Solitary pastime

Do you even know what this means? Do you know how important it is?

Ideally, you should spend up to ten hours a day on a solitary pastime.

Call me crazy, but in reality, you’re just scared of it; you’re afraid of being alone with yourself. I’m not saying this about everyone, only to those who accuse me of flirting with Houellebecq-ian and Cioran-ian principles. I already told you that I’m different from them, on the outside anyway.

What do you care about what really fuels my engine? I’m smiling at you right now, aren’t I? That should be all that counts. After all, I have hope, which means I’m no longer scared, just tired, but I can’t afford to be. There’s too much to do and learn. Too many people to tell that they are not worth it and too many left to kiss.

Six kisses in your life aren’t enough. People get to a point where they lose count, and I want to get there, too.

Yes, I had a fabulous weekend alone, and I will do it again. I’m not going to call you unless I’m ok with it. At least I’m not saying I’m going to call you when I need something; I said I’m going to call you when I’m ok with it – big difference.

I think about my friends all the time, how often do I have to tell you? Once I know I’m due for a “hello,” I will say hello. In the meantime, feel free to say hello too.

I’ve been reading Houellebecq’s latest book, and I like how faithful he is to his style. It still makes me smile when he ostracises his protagonists from humanity. And he loves choosing gorgeous women to be his girlfriends – there’s nothing wrong with that. I mean, I wish I was dating a cardiac surgeon, and I wish I were one myself. But Houellebecq, despite his stance towards society and life, is a delight. He’s wonderful. Come on; we’re talking about a writer who falls asleep during interviews.

I can’t wait to move out and have a place of my own, maybe not in this bloodsucking country. I thought my new room was nice, but I’ve started feeling claustrophobic; I have no proper space to move around, no fan that extracts the steam while cooking, and so on. I can hardly do my Pilates on that terribly soft double bed. There’s hardly space to move my mouse on the table.

On the weekends, the neighbours are noisy, and about twice a week, my landlady’s daughter and granddaughter come to visit, and I hold my bladder to avoid going to the downstairs toilet. Sick, I know. But I don’t want to socialise, you see, not even a hello. And when I pee in her bathroom upstairs, they could hear it in the dining room because the fucking door doesn’t shut properly. Though, I’m not making it obvious how I despise socialising. My landlady still thinks I’m a delightful person. And the granddaughter still looks at me as if I was her favourite doll – but I’m not having this.

Talking about kids staring at me – I always thought it had something to do with my skin colour or my eyes, but it’s not true. And she’s black! I look at her like she’s a normal person, so why can’t she? She’s a kid, that’s all I can say.

The other day on the tube, there was an Oriental baby in the pram. It stared at me as if I was a disease. God, these fucking creatures!

Although I’m pretty much settling in, I’m still in a hurry. I don’t get home from work until about six or seven-ish, and by nine, I’m already in bed. This is not life. I have to work on my routine – how much I hate routines.

Fuck, my room still smells of soy sauce. Cooking my lunch the night before is horrible, but yes, it saves me money, even though reheated food isn’t healthy. Not only that, it tastes shit once it’s been microwaved. I threw my pasta with pesto away. It tasted dry and disgusting.

When it comes to writing and reading, I only have little space for these activities. But at least I have space, just not regularly. Therefore weekends have become MY days. And if I don’t want to see you, you can take it personally. I don’t have the nerve to explain who I am to you.

I do many things alone: I travel, go to the opera/cinema/gym/park/ etc. alone. If I want to invite you along, I will ask. By all means, I haven’t forgotten about you.

Sincerely, it doesn’t mean I don’t care about you as a person. But if you don’t understand my need for solitary pastimes, then we shouldn’t be friends.

This may be hard to understand, but I know it makes sense to you in a way, although we may define friendship differently. Human interaction and communication too.

Just let me go to bed now.

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