Last night, I was hovering over the Purchase button on a single $20 concert ticket in West Hollywood a month from now. It’s a punk band, which apparently I’m into now. And I don’t even like concerts that much. But I got a really powerful urge to go. I think it’d be fun, even though I’d be alone. I should go.
Prior to that, I matched with someone on Tinder in San Diego. Her profile says she’s looking for “Short Term Fun” and is clearly looking for a rebound. I thought I was a great candidate: a willing, definition of short-term, rebound (who at the very least is fuckable and— dare I say, is handsome?).
Neither ended up happening, but it was the first time I seriously began to believe there is a very significant chance I end up alone for the rest of my life. It wasn’t in a pity-me way, but more objectively, if that makes any sort of sense. And that was the surprising thing for me: it was the first time that I thought it might be best for everyone involved, for both me and—you know—the world, I guess.
I’ve been trying to read One Hundred Years of Solitude again after I read some of it for my brother’s wedding. It’s really good, but it’s a tough read. Anyway, there’s a part in it where a pair of twins get swapped when they’re babies in the cradle, and they live their lives with the wrong name, die at the same time, and then their bodies are accidentally swapped when placed in the coffins. I never knew what to make of that for the past decade since first reading it, but I’ve thought about it a lot. Sometimes, when introducing myself with a fun fact, I tell people I’m not a twin. I usually get a laugh or two. Some are genuine, some not as much. My brother was a twin though.