Untitled, By Unknown

28: New Year, old me

Writing time: 6th- 12th February 2017

Truth is like poetry. And most people fucking hate poetry.'-The Big Short, 2015. Apparently, it wasn't actually overheard in a Washington D.C bar as the film claims, instead made up by the director Adam McKay after failing to find the perfect quote. That may not be true, but it sounds exactly like the most random thing a guy would spit out in a bar after eight pints.

Happy 2017. Yours may have begun with celebrations, friends, fun. Mine started with a kiss from a random woman (who remarked that it must have been weird for me considering we didn't know each other. Correct) and a ride home with a taxi driver who was ever so slightly racist. How wonderful.

Now I only had two days of holiday left. Time to cram in the homework I'd been putting off for weeks. At least there wasn't too much to do; for Law, it had just been 'revision'. Not that I'd been doing any of that. I should have been, but that's not the point.
Back to college. How glorious. Into Economics, where I relayed the tale of my now fifth ex (Christ, I'm really going through them). The shorter one was immediately defensive of me, directing all manner of insults towards a guy he'd never met. I appreciate the 'sentiment', but you really don't have to. My problem, not yours. Then after the 30 seconds of sympathy came the 30 years of jokes. Including their new inclusion: 75% gay is basically gay. Because clearly it works
on a principle of rounding. This continued for a while.
The difference was, it hurt.
You've been reading this (I presume). You know I was confused. Am confused. Remember Chapter 10? How angry I got? Difference was I knew these were jokes. Well, hoped. Still didn't stop me believing them... somehow this pushed me over the edge. It was decided.
Confess.
Leaving the room. The taller one was still pushing his claim. I was so close to speaking.
Confess.
He turned away, down another corridor. Wait. The shorter one was still here, bunking off. Conversation turned casual. I had to switch it back. I did.
"Look, all these things you say about me being gay..."
Confess!
You think you can handle the guilt of the Prince of Rhodia? Correct.
"...They're pretty much right. I'm probably more like 95% gay. I just don't find girls as attractive anymore. The right one, maybe, but... yeah."
He got it. Didn't push it. And I admitted what I knew to be true.
Confusion over? Not quite. But closer. A better starting point. The most surprising thing being I'd told him first. An interesting choice.
You know, for a chapter I thought 'would be quite stretched out, as I don't think much will happen this month', it's got a lot of drama in it. Over a longer period of time than average, but even so. Loads.
Case in point: the next night.
About 6. I had a video of some sort on. Then came the message, popping out from the top of my screen: 'I want to get back together'. Signed, my fifth ex.
Oh, fuck me.
Really? Just- seriously? Honestly, I'm happy to end this book at any time. No need to keep providing plot! Oh no. What do I say? Was he serious? Maybe. Did I still like him? Kind of? Well, fantastic.
I waited half an hour before replying. Called the emo in as an advisor. Eventually started to reply, asking how serious this was. The answer to that seemed to be very. This could be good. Then he asked me if I had any fetishes. Ok, something was off here. As I discovered five minutes later when my actual fifth ex returned to his phone, in contrast to the batch of friends who'd previously stolen it and contacted me. Still straight, still not interested. Well. That was a slight disappointment. Probably wouldn't have been the best idea to get back with him anyway. Slightly awkward the next day seeing him on the bus. No communication between us. Simply a panicked look away from myself.
The next week included some good old pondering. This followed criticism from the nerdy one about my work. As I may or may not have mentioned, I kind of want to publish this. I'm not expecting it to be a best-seller. All I want is a physical copy of this in my hand, with the knowledge that I have achieved something quite magnificent in writing a novel. Even if I held the only copy. That would be enough. He understood this, and provided the alternative viewpoint that my work was shit. Well, not exactly, but that it wasn't good enough for general release. There might be an argument there. Is that true? Is this any good? Am I wasting my time? Anyone?