Dried up and sick to death of love…

4 02 2013

LiverpoolStation-dWell, here it is, February 4th and already I am on the dried up and sick to death of love post. It’s from Elton John’s song, “This train don’t stop there anymore”, which has spoken to me ever since it came out, as I struggled through the last years of my marriage.

(I’d alternate between this and “The Bitch is back” depending on how feisty I felt)

There’s something quite horrid about the breakup of a marriage. It usually doesn’t end with a bang. It’s more like the years of piled up hurts gradually start an avalanche that is impossible to stop. And while it is piling up, there’s the heartbreak, the happy memories that crumble to the ground, crushed in the ugliness of what is happening right then.

It’s been many years and still his abandonment of me hurts.

He’s remarried, and I hope he is happy. I’ve not, and I hope I am. I think, overall, though there’s the need for touch, I don’t think I’ll let my heart be taken again.

You may not believe it
But I don’t believe in miracles anymore
And when I think about it
I don’t believe I ever did for sure

So what’s started this new onslaught of bitterness after my hopeful posting yesterday?

Ah. The online dating sites.

Gruesome. Totally gruesome. I don’t think I can stand them anymore, and yet, how does anyone meet anyone in their fifties?

It’s sad – all these men smiling hopefully into the camera, not noticing the gawdawful mess in the room behind them, matched by women done up to the nines, wearing push-up bras and enough makeup and hair dye to support a third world country. Men who are seriously 4’s on the 1-10 scale, demanding 10s. Smokers demanding healthy people. People who are substance-ly retired (e.g. alcoholics) sending me messages saying “Hi sexy” as if I am panting for attention and would take even them on for a night. And among them, me, probably feeling more like a loser than I ever have, being round and disabled and grey-haired in a perky breasted world.

It’s fecking ridiculous. I am worth more than this foolish tarting of my qualities to appeal to a dreg of humanity.

So I decide to back off, cancel my profile, step back, hide. Focus on the things that make me feel good about myself.

But it’s addictive. Like chocolates, I can’t help but peek, though I know it’s not good for me.

And even now I find myself saying, “not that there’s anything WRONG with the ‘dregs’ of humanity”, and it’s true, I don’t mean to sound judgmental. Well, except for about the “Hi, sexy” people who just want to get laid without having to pay for it. They need a good slap upside the head.

It’s all fine and good to get together for an evening to talk or whatever with someone totally unlike you. But there’s no staying power, and so it ends up being a waste of my time and theirs. (Although I do like to understand how people live their different lives…). And difference can add spice, as long as there is a connection somewhere, but too much spice burns the tongue.

When I said that I don’t care
It really means my engine’s breaking down
The chisel chips my heart again
The granite cracks beneath my skin
I crumble into pieces on the ground

My engine is tired. I think it may be time to close down this station for renovations.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=evuV-9OgiYU

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