I wanna be a bastard, gaun lemme be a bastard.

Today’s post is brought to you by the word “morose.” So maybe you’ll want to skip it. Also I’m hiding the fact I haven’t been my usual sensible nice self behind the jump, in the hopes you don’t bother clicking it.

In a couple of weeks it’ll be the first anniversary of my split with Ex. Not looking at it so much in the way that I’m saddened by it like if it was someone’s death, more that I’m comparing that time last year to now. Perverse as it may sound, part of me wouldnt mind going back to then, because it was pretty much an exciting, enjoyable part of my life. Things were changing, moving. The split and subsequent freedom were in sight, I was at college working towards something, I was meeting new people and for the first time in nearly five years I had a group of friends that were worthy of the title, not just family members of my then other half. And my mind was fucked, and that made things wonderfully simple. I can’t say that I was sad or depressed, I honestly believe I wasn’t, but I was numbed down. There were no peaks and troughs in my mood, everything was flat, and that took away all the complexities of life. It made it easy to be a bastard. And I loved that, it felt like an armour and gave me an excuse to do what the hell I pleased and not care about it the next day. I’d seen so much suffering on a daily basis already I justified everything as either a) It could be a lot worse so why should I care? and b) Fuck ’em, they deserved it. Usually this was as I pulled a girl who had a boyfriend. Mostly because I wanted them, once or twice I didn’t much care for their men.

Over the past year that’s broken down bit by bit through not being needed. As a result I’ve got this cancerous thing in the back of my mind that makes me feel like shit instead of putting it down as a tiny little ripple in the grand scheme of things. It’s made me think of details, of consequences, that A causes B and results in C, hurt for me or other folk. I mean it’s not as if I did anything bad. Not bad bad at any rate. It was just the right amount of Don’t Give A Fuck to get me through the day.

As you’ve probably surmised by this point I’ve been a cunt and am now regretting it. And naturally there’s a girl involved. I woke up in one of my more bastardlier moods and felt jolly good about it, helped a little by it being one of those days where you’ve waited so long for a decent bit of tail and then four appear on the scene at once. Flirting happened, a good weekend seems to be on the cards and for tonight I go and meet a girl I went to college with. She’s not my usual type, but she’s cool, and the big kick in the pisser in retrospect being that she trust(ed)s me. We talk, had a laugh, “fun” was had and now I feel like a prick as she has a boyfriend she’s been going with for a couple of years and I was an arsehole. Not helped in any small way that she’s taken to Twitter (which I don’t use and nobody I know really has one, but that little voice at the back of my mind told me to look, knowing that I’d had a smile on my face for too long) to proclaim my betrayal of trust. Thankfully I remain unnamed for the time being. There’s a load of reasons but no excuses for it I guess.

Now I’m trying to jam my bad guy hat on in any way I can to convince myself that there’s no point giving a fuck, that it’s not as if I have to see her every day and that any drama that does arise I can shrug off and hey, in a year will I really be bothered by it all that much? Eventually it’s just going to be relegated to Thing That Happened like everything else is. And aye, I know that this post has been about me complaining I can’t be a wanker without feeling bad anymore and wishing I could be, but don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.