November 22nd, 2016

kiri win

(no subject)

V said, I'm really glad we met up[.] I could never forgive myself for not kissing you before. Would've loved to have been your boyfriend if things had turned out differently...

I suppose there is something romantic about this; about this harbouring of feelings, to whatever degree, for three years, and finally giving it shape and texture three years later. There was some sense of things coming full circle on Friday night, and I was enthralled by the way he'd kissed me: with a seemingly unquenchable thirst, as if making up for lost time and missed opportunities, holding me so tantalisingly close and whispering, I don't want you to go.

But let's face it. It wasn't an epic love story. It was two people doing stupid things in clubs. It was me in my self-destructive phase, sleeping with people that I barely knew just because and why not, and I would probably have slept with him too if he'd been free to do so. Of course, I enjoyed his company; he made me laugh, we got along well, and a part of me liked him too. But I got over that part rather quickly, and at the end of the year, I saw him as only a friend. It also says something, I think, that I'd never actually known that he'd liked me, and apparently still likes me.

What does he really like, though? He doesn't know who I am. I am not the girl that I was three years ago. I showed him, explained to him, an important part of who I am on Saturday night, and he didn't take it seriously and/or didn't take it to heart. The stilted, strained conversation the next day, and our failure to have a conversation about it - or anything of importance - underscores the lack of an emotional connection.

I understand this feeling of regret when one meets someone at the wrong place and the wrong time and leaves the person without expressing physically the emotional connection that one feels with this person. I experienced this in Melbourne 4 years ago; and I experienced it again in Melbourne in July this year. And so I understand where V is coming from.

But I don't mistake it for some epic love story, some doomed fairy tale, a heart-rendingly missed opportunity, because there is a difference between London and Melbourne. And I don't know what I am supposed to make of the last sentence. Thank you for the consolation prize? I am tired of the conditional perfect. I want the present simple. That, or I want nothing at all.


On a much happier note, I am in Paris until Friday. I didn't do anything interesting today; went to Forums Les Halles to attempt to buy a new handbag after squashing an over-ripe banana in my current one and leaving a disgusting banana stain on the inside of the bag, and watched Dr Strange just because. It was a really boring day. But I love Paris. I'm happy to be boring in Paris. Besides, tomorrow will be more interesting.

Getting to Paris, however, was such a nightmare. It'd been raining a lot in Cambridge (and most of the UK, probably) over the last few days, and this morning was no different. After realising that the 8.30am cab was cutting it too dangerously close for a cannot-miss-or-else-will-die 8.50am train to London Kings Cross, I decided to just walk to the station, but this plan was thwarted by the rain. I called the cab company and tried to get a taxi, but was told that it would be 25 minutes earliest due to the rain. I tried Uber; there were no cars in my area.

And so I walked to Marks & Spencer and got a cab. Thankfully, I arrived at the station with plenty of time left. The train was two minutes late to depart, and 15 minutes into the journey, I really had to pee; but the toilet nearest to me was out of order, and I was too lazy to walk to the other end of the train where there would presumably be another toilet. So I decided to wait till I got to St Pancras to pee.

I was really dying. I was counting down the minutes and seconds to the moment when the train arrived at Kings Cross and I could rush out of there and to the nearest toilet. But guess what happened? It stalled for a few minutes on the tracks just before it reached the station, and in those few minutes, I literally felt like I was going to get a panic attack. Thankfully the train finally pulled up to a platform before I exploded; but unfortunately, the time that it took me to go to the toilet was too much time, and I ended up having to rush to check-in when I saw that check-in was almost closing.

It was pretty much a huge rush and I was so stressed out, but at least I didn't end up missing my train. That would've been really freaking horrible.

I am tired and I don't feel like writing this anymore, and so I will just say that I am never going to Forum Les Halles ever again. It's such a badly designed mall with boring shops and there's a grand total of one toilet in the entire building. So awful.

Dr Strange was also crap. It was poorly written, Tilda Swinton (?) is not Asian, and the whole movie was just so...shallow. I was really disappointed. I didn't even find it that entertaining; I was falling asleep at some parts. But I will say that towards the end, I found Benedict Cumberbatch hot for the first time ever. It had to do with the scars and the stubble...and the scars. Yum, men with scars.


Lastly, I went on a Tinder date yesterday. It was very pleasant and the guy was nice, but there was no chemistry.

That's all.