I was told I was just dumb enough to fall in love with. Apparently my response was "I'll add you to my list".

When I found this pathological entry on my interest for older men...I figured clearly, I had issues. 

The Investment.

When I was young, I met this man. It was a lovely story. 

We had a conversation... he pulled out his dictionary and bewitched me with his words. 

I searched for him for months on end, but he was hibernating. I sent out a message and invited him to a milestone celebration. He received the encoded innuendo and arrived, exhausted, but somewhat present. 

I overloaded his mind with stupefiantes and played with his affection. I watched him sing R Kelly songs to walls and misunderstood the dynamics of the situation. He went home tired, wired, wide eyed, absent... left without my number. 

Eventually I found him, in a large open space, surrounded by socialites I was bound to interact with. Not written in any stars, but charmed by words and seduced by his linguistics. 

I profusely apologised as I felt responsible for my incendiary actions. Leaving his abode, I was both intrigued and entertained by our playful interaction.

For some reason, I thought I had figured out his number.

Later that week playing pool at the local...coincidentally he was there.

It felt indescribably electrifying in every cliched sense of the word. And it was a most definitely compromising situation. In an interesting predicament, an old beau had joined me, helplessly examining our behaviour. Trying not to look, yet the charged glance between the new and cold dismissal of the old was far too obvious to ignore. 

Only twice flickered flares of penetrating lightning, and as they say: that was that. 

Lubricated by layers of alcohol, we explored some dingy scenes together. I miss-kissed him, faulting - the first sign I thought maybe I was mistaken. 

It was daylight and I lay on his couch, entangled in his warmth, exploring the biggest sex instrument - his brain. 

Reaffirmed, reassured with absolution. Thank fuck for small wonders: it worked.