2001-12-20 - 7:20 p.m.
�Aw, man Oh, Hitler had Ava Braun, Manson had Squeaky Frawn, Ted Bundy got lots of dates, I wonder what I'm doing wrong...�
So thanks for the vitriolic hatemail after yesterday�s rant that could, I suppose, have been construed as vaguely rampant zoophobia. Of course, it was all merely a front for the huge insecurities I have about not being able to relate to animals of any kind. I can only apologise. As penance, I even cleaned my fishtank. They didn�t seem to care much.
And speaking of being rejected by baffling creatures, I was thinking what a strange year it�s been in the old romance stakes � the disappointments, the lows, the abject humiliations. So I thought I�d let you all in on more than you care to know - a handy cut out and keep guide to how it all went, and what the main playaz are doing now.
The French Uma Thurman: The year started out so well, though this was always going to be optimistic at best, especially given that she was young, French and looked like Uma Thurman. There was early competition from the wanker Kiwi, and after what�s probably the only victory I will ever claim thanks to a public display of rhythm, my hopes were raised, only to be dashed again as she began to realise I wasn�t the film-making wunderkind she thought I might have been. Or any kind of wunderkind, really. There was the inevitable declaration of affection and her subsequent not phoning me for about three weeks � I hadn�t felt so embarrassed since that summer I had to help my gran out of the bath. Still she�s moved onto better things, and is now enamoured with an obscenely rich sociopath who won�t meet any of her friends, let alone engage in sweet relations with her or as far as I know, any physical contact whatsoever. Hard to compete with that kind of respect, huh? We shared a bed together a hundred times but never even kissed. Bizarre.
"You're so sweet. Can't we just be friends? I think of you as a brother. Aw, man. You're hurting me. What do I have to offer you, baby? Poetry and true love. That's not enough, I know for sure,..�
The Menstrual Spaniard: Long-term crush, characterised by her near-superhero-like ability to induce heavy periods whenever there was the chance we might have to be under the same roof for the night. Which was a lot, since she lived with my friend across town. So many drunken nights that the law of averages decreed that we�d at least, given even remedial persistence on my part, snog at some point. Unpredictably it took place at my flat, though it was punctuated with reminders that she was, um, riding the cotton pony. Inspired, I invited her to Dublin for the weekend, though I can�t remember if it was before we checked in or as we went through passport control that she broke the predictable news. This girl must need transfusions on a weekly basis. Undeterred, I capitalised on her being a captive audience and, timing my declaration to perfection on, um, day one, made sure the rest of the holiday was an orgy of physical avoidance. Still, she�s moved onto better things and is now enamoured with a relatively rich sociopath who will meet but not talk to any of her friends, will only have sex under strictly timed conditions (I�m not making this up � there is a stopwatch involved and it can go as short as 4 minutes regardless of, um, completion) will not let her stay the night EVER and will not tolerate any public acknowledgement that they are a couple. Hard to compete with that kind of respect, huh?
The Ninja Bride: Back with the Ninja after he courageously got into a fight in a bar for no reason. Though that was only ever hot monkey rumpo, the rapidity of being dropped was still enough to knock the wind out of the old sails. Hard to compete with his Ninja skills, though.
Needless to say, I�m not even LOOKING at girls in 2002.
�Tired of being a good guy Such a lonely life, I'm gonna be a jerk Yeah, that's right, I'm gonna step on lots of toes, Whoo, girls gonna go crazy for that kind of guy, Baby, I'm gonna act like I don't know you�.�
