Single. Today I felt acutely aware of how rubbish this state of being can be. Since moving house a month ago I have found myself spending the majority of my time by myself, which in turn has led to lots of thoughtful reflection on my progression from depressed potential lunatic to moderately upbeat potential psychopath, as well as a worryingly large amount of midnight baking (which I will elaborate on at another point). Why would anyone want to be single all the time? Sometimes I am wholeheartedly in favour of having no one to impinge on me doing exactly what I want, when I want to. I cherish the moment every morning when I roll over in my comfortable bed and there is no one next to me complaining that I'm on their side again. Unfortunately I also spend a lot of time (still) thinking about the break-up, and generally being a bit stupid (as all this thinking leads straight to ice cream land, and fat-day jeans come beckoning). This would be a bad day.
Which isn't actually that big a deal now. The bad days have become fewer and further apart, which is nice, but it does mean that when a bad day occurs (today was another classic: crying at TMF's 100 greatest love songs) it rather takes me by surprise. Possibly it was my own fault for not getting up and doing something productive with my time today, favouring the TV and Big Brother re-runs in my pyjamas instead. The lack of activity was, I am sure, the catalyst for the tearfest, although I imagine it would have been very amusing to anyone else, as the song happened to be 'As Long as You Love Me' by the Backstreet Boys. God is not without a sense of humour. In short, life rarely sucks, but when it does, it sucks in widescreen surround sound (snd very occasionally with synchronised dance moves and a key change for the final chorus).
But, this is a bad day. Some good days have been epic in terms of debauchery and merriment, namely the work day out a few weeks ago. I got shot in the behind at paintballing, then mauled in the street by one of the glass collecters on the night out. Both events ended in me having far more interesting bruises than everyone else, and the general sense that I had fallen into a hedge, something confirmed a week later by a very amused work colleague.
And so I return to my original point. Single. Is it working for me? Not really. I miss the companionship of a partner that cannot be fulfilled by the cat, even though he is more disposed to snuggling than the evil ex ever was. I miss having someone to call, knowing they have to pick up the phone and make me feel better. Mostly I miss having someone to miss when they're not around. And from this rather pathetic thought, I begin to worry that this is how Miss Havisham spent the first year of her slow journey into insane wedding dress wearing loonidom...
I think I need another cat.