June was a good month, as per my own admission.

July is somewhat different. I feel like I am waiting around for other stuff to happen. There is no skating, there is no LARPing, there is no travelling, everything is happening after July. It was supposed to be my relax month, as sure as hell I am not going to get any relax in ‘Nam, still I am as tired as ever. I am not getting enough sleep, because of the temperatures, because of the noise of sleeping with an open window, because I am going out too much. I have too many errands to run, as I put off to this point many of the preparatory activities for the holidays and stuff I generally didn’t have time to do earlier.

I haven’t been able or haven’t been bothered to do any training activity. I was supposed to go running, but I either don’t have time or the necessary energy at the end of the day, or it’s too hot, or I can’t find the right time before or after dinner. So I also probably accumulated stress.

My emotional stress as of late also comes from a different thought. I am tired of never been liked by anybody. It’s not the first time I address this, but it feels like  it used to be much  blurrier than it is now. Now, it’s all I see. I am tired of hearing stories of people who casually hook up and start kissing, people who succumb to chemistry at a hand shake, people who get chosen by guys who literally have dozens of girls at their feet. I am tired of hearing of people being asked on dates, being chatted up at bars, being asked their number on the tube.

This is not the world I know.

The world I know is populated by handsome men who don’t even look my way, by uglier women than me getting all the attention, by boys and girls who start talking to each other in front of me while I am the one left looking on the side. My telephone number would be covered in dust, if it was an object. My lips don’t even remember what it feels like to be touched.

My problem is that I am way too empirical.

Sometimes I really feel beautiful. I feel it in the way I walk, in the way I set my shoulders, in the way my eyes look with just a hint of eyeshadow. But I can not believe that I truly am unless I have evidence. Evidence cannot be subjective. I cannot believe something is true just because I am convinced it is true. That evidence doesn’t exist.

Each time I go back home after a night out, it doesn’t exist, each time I compare notes on my sexual past with others, it doesn’t exist, each time I think of how many people I liked never liked me back, it doesn’t exist. Until I look in the mirror and it doesn’t exist.

And I’ve been thinking about this. Let’s assume for a second that I am not the problem, that it’s the entirety of the male kind who is too blind, too stupid, too shy, too engaged to see what they’re missing. It doesn’t matter. Still, I am left unable, prohibited to enjoy the pleasure of having my femininity appreciated. And it hurts.

Some people don’t care, some people have settled with the idea of not corresponding to beauty standards, some people believe that true beauty is within. I care, I hate settling and… I am not entirely convinced my problem is on the outside either. I may be overly empirical, but I am also objective and I see how I could be considered better looking than a good portion of other women in my age group. So where does the problem really lay?

What stings more is that I don’t think what I am, who I am is ugly and I despise the idea of changing just to be liked more. I am tired of perceiving the need to change mysself. But for the love of God I cannot understand how I am not supposed to think I am somehow wrong. Because it doesn’t make any sense. If I am cute, not steaming hot, but cute and all in all a nice, interesting person, how can being constanly rejected and neglected be the story of my life?

I am not looking for prince fucking charming, I don’t want to settle down and start a family, this is not the typical situation where “Mr. Right comes when you least expect it”. Fuck Mr. Right, if possible I want Mr. Seriously Wrong and So Much Fun. Right now I am as easy about this as I could ever be. But ultimately, what I want doesn’t even seem to matter. Either way, nothing is coming.

Just the other day I was thinking about how felt I had lost so much time not having enough fun with men, how now that I can I would like to taste different types, just for once, just to know what it feels like. I don’t know… fully tattoed left arm and back, metalhead long hair, 6’3″ of muscles à la Eric Northman, a waterpolo player, an Hawaiian surfer… but no, actually I can’t. Not really. Because it’s not like I can actually choose. I thought I could, I thought it was just a matter of wanting it. Truth is, I’m not enough. And each time I realise that I hate myself for even thinking it would have been possible.