My 2 Months of Jest and Castration

 

Shameful to admit but I was addicted to dating apps for a while. Casual dates, hooking up, one-night

stands, talking stages, I was speedrunning casual intimacy like a let's play Youtuber with clickbait thumbnails. I made the conscious decision in early February to delete the apps at the same time that I cut off the deadbeat millennial that had taken up a year of my life with our on-and-off fake nothingness of a relationship. I want to see how long I can go without a date. Sometimes I think these awkward imitations of closeness are fun and other times I question if I enjoy hurting myself because of how often I ended up in these embarrassing humiliation rituals labeled as dates. As long as I can remember, this might be the first time I’ve thought I need to focus on myself for a while, whatever that means. I’m starting to believe in cringe things like “what’s meant for me will come to me.” That is made-up bullshit but it feels better to think things can be that easy. Maybe I can just be submissive to life for a while and that’s how I’ll get my gratification. I’m the opposite of a serial monogamist but I have also never been truly “alone.” When I left a long-term relationship 2 years ago I used dating as a way to catch up to my peers and got caught up in the fast doses of false connections that it gave me. I was a beautiful young fish in the dentist's office aquarium that was Brooklyn. 

I got caught up in the whirlwind of informal hookups right before my 22nd birthday when I met him. A Tinder match turned into a 2 am hangout at his place. I always wonder if things would be different if we had met up for a proper drink somewhere in public. If he would have had appeared more grotesque in the bar lights surrounded by the gaze of others. That first night solidified him in my lore forever. We drank too many beers and stayed up late having sex and spinning records. To me, that is still the perfect date. All alone, no inhibitions, no filters. We began seeing each other every week. I was still in college and I would go to his place after class, stay over, and do my walk of shame back to campus the next day or just skip class to stay in with him and watch old episodes of The Life and Times of Tim. Stereotypical and honest, it felt exhilarating to tell my friends that I couldn’t stay after class because I had plans with my fake 30-something boyfriend. He was complicated and I was self-aware with hidden naivety and we just worked well together. I was getting addicted to him. It felt exciting to walk down the streets of Bushwick holding hands, wondering what the passersby must think of us. He shared an address with a popular bar in the area and every time I would go over I would have to ring the loud buzzer and wait alone until he came to the door to retrieve me. This Pavlovian act helped me recognize my deep-rooted masochism. Standing in a short skirt and knee socks, waiting anxiously for the 5-o’clock shadowed man to come retrieve me. We had fun for a few months before he ended things on a phone call. I knew it was coming but it still hurt. As time went by, I tried to find his replacements and failed miserably. I searched for him in every guy I went out with, dying to see a trace of my former millennial lover in any of these poor guys. A few months went by and he wanted to hang out again. Vulnerable with false hope, I gladly accepted. This was the honeymoon phase I dreamed of. We drank each other under the table and would race in the rain back to his Ridgewood sublet where we would smoke weed and hide from the world. We both knew that our situation had an expiration date, or maybe I did and he never realized how going back to me was self-sabotage for both parties involved. It ended shortly after and of course eventually started up again for a few months until I was so overwrought with anxiety that I broke it off right before my 23rd birthday. 

When I cut him out of my life, I felt like I had to pause my obsession with dating. “Self-care” some might say, or “healing era” but to me it’s just my self-regulated suffering period. I’m doing the work! I’m happily alone! I want to barf every time I see happy couples in public! It’s going great! Brooding in misery feels somewhat necessary at this moment and I have a gut feeling I will appreciate that I gave myself this grace period in the future, but God right now I am bored and lonely and still have dreams where my millennial calls me up for a drink. I never really mourned him until now. Every time we went on a break there was a part of me that knew I would see him again. They always come back! Something I truly believe! But this is the first time I’ve sat with the thought that he is permanently gone from my life. It’s kinda awesome in a way that hurts my stomach like a rollercoaster or coke. Again and again!!More more!!!!ooohhhhhh fuck I was meant to stop 10 minutes ago. I know I need to be by myself for a while and develop my personality outside of him. While we were dating I think I accidentally turned into a female version of him. I wanted to be loved so badly that I became a blank canvas of a girl just waiting to be covered in old adult swim shows and punk music. He called me based and it felt like a kiss. I made his life fun in ways that I’ll figure out in 2 years. He liked that when we walked together I would hold onto his clothes and not his hand. It’s so much more intimate to drag me around by the shirt. I’m the first millennial born in 2002. I know eBaums World and Les Savy Fav. Do you love me yet? I’m finding peace with my loneliness and resisting the urge every day to go back to the gulag that is Tinder. I think I’ll be fine but every time I see a washed-up Brooklyn millennial man in a faded t-shirt my heart skips a beat. This too shall Ass.