A quite life in


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22 October 2005

You should get out more often.

How often are us men told this by mothers, sisters, male friends, female friends, colleagues, politicians and all manner of people?

Perhaps get yourself a girlfriend.

Oh yeah? What will that bring me? Hassle, responsibilities, nagging. Seriously, why can’t women accept that many of us men are actually happy without them? Any guy without a girlfriend is assumed to be “sad” and “geeky.” Are modern women so arrogant that they can’t imagine a man actually enjoying being single and preferring to remain so?

You should get out more often.

I don’t want to go out.

I don’t mind going out, as in leaving my apartment and stepping out into the world. I love it. The Big Outdoors is great.

Although I’m no tree-hugger, I do enjoy strolling through moorland and parks amidst hooting owls and scampering squirrels, especially at sunrise on a Sunday morning. At that time it feels like you’re the only person awake in the world, and the air is heavy with the aroma of a billion dew-laden grass blades and the constant chorus of birds who think that the start of a new day is so great that it’s worth singing at, unlike most humans, who just stick their heads under a pillow and think “Ugh, another new day? Bleurgh! Go away!”

At night I love wandering outside and staring upwards, mouth agape in foolish awe, and marvelling at the sheer infinity suggested in the stoic stars that lay scattered and glittering across the sky like splintered diamonds.

stars.jpg

But the “out” implied in the command “thou shalt go out more often, perhaps thou shalt even get thyself a girlfriend” does not speak of happy tidings to me.

That “out” carries with it the implication of noisy nightclubs where I would have to pay steroid-taking tattooed doormen £10 just to step into the shitty hellhole that passes for a “club” and all it’s foul denizens. The “getting yourself a girlfriend” invariably means me paying for overpriced drinks for some tarted up prostitute-in-all-but-name in the hope that she might come round to my neat little apartment, make me pay the £20 taxi-fair, mess up my bedroom by flinging her skanky sweat-stained clothes across the floor, getting under the covers with me to give me crabs before rolling out of bed, smashed out her face, and passing out in a puddle of her own vomit.

nightout.jpg

Sorry, but thanks-but-no-thanks. I’d rather just stay in if it’s all the same to you. I have a nice circle of friends, a few of whom are actually happily married with kids, and I like seeing them often and occasionally popping out for some drinks and a chit-chat with them. But sometimes I feel like just making a weekend mine, and mine only, and I like to share it with no-one, except perhaps for the tiny number of readers of this blog of mine.

Perhaps I am a sad geek for preferring to spend my Saturday evening in front of a computer, listening to J. S. Bach’s Goldberg Variations, guzzling red wine and perhaps playing through Deus Ex for the 4,543th time.

But what do I care?

Anyone who lives their life – to the great discomfort of their own desires – to fit the approval of someone else is truly sad.

posted by Duncan Idaho @ 1:53 PM
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At 6:50 PM, Slaytan said…

good blog, glad I found it, don’t know what took me so long.

Anyway,

“I don’t want to go out.

I don’t mind going out, as in leaving my apartment and stepping out into the world. I love it. The Big Outdoors is great. “

that’s me too.

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At 7:42 PM, TestSubjectXP said…

Well written post, Duncan. Very well written.
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