Le saboteur

Every so often, you take stock of your life. Every so often, you learn something new about yourself that you don't particularly like. Lately for me, it's been about romantic relationships; I sabotage great relationships whenever I sense a rough patch. I thought life was about learning from a mistake and not doing it again, but this seems to keep happening, and it's completely from my end.

I don't like being hurt, though I don't think anybody really does. My reaction to feeling threatened, it seems, is to offer my partner the easy way out and to be passively aggressive in conversation. I hate passive-aggressive behaviour in people! So why the hell do I do it?! I overthink, over-react over completely irrational thoughts that don't make sense. When I'm not doing that on my lonesome, I drink. Eh.

It doesn't make sense to me that relationships are where you're supposed to feel the most comfortable with yourself, where you feel so safe and alive… but the moment I get into one, I freak the fuck out over stupid things. I'm an asshole. Sometimes it makes sense to me as to why some single mothers stay single; there's so much baggage, and in contention with other women of my age, I tend to lose. I know I'm my own worst enemy when it comes to relationships, and I hate feeling so insecure. It must be exhausting to have to reassure someone constantly about how much you care about them. Ah, balls.

I just want to be happy and be a part of something beautiful where both people are completely satisfied.

 

Taringa, Shitty Livin’, Owen, Heidi Klum, and the Missing Testicle

Okay, this is going to be a bit confusing at first (part 1 of a #? series):

When I first left home, the first place I stayed at was a shoddy 3rd-level apartment with a friend, Will, and his housemate, Owen. Will's house was also occupied by his visiting cousin, Aaron, who needed a break from his crazy girlfriend down in Melbourne, X… by coming up to sojourn in Brisbane with his girlfriend's best friend, Dani.

Stay with me here, it gets easier.

Will's place wasn't my first choice to visit. Actually, I hadn't really planned running away all that well; I left with a few articles of (totally impractical) clothing, one pair of shoes and socks, and the rest of my backpack was still filled with the previous week's schoolbooks and other schoolgirl paraphernalia. Fortunately, Will answered his phone and welcomed me into his home until I "got on my feet." Which really meant, "for however long it takes for you to chicken out and go back home."

On the drive to Will's place that first night, I had outlandish visions of the "Secret Life Of Us" sort of atmosphere; a house filled with tealight candles, origami, massive ethnic bowls bought from The Tree Of Life, vintage furniture, guitars everywhere, and op-shop/market knick-knacks. I imagined housemates staying up cradling their coffees all night, talking about all sorts of grown-up things like existentialism and economics.

I prepared to bullshit my way through whatever they could dish up, as I was only 16 and these people were in their early 20s. Leaving home was no easy task, and I had to keep the momentum going… if that meant acting like I knew what the hell I was doing, then cool.

Walking through the door, I was greeted by the stone-cold reality of the struggling-artist lifestyle. Two sofas that looked (and smelled) like they'd once belonged to hobo junkies, a huge curling poster of The Beatles, a sink full of mouldy crockery, and an odd smell emanating from… well, everything. I'm taking a stab in the dark here, but the smell was not unlike what I'd imagine dickhole to smell like. Clean, unclean, mangled, neat, whatever – dickhole.

His housemate Owen came out, and he wasn't as scrubbed up as when I'd first met him a few months before; 4-day growth, linted boxers, no shirt, and that odd smell. He shook my hand vigorously and with a cheeky grin, plopped his 6'1" frame into one of the overworked sofas and stared at the TV. Owen said he was a freelance photographer, and was trying really hard to get a spot working for National Geographic. His photos were alright, but I'm easily pleased and definitely not knowledgable in photographic mastery; I'm sure he's not the only one to take pictures of sunsets and palm trees, and photos of manky pigeons mid-flight are so overdone they'd disintegrate with the next gust.

Even better than his photography, however, was his tendency to spin massive tales about places he's been to and places he's been. His claim to fame was that he "briefly dated" supermodel and superMILF Heidi Klum.

Now before you raise that cynical brow, let me assure you that I've seen the photos of them together. Oh yes, nothing says "we're a couple" like pictures of Heidi, some industry person, another industry person, some famous person, then almost off-shot, Owen. There's also another shot of her with him; he's talking, and she's pivoting to move elsewhere.

Lest we forget that he "briefly dated" Heidi Klum.

Sometime later, in my two week stay, I was to find out (via Dani, who started sleeping with him) that Owen only has one testicle; he was on a plane and apparently, one of his testicles crept right on up and disappeared, never to be seen again. A panicked visit to the doctors didn't really assuage him; a thorough check, a sympathetic pat on the back, then a disheartening, "It'll come down when it's ready."

I still think that's a riot.

The best thing about Owen? Well, he introduced me to artichoke hearts. That's pretty cool. He wasn't all that funny. He was too Euro to deal with for any prolonged amount of time. Hmmm… he introduced me to artichoke hearts.

I wonder what Owen's doing these days, and if his testicle ever came back.