Cannibal Heart

 I have been neglecting this medium, recently, partly out of disinterest and partly because - as I explained to David, my one faithful reader, on Friday night - sometimes I feel like it's good to take a break from these things, to go full on off-the-grid Malaysian-plane for a while, so as not to inundate the internet with my woeful and self-serving diatribes. 

Tonight, the moon is a waxing gibbous, with 97% illumination, two days away from being full. It's a good time for new beginnings, to draw things to you with purposeful will and intention. If I didn't think it would make me feel like one of the girls from "The Craft", I might just try to cast a spell. As it is, I guess some sort of a blog post will serve as my evening ritual.

I've been thinking a lot today about the "hook up culture", aka "modern dating", and moreover, the fact that I am completely and totally inept at it. Well, okay. That's not entirely true. I'm not inept at attempting to do it, during the beginning, dizzying stages of flirting. However, I consistently fail, after the hooking up is done, to view the whole thing in the detached, laissez faire manner required to play this game with any skill. In fact, time and again, I am reminded that I "can't take these things so seriously", that there is something fundamentally wrong with me for seeing the men with whom I become romantically-involved as actual human beings, with complex emotions and interests and feelings, or for expecting these men to view ME in the same way - or indeed, to view me as anything more than, (to quote my brilliant friend, Christina's, phrase), "the headless torso".

Speaking of disembodied torsos: I was watching a Jeffrey Dahmer biography just the other day, as I am wont to do from time to time.  In his prison interviews, he discussed his grisly crimes and the complex reasons behind them. It turns out that, deep down, poor old Jeff was really lonely. Unable to deal with his dark fantasies and unwilling to talk to anyone about them, he became a full-blown alcoholic by the time he was fourteen. Later, when the killings began, he kept parts of his victims, and in some cases, ate them, because he just wanted to feel close to them, or to keep them with him, somehow.... Now, I am certainly not implying that I've any intention of turning into a cannibal serial killer to keep my dates around. Anyone who knows me knows that I hate cooking. And yet, I found something inherently-relatable, something pitiably-human, in the words of this inhuman monster. I think all of us have a desire for lasting emotional closeness with others. So why is it that the modern hook-up culture is geared to provide us with the complete opposite of that?

 In much the same way as we can obtain anything now from the comfort of our own homes, without having to attend to pesky little chores like getting dressed or showering, the current internet-driven dating world means that we can order up human interaction, quasi-romance, flirtation and sexual encounters with a few clicks of a mouse or taps of a phone screen. Maybe I'll spend a while perusing your gratuitous profile pics, and if I think your cleavage looks half-decent, I'll  "poke" you. Maybe, if I could picture you on top of me after a few beer, I'll swipe right. While I'm shopping on ebay or etsy, while I'm buying tickets to some concert online, I'm also ordering up another person's attention and affection. Click to add to cart. Instant gratification. Buy now. Winky-face emojis and, if I'm lucky, some sort of half-clothed bathroom selfies. Maybe a dick pic. When are we meeting up, BB? What can you do for ME, babe?  Where dem titties at?? ;) :D xoxox <3 <3 Lolz.

Now, I can usually get into this first part with comparative ease. Being fiercely-communicative by nature,  I revel in these connections, friendships or faux-romances.  I start out playing the game with flair and a certain calculated grace, born of age and assumed wisdom. But somewhere along the way, usually before the actual physical meeting takes place, something goes terribly, irreversibly wrong. I start to take the xoxo's to heart; I start to assume that sentiments of affection actually mean that the person might feel in some way affectionate toward me. I begin to assume that, because the guy stays up till all hours of the night chatting with me about all manner of things, that he actually enjoys talking to me. 

In that twisted, delusional manner that characterizes my M.O., I begin to really treasure getting to know this person, learning all about his life and his own unique set of interests, fears and hopes for the future. And, most horrific of all: I begin to think that he also thinks I'm some kind of unique snowflake, and that this whole thing is just as emotionally-gratifying a process for him, too.  Intellectually, I know that he's got four other chat windows open, that this ain't his first rodeo, either, that he sails with dogged assurance through the pantomime of "getting to know you", secure in the knowledge that soon, he will be able to put his penis in my vagina... And yet, that one deranged part of me, that Dahmer-esque hunger for human connection, overrides all sense of reality, of right or wrong, and I think, "Yup. This time, this is gonna work."

Like all true psychopaths, after awhile, I get too confident and I get found out. My hideous crimes are uncovered after the eventual in-person meeting, the awkward sexual encounter, the hungover-yet-hopeful brunch. This is the point, according to modern dictates of good taste, at which the transaction is finished. The two participants now accordingly return to their own lives and computer screens, to peruse what new items are available for acquisition. It is only the true crazies of the world who still want to stay in touch, who wish that that person could have stuck around for maybe another brunch or two, who spend days, weeks, months even, rereading the conversations and words exchanged, maybe listening to a song or songs that were discussed at some length, cherishing these macabre souvenirs, locking them away in dark closets of the mind. 

I never meant to hurt anyone. I just wanted to keep them with me. I hid it well, at first, and you never knew, because I seemed like such a nice girl.