On Entering the Twilight Zone

On entering the twilight zone. Better known as dating. I'm pretty sure The Twilight Zone was actually a TV series, but having never watched it I always feel guilty about using the cliche to describe the topsy-turvy confused atmosphere of my life. So, it is with guilt that I can declare that my dating life has entered the twilight zone. Maybe I'm being melodramatic, but I'd like to convey that the general status of well, my status, is befuddling, baffling, and perplexing. There aren't nearly enough bad adjectives to describe this...twilightus zonus. It's sort of like staring at a transvestite convinced that he/she isn't a transvestite, but wondering why their adams apple is bobbing up and down to the beat of The Simpson's theme song. Baffling.

Right. The greatest benefit of being single is simple: you only have yourself to worry about. When you start including anybody, let alone somebody of the male persuasion (non-transvestite), in your though process you're guaranteed sheer insanity. Yep. Think you're normal now? Ha! You'll be lucky to be functioning after he's invaded class time, work time, sleep time, day dream time, eating time, fucking around time, and most importantly, blank time! Blank time is for emptiness, for a big, fat helping of nothingness. It's when he invades that time that I am particularly annoyed. I don't want to be forced to think during designated non-thinking time. A girl's allowed to go blank sometimes, you know. Fuck.

Whereas the last 5 months were filled with the quiet sounds of me, myself and I, this last month has been a disturbingly giddy, but strange duet. Twosome, anybody? Gross! I want just me back. Screw Noel! He's not allowed to invade and make my time our time. Who does he think he is? Man, you give men an inch and they take over your mind.

I've now officially entered the area of twilightus zonus where everything I do somehow relates back to something that Noel is doing. Am I on MSN, strategically, when I know he's home from work? Of course not! Independent, modern chicks of 2008 do not schedule their MSN time around a man. As if! Convincing? I didn't think so. Do I spend an irrational amount of time talking to him when I know I have more important, and pressing things to deal with, such as, hmm, my education? Of course not! I'm acquiring the debt of a small African nation to study in London and I would never compromise that for a man. Did that work? I thought not. As is very obvious I've become an irrational feminine pool of mushy feelings and as such, am sacrificing parts of myself for...a man!? I'm a misogynists dream girl! So willing to give and give, think and think, while I'm not convinced he is doing the same. Hmm.....I smell a double standard. I also smell that I've initiated it.

My escape plan for the twilightus zonus? Well, it's not squeezing through the washroom window in the middle of dinner. It's using thinking to my advantage. No, I will not be thinking about him, instead I will be thinking about not thinking about him....well, at least not as often. I need to recapture my sanity from the dirty grips of yet another man I am just testing out. See, if he works out, it'll be because he wanted it to, not because I obsessed and worked to be there. This time, he'll work to be there, and I'll be sitting back on my polka-dot comforter sipping on chilled mango juice and reading Cosmo as it tells me how to get my man. Shows what they know! I don't have to get him, he'll be coming to me. And if he doesn't, well, I still have a few more hours in the twilight zone to stir up some shit. Ruckus, the greatest liberator. Well, only second to fucking shit up.