#oneaday Day 145: The love of a good cat

Apologies for last night’s bleakness. Not entirely sure what came over me. I think it was just the fact I turned the TV on to watch something while I was having something to eat and I was immediately confronted by a “Dell AI” advert that… didn’t advertise anything whatsoever. But anyway. That was then, and this is now, and now I am back from my overnight stay and monthly visit to the office, and I have been welcomed home by my wife and cats.

My wife is jealous of how much our cats love me. And not just our current two; I was clearly favoured by both Ruby and Meg also. I haven’t particularly done anything special to make any of them favour me in particular, but I can confirm that both Oliver and Patti have been all over me ever since I returned home.

And it’s nice. There is something wonderful about the completely (well, mostly) unconditional love you feel from an animal. Both Oliver and Patti simply like being with me. We don’t have to be doing anything “together”; they both just like to be in the same room as me, knowing that I’m nearby, and that if they feel like jumping on me to harass me for some attention and/or treats, I’m right there, nice and convenient.

I’d always known that having a cat around was a genuine joy. I grew up with two of the most wonderful cats you ever could imagine, for starters, and I still miss them both dearly. I have doubtless told this story many times before, but our first cat Penny was very much my “nursemaid” when I was very little, and as I grew up I felt very close to her.

After Penny passed on peacefully one night, it wasn’t long before my family decided that we didn’t want to be without a cat, and so Kitty (we didn’t name her) joined us. She was a wonderful bundle of joy who loved nothing more than jumping into your lap and lying down, regardless of if you were trying to do anything. Sadly she left us, well before her time, after an accident in the road outside our house.

I still think of both Penny and Kitty, and love them both dearly.

And having pets of my own has brought me immeasurable amounts of joy. I consider myself incredibly fortunate to have been blessed with such wonderful pets consistently — though the fact that every pet I have had has turned out to be such a wonderful companion makes me wonder if the way you nurture them as their carer has as much impact on their overall personality as their general nature. If so, that hopefully says something positive about me.

The only thing I wish is that I’d explored the possibility of having my own pets sooner in my adult life than I did; right from when Andie and I first adopted a pair of rats because we thought it might be fun up until the fussy little mogs who are currently adorning various surfaces in my living room, pet ownership has been a wonderful thing.

There are challenges, of course, and it is sad when you have to say goodbye to a beloved pet. But the possibility of those sad times in the future should never take away from the amount of joy pets can bring you. And, as with Penny and Kitty, the pets we have lost over the years are still with me in their own way, too. Willow, Lara, Lucy, Socks, Clover, Ruby, Meg… I will never forget any of them.

Pets are wonderful companions, excellent listeners and never judge you. And now, I cannot imagine ever being without them.

Want to read my thoughts on various video games, visual novels and other popular culture things? Stop by MoeGamer.net, my site for all things fun where I am generally a lot more cheerful. And if you fancy watching some vids on classic games, drop by my YouTube channel.

2220: Evasive Action

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“What’s the most significant secret you’ve ever kept? Did the truth ever come out?”
Daily Post, February 17, 2016

To be honest, I don’t have all that many secrets. I spew most of the things that many people might keep private on this blog most days, as I figured out a while back that keeping secrets from people is a sure-fire way to lead to mistrust and awkwardness.

As such, I have to look back to my past to ponder the subject of secrets. And, I have to say, even then, I didn’t have that many in the way of significant secrets. For the teenaged me, though, no secret was more sacred than who I fancied at any given moment.

Deciding I liked someone always felt like a significant moment when I was young. It was always a conscious decision, and there was always some sort of stimulus that triggered previously dormant feelings of attraction and affection towards someone. I’ve never been someone who was solely attracted to others based on physical appearance; even as a teenager, I could appreciate how aesthetically pleasing someone might be, but I would never consider myself to like them until I had some idea of what kind of person they were.

I didn’t need to know a lot about them, mind; being shy and socially awkward from a young age, a member of the opposite sex giving me the time of day and actually talking to me without being obviously repulsed by my bad hair, bad skin and periodic outbreaks of zits was usually enough to trigger a feeling in the pit of my stomach that was both delicious and uncomfortable; I tended to think of it as the old cliche “butterflies in the stomach”, and while there was not one single instance while I was still a teenager where my feelings were requited — my first girlfriend was more a case of circumstance rather than prior attraction, but perhaps more on that another time — I secretly rather enjoyed the feeling of liking someone from afar.

This would lead to internal conflict. My feelings towards that week/month’s object of affection would grow and grow, but with them being a sacred secret to me, I wouldn’t breathe a word about them to anyone, because I’d got into my head that if anyone found out that I liked them, they’d immediately and automatically start hating me. On the few occasions where I did successfully pluck up the courage to admit to someone that I liked them “that way”, not one of them automatically started hating me, which was always a pleasant surprise, but it didn’t stop me feeling that way until… well, perhaps not ever. I’m quite insecure.

Anyway. Eventually those feelings would reach boiling point and despite them being a sacred secret, I’d have to tell someone. Not the person in question though, of course, absolutely not. No, I’d usually tell one of my friends, who would then, usually, proceed to either immediately tell the person in question or, more commonly, hijack one of my school exercise books and scrawl the name of my desired paramour across the middle pages in rather ornate, artistic text. On one particularly memorable occasion the book was returned to me with the name in question actually painted with watercolours, which I thought was rather more effort than warranted by the news that I, once again, fancied that girl I sat next to in orchestra who played the clarinet with me. Perhaps it was my friends’ own peculiar way of demonstrating their affection and support for my numerous doomed, unrequited loves.

Regardless, though, that sort of thing makes up the majority of what I’d consider to be significant secrets in my life to date. I’m not sure if I should be pleased I haven’t felt the need to keep many things secret, or a little despondent at the fact I apparently live quite a boring life…

1080: How These Endless “Friendzone” Rants Make Me Feel

Page_1 Good morning. Today another article about “nice guys” and the concept of the “friendzone” appeared. Here it is.

Today I would like to talk about how this article made me feel.

It made me angry, and it made me want to cry.

Why? Not because I am the sort of person who exhibits those behaviours — I certainly do not expect women I am friends with to immediately jump into bed with me, particularly because I’m now in a committed, loving relationship with someone who is super-awesome — but because I recognise some of the things being described, and the fact that they are being twisted, generalised and used as a means of shaming people feels like a punch in the gut.

I don’t normally talk about this stuff because it’s embarrassing and difficult to talk about, but I am going to make an exception for today as a means of making my point. This article made me feel like absolute fucking shit, even though I know it was not about me. I am going to talk about my past relationships and how they came to be, though naturally I will omit names and personally-identifying details.

Some context for those who are newcomers to this blog or don’t know me very well: I suffer a pretty strong degree of social anxiety, and have done since an early age. I feel enormously uncomfortable when around strangers, clam up completely when faced with the prospect of making small talk, and even, at times, find it difficult to talk to my own friends or relations.

As you might expect, these circumstances are not ideal for getting together with someone. Consequently, even as all my peers around me at school were getting into relationships, going out with people, having sex and bragging about all of the above, I was left constantly frustrated and bewildered. My already-active imagination would picture what it might be like to be in a relationship with someone — note: relationship, not simply having sex — and I’d even go so far as to imagine how those conversations might go in great detail. One of the diaries I kept as a teenager included numerous fantasy scenarios of how I might get a girl I liked to talk to me, and how I might express my feelings. Sex did not enter into this at all — I simply wanted to be with that person. (I’m aware writing fantasy conversations in itself is creepy, but I was ashamed of these entries the moment I wrote them, and inevitably ended up throwing them away immediately.)

The fact I overthought these things meant, inevitably, that I never did anything about them, and I was always absolutely mortified any time a friend of mine would tell the girl in question that I liked them. I hated myself — you can thank near-constant bullying through primary school and a fair proportion of secondary school for that — and thought that the girl discovering that I liked her “in that way” would cause her to immediately hate me because I was certain that no-one would ever want to be with me. (This never happened, of course, but it’s the way my mind worked, and to a certain extent still does.)

Fast-forward a bit, and I got into my first relationship during a school production. I had got very close to a female friend of mine, and after the fact I learned that most of my friends were expecting us to get together as part of the production. However, what actually happened was that she set me up with a friend of a friend whom I didn’t know very well and didn’t particularly fancy. I’m not particularly proud of saying this, but I entered into that relationship because I was worried no-one else would be interested in me, and I wouldn’t get another chance. (I was young. And stupid. And suffering from what I now recognise to be mental health issues.)

As it turned out, said relationship grew quite nicely over time, and I realised I actually did quite like this girl — I just didn’t know her that well before we were pushed together. We did a lot together, I got on well with the rest of her family and it was all looking good.

We never had sex, though. I remember vividly “missing my chance” on this. We were sitting in her bedroom one day fooling around, and she mumbled something to me. I couldn’t make out the words because she was embarrassed to say them out loud. In retrospect, it was obvious that she was saying “I really, really want to make love to you” but I was too scared to make assumptions — too wrapped up in my own self-loathing to believe that anyone would ever want to have sex with me. I asked her what she said, and to say it more clearly. She wouldn’t. The moment passed.

A couple of months later, it was our school prom. We went together. We did not leave together, because she cheated on me on the dance floor with a guy she is now married to. Good on her, I guess.

My only other relationship at school was one which lasted from Monday to Friday of one week, during which time I saw my paramour precisely once and kissed her once before she decided at the end of the week that actually, she didn’t want to go out with me after all, and that we should go back to being friends again. Once again, sex did not enter the equation. The fact that our relationship began at a recording of Songs of Praise may have had something to do with that. (I swear I am not making that part up.)

Fast forward to university. Early in my student career, I met someone who seemed perfect for me. We spent a ton of time together. She was constantly in my room, she was into the things I was into and we had a great time together. I knew very early in our relationship that she was someone I wanted in my life. I was attracted to her, I liked the person she was and I wanted her around as much as possible.

I said nothing. Because I was too scared. Because I hated myself. Because I thought she would hate me and think I was some sort of disgusting pervert if I said anything. Consequently, she got together with someone else, who I spent a healthy proportion of time absolutely despising as a result. (Said person is now, paradoxically, one of my closest friends. Funny how things work out.)

I liked a couple of other people at university. I even went to the effort of sending a secret Valentine to one, complete with a cuddly toy and some truly dreadful poetry. (I am never writing poetry again.) She immediately knew it was me and let me down gently. I left it at that and we continued being the friends we were before. Again, sex didn’t enter into the equation. I just liked this person and wanted to be with them.

My next girlfriend at university was someone I got together with at a Christmas meal for one of the groups I was a member of. I’d never met her prior to that night, but we hit it off and were in each other’s arms by the end of the night. Neither of us were the one-night stand types, though, so we went our separate ways at the end of the evening and arranged to meet up again. We went out a few times, but she dumped me after I bought her a Christmas present because it made her feel “weird”. That made me feel weird.

We subsequently met up again later a few times and went out, but we eventually lost contact. To this day, I’m still not entirely sure quite what went on there, and if I could have done things anything differently. Ships in the night and all that.

I could go on, but we’d be hitting a bit close to home if I started talking about some of these other relationships. What I wanted to (hopefully) make clear by sharing some of these things is that in many cases, a dude making friends with a girl and complaining of not being able to take things any further is not always a case of “putting in kindness coins and expecting sex to fall out”, as runs the phrase I’ve seen numerous times recently. In many cases, it is a simple case of the dude in question not knowing how to express that he would like to take things any further. In more cases than one, you can probably see that I blew my chances with someone largely as a result of my own crippling self-loathing and lack of confidence.

I have had a number of situations in my life that fall into the “friendzone” category by popular definition, and I’m fully aware they’re my own fault for not expressing myself properly. But it’s not a case of being a creeper, or of expecting a woman to provide me sexual gratification in exchange for my kindness — in every single fucking case I wanted an actual relationship with that person; because I wanted to be with them; because I wanted to share my life with them; because I felt we understood each other. It was not because I expected them to have sex with me. It was not because I wanted to have sex with them. I didn’t express myself because I was too fucking terrified to say anything to them, because I was too fucking terrified that they would run away from me screaming if they thought I was a creep who was leching after them.

You see, herein lies my problem with articles like the one I shared at the start of this post. They are gross generalisations. There are men out there who don’t know when to quit. There are men out there who have unreasonable expectations of women. There are men out there who see women purely as sex objects there for their own gratification.

I am not one of them.

But every time I read one of these endless fucking “friendzone” articles that uses a lot of words to say almost nothing we haven’t seen a hundred times already, I feel like shit. I feel like a creep. I feel like a piece of sub-human scum. Why? Because I recognise some of the situations being described. I have been in some of the situations described. And yet, apparently, the following quote from the above article is universally How It Is:

Here’s the hard truth, Friendzone. You’re not a nice guy. You are a gutless, pathetic, sad, horny little worm who’s too afraid of rejection to just tell a woman how you really feel.

Yes. Yes I am. Yes, I am a gutless, pathetic, sad, horny little worm who is too afraid of rejection to tell a woman how I really feel. Do you know why I am afraid of rejection? Because I hate myself. Because the early part of my life was spent with people reinforcing my own self-hatred through near-constant bullying and harassment. Though those days may be long gone, the mental scars remain. And every time you say shit like the above, even though it may not be intended to be about me specifically, I take it personally. And it hurts. And it makes me angry. And it makes me want to cry.

It hurts even more when you make the assumption that I am afraid of rejection purely because I want sex. As I have hopefully outlined above, in every single case I was the one who wanted an actual relationship but found myself unable to express it properly. I’m pretty sure I can’t be the only person in the world who feels like this, so every time you publicly shame “friendzone guys” like this, you run the risk of doing some very real damage to what is probably already a very fragile sense of self-esteem and self-worth for those people you have inadvertently and inconsiderately lumped in to your catch-all descriptions. While you may cause some of the creepers to re-evaluate their behaviour and start behaving in a less misogynistic manner — though personally I feel it is unlikely that they will read anything like the article above and take it to heart — you’re just as likely to make people who already lack confidence to never ever want to put themselves out there. (Those are the people who will read the articles.)

I am very fortunate in that after my last relationship — which led to marriage — fell apart and nearly destroyed me completely, I found someone who loves me for who I am, respects me and is a good match for me. Not everyone is so lucky. If I were still alone right now, I don’t want to think about how awful I’d be feeling. Fortunately, instead I find myself on the way back up from the bottom rather than slowly sliding into the abyss.

So just fucking stop it with the “friendzone” and “nice guy” articles. Please. We get it.

(As an aside, I would like to stop writing about this now because I know it’s probably quite tiresome to read. But in this instance I felt it important to respond to the article linked above. I will return to writing about something more entertaining tomorrow. Hopefully. None of you die or anything in the next 24 hours.)

#oneaday Day 951: First Love

She was beautiful. He could tell even back then. There was no-one he would rather look at than her. Her long, blonde hair and beautiful, sparkling eyes enraptured him so, even at that young age. He didn’t really know what these feelings meant, but he knew that he loved her; he loved her dearly; he loved her more than anything or anyone else in his life.

He had no idea how she felt about him. He was too young to understand the feelings rattling around inside his head, so how could he expect to make someone else understand them? His love lived purely in his imagination, and he was happy for it to remain that way. In reality, she was his friend; in his mind, every time he closed his eyes, she was so much more.

His imagination had always been powerful, but it seemed to outdo itself every time she entered his thoughts. As he drifted off to sleep at night, he would close his eyes and picture her face; shortly afterwards he would be involved in some grand adventure either with her, or in an attempt to rescue her. He had fought his way through caves, forests, dungeons, castles and surreal landscapes made of warped shapes and bizarre colours; always, she was there waiting for him at the end, or by his side as he struggled.

One day, the bad news came. “She’s moving away,” they said. “And soon.” He didn’t know what to do with this; he didn’t think he could stop it, but he desperately wanted to. He had no idea how to start, though. He was still too young; too young to understand these confused feelings in his head; too young to understand the emotions welling up inside him. He wanted to talk about it to someone but couldn’t muster up the courage. His love for her was locked away in the deepest, darkest, most private part of his soul, and he couldn’t let anyone in, because he feared that he wouldn’t be able to get them out again afterwards. He relished his inner peace, and resented anyone who tried to defile it without an invitation; he was the one in control of his feelings; he was the one who had to deal with them, always alone.

The fateful day approached, and he began to recognize the growing knot in his stomach as a yearning to be by her side; a longing to be the one she would always come home to; a desire to give her one of the few keys to that deep, dark, secret place within his soul. He knew that he had to tell her how he felt, and he knew that he would only get one chance to do it.

The day arrived. One by one, his classmates bade her farewell, and after what seemed like an eternity, it was his turn. He looked up into those sparkling eyes and she smiled at him the way she always did. He smiled back.

Though they had both only spent a few years together out of their own respectively short times on the planet, he knew she had had a profound effect on him, and he knew that he should say something meaningful at this point.

A tense feeling wrapped around his throat, like a noose trying to choke the life out of him. He tried to speak the words he longed to say — I love you, I’ll miss you, please don’t go — but they wouldn’t come. They stuck in his throat, lodged beneath the invisible force that choked him so.

“Bye,” he said quietly.

“Bye,” she said, smiling.

He wanted so badly to embrace her; to kiss her; to tell her how he felt. But he couldn’t. He smiled at her one last time, turned and walked away, knowing that he would probably never see her again.

He was sad for a long time after that. It felt like a piece of his very self had been ripped out and replaced with nothing but inky blackness. There was a void in his soul where she had once been; he had wanted to let her in, not realising that she was already there. And now she was gone.

The pair exchanged letters for a while; his heart raced every time one of those distinctive coloured envelopes plopped through the letterbox — he swore she either used perfumed envelopes or sprayed them with her favourite scents — and he wrote back as soon as he got some time to himself.

As time passed, though, the letters became less frequent and eventually stopped. His own life was moving on by now; moving too fast for him to keep up with, and certain things from his past started to fall by the wayside. He saw it happening and regretted it, but he knew deep down within his heart that she probably felt the same way too. The black void in his soul started to heal, and he focused on trying to enjoy the present rather than gazing into space reflecting on what once was, and what might of been.

New loves — always unconfessed, assumed to be unrequited — came and went, giving him the familiar feeling of butterflies in the stomach for a few fleeting weeks before disappointment set in. But though the gap she had left deep inside him had mostly healed, he still held a place for her, even though he knew it was futile. She was gone, far away by now, carried away by the winds of change to distant climes, well beyond his reach. The fog of forgotten friendship descended, and he no longer knew where to find her. She was gone.

He opened his eyes slowly. The light of the morning sun was streaming into his room through the window, blasting rays of light through the panes of glass and casting a pattern on the bedspread. It looked like a nice day outside, but he knew that this was all he would see of it.

He had lived a good life. If he could do it all over again, there were some things he would have done differently, but for the most part he had no regrets.

Except when it came to her. If he had confessed his love to her when he had had the chance, how might his life have unfolded? Would it have ended the same way? Would all the other trials had endured and good times he had enjoyed have come about? Or would it have been completely different?

There’s no use wondering now, he thought to himself. It’s much too late for anything but one last glimpse.

He closed his eyes again, and there she was, exactly as he remembered her all those years ago. He gazed into her sparkling eyes. which were now wet with tears.

“I love you,” he said. “I always loved you. And I never stopped loving you. Not for one second.”

“I know,” she whispered, a tear rolling down her cheek, but a cheerful smile still playing across her delicate lips. “I know.”

As the flame within him flickered and dimmed, he smiled to himself. It didn’t matter that it was all in his mind. That was where she had always lived for all these years; that was where she belonged. But it was time to say goodbye.

“I love you,” she whispered.

Then he was gone.

#oneaday, Day 137: Flower Girl

I am almost falling asleep on my keyboard here, so I’ll keep this brief to prevent falling asleep with all the letters of the keyboard printed backwards across my face. I can barely keep my eyes open. I’m not sure why I’m so tired, though I have had people over this evening and I spent the first part of my day cleaning up in preparation for said visitors. We had a lovely evening, by the way, thanks for asking.

Earlier in the day I did get a moment to record one more piano piece. I posted it on Tumblr earlier but I’m not sure who got the chance to hear it. A few people did, I guess, and it even got a couple of reblogs. But I thought for those people who don’t “do” Tumblr, I’d post it here too.

The song in question is Aerith, or Aeris, or Flower Girl or whatever you want to call it. It’s the piece from Final Fantasy VII that makes everyone cry. There are two reasons for this – one, it’s a beautiful piece of music, and two, the most memorable point of the game in which this piece of music is heard is where Aerith/s dies. (Oh come ON! Surely everyone who is ever going to play Final Fantasy VII knows that by now.) This scene is widely regarded by many as one of the first times where computer games genuinely started to encourage emotional investment in their narratives – at least on consoles. Developers of adventure games on PC had been trying this for a long time already, but Final Fantasy VII was the first mainstream console game which people admitted crying to.

It’s a cliché and a bit of a joke these days, of course, but it was my brother telling me about the sheer emotion in the game that made me originally want to pick up Final Fantasy VII. I’d never touched an RPG prior to that point and had no idea what HP, MP and Limit Breaks were. My life was shortly to change forever.

The piece of music itself, though; it’s always held a peculiarly personal meaning to me, and I can’t pin down why that is. I think it possibly may be something to with the fact that the older Final Fantasy games allowed you to rename your characters, so in my game, it wasn’t “Aerith” dying, it was someone I knew. This made it all the more traumatic.

When I play the piece nowadays, I don’t necessarily think of someone dying. But I do always find myself thinking of someone. I always feel that the character of the piece represents gentle, total, unconditional love and/or affection towards someone. So inevitably while playing it I find myself thinking of someone special to me in some way. The exact person who comes to mind has changed many times over the years, but the reason for my thinking of them hasn’t. They are important.

iPhone users, click here to hear the track. Everyone else, use the Flash player below.