Grown Ups and Fuck Ups

The thing about a crush.

Digital Crushing

The last time I had such an enduring crush was an age ago. I was in high school, fat and super insecure about how I looked. He was gorgeous. Like absolutely beautiful. Blue eyes, light brown skin and just the most stunning English accent that made me combust into a ball of teenaged lust and angst. We became friends, really great friends in fact, while acting together in a Shakespeare's The Taming of the Shrew. I played Katherine and he played Katherine's father. I still remember how nervous I was when I asked him to come to my 5th form formal with me. He agreed. He brought a rose and the Victor Victoria musical dvd as a gift. Much much excitement. We kind of danced around each other and then when it could not get any worse he kissed a family friend. Fun times. I still see him on my Facebook, gorgeous as ever but my preferences changed, I grew up, lost the weight and the desire to be poor forever with an aspiring actor. 

Youths. Urgh.

The thing is that actually interacting with a flesh and blood person allowed me to get over the crush. Seeing him drunkenly kiss my cousin at Matric Vac in a sweaty, stinky beachside club gave me the impetus to just get over him. Not so today. The thing about me is that more likely than not, I fall for a brain. Yes, looks are all good and well, but what gets me going is a smart man who is equal parts culture, smarts, business acumen and a sprinkling of sex. And a beard. And my GOD does twitter not have an abundance of those. Meeting a few of them in real life cured me of that quick fast. From a braying laugh, to some good old misogyny, they were able to disabuse me of the notion of ever shagging them. Thanks guys. 

Thanks for the commentary on the appropriate amount of women's pubic hair

But what of the unmet twitter crush? What of the exquisite agony of crushing on an avatar? Do you have any idea how annoying it is to have a crush on someone who for all intents and purposes may not exist? 

Fuck you Internet

 I found myself clicking on a twitter account more often than usual. Laughing out loud. Smiling as if those tweets were addressed to me. Giggling when I got likes on Instagram. It's like trying to get water out of your ear after swimming for the whole day. You jump around like an idiot and all you hear is WOMP WOMP WOMP. You can't click off twitter or Instagram because LIFE'S BLOOD but they are there ALL THE TIME. BEING SMART AND CUTE. AND BEARDY.  

Stop this thing.

Literally unable to can

You're in a permanent state of butterflies but over the digital iteration of someone's personality. To be clear, no one on twitter is their true self. I think honesty stopped being a thing on twitter around 2010 when people realised that they could make money off of catfishing a bunch of brands. I digress. 

So I  had to ask myself what will it take to get over a crush that has held me in its sweaty little fist for a month?

 I decided to webstalk.

NINJA POWERS ENGAGE!

Yes, I trawled Facebook to find pictures from three years ago of the person in blackface, a Borat thong or even a bunch of Super Bru's at one of those paint throwing dub step concerts white people go to while high on methamphetamine. Nope. Nothing. He was basically perfect. Fuck. I texted my friends. I asked my sister for help. I watched some Oprah in the hopes that she would lay her hands upon me and pray away the crush. Two weeks later, I was a little luckier. I found a retweet that my ass crack told me was his girlfriend. Read through her timeline. 

BINGO. Drinks required. Luckily, Saturday decided to play ball and I found myself neck deep in straight up margherita's. Eventually I dispensed with the lime, simple syrup and salt. Tequila. It's good.

Much better now.

Now I am semi-cured. I am actively ignoring his twitter and hoping to stumble on to a regular person that I can actually pretend to talk to while we watch Star Wars, drink beer and eat grilled cheese sandwiches which is the natural order of the world.

New York: Where The Weak Come To Die.

New York, New York.

It's a place where luck does not exist. Luck is for the weak. For those who have no talent and therefore need some unknown being to do the work for them. Luck is for the lazy, for those who could not muster enough energy to shake themselves out of some self-imposed slumber (indeed, it must be a slumber of the heart, for who ever could sleep their life away, lacks love) and place one foot in front of the other in the belief that today is the day they will succeed and no other. A belief in luck shows that one is lacking in courage, and that alone will ensure this city swallows you whole. What's more, no one will care. No one will wonder about you. They will continue to eat in their quaint patisseries, and studiously ignore you in the subway while you pray for luck to make you something that you were clearly never meant to be. Do not be sad. This is not a rebuke of your talent.

You will remain just as talented as you are for the rest of your life. Nothing about New York will change that. New York will change you. New York will beat you into something shiny, hard and possibly empty. The last 48 hours have been hard for me to witness because I realised that New Yorkers, at least the ones who moved from elsewhere and settled in New York have dulled, wary eyes that move sharply from corner to corner seeking out opportunity. It is that naked ambition and opportunism that kills the light in the eyes. As if the electric billboards of Times Square are run on the life-force of the people of New York.

It may sound depressing. You may think that I hate it. No. I am, as ever, ambivalent. My guard is down, I am vulnerable, I have never really been in a situation where four people know me in a city of twenty million. Johannesburg is a hick town in these parts. I am lonely and anonymous,but by God, I am free. Perhaps in two weeks, I will be different too. Perhaps by then my eyes won't shine as brightly and my heart will be a little wary, but I know when I arrive back home, I will be a lot more me and a lot less Jozi.