Fear

Fear

1. An unpleasant emotion caused by the belief that someone or something is dangerous, likely to cause pain, or a threat.

It's been a week since I last visited to vent. Perhaps it's been the purging of pent up feelings relieving some of the pressure. Possibly the simple act of putting virtual pen to digital page has released some of the inherent frustration cursing through my veins. Maybe I'm even growing as a person. Who knows? Regardless, I'm going to tackle a different conundrum perplexing my increasingly over-worked mind.

I won't lie. I've frequented internet dating sites. I've suppressed the fear of exhibiting desperation and joined the masses pimping themselves in virtual catalogues online. And I've questioned 'why?'

Why, in a world where communication is constantly expanding, has it become seemingly more difficult to meet someone the old-fashioned way? Maybe it's just down to age. Perhaps I've officially reached the point in my life where all the real world avenues to meet someone have been walked down. And all I found were windows with red lights and used crack vials shattering beneath my feet. The vast majority of my close friends are in the process of settling down with girls. It would be normal to expect to meet some of these girls' friends, share a drink, indulge in some mutual flirting and walk off hand-in-hand into a romantic future. Of course, that hasn't happened. As so tragically often, I took an alternate path. I drunkenly slept with various girls who live their lives within the bubble of my closely knit, insestual community, simultaneously setting ablaze potential bridges to more desirable partners.

I'm not a true lothario. There's clearly still plenty of waiting females within easy reach, all too eager for the smiling swagger of a self-loathing charmer to light up their innocent faces with its nefarious glow. But there, lurking in the shadows, lays in wait another issue of my own making. Baggage. I have my own. I hardly need to remind you of that. This is a slightly diffent suitcase of perfection-wrecking malcontent; History. Not my own, in a rare exception to the rule. Her's.

You see, I have a scarily large circle of friends. Actually, lets downgrade that. I have a vast entourage of acquaintances, the ilk of which you make small talk with on the way to the bar, both well aware that if you really cared what was happening in the other's pitiful life then you would already possess the knowledge of every dull event. Whilst an occasional pleasure at a gathering, when your close friends are not in eyesight and a banal conversation is vaguely preferable to pulling out your phone and pretending to text, this has an unfavourable downside.

How are you supposed to take a girl seriously when the chances are high that at some point, at some distance party, you'll be holding hands with a lover of whom other party goers have already had carnal knowledge.

In fact, let's not even dress it up in delicate prose.

How am I meant to overcome the hatred of knowing that other lads I'm sharing a dancefloor with have previously fucked my girlfriend?

And so rather than deal with this trivial issue in a mature, adult manner, I instead make damn certain that I don't find myself in this situation.

Now I could do the astonishing. I could approach a girl that I don't already know and say 'Hi..'. I could intrigue her with fascinating stories of my travels, make her giggle coquettishly with my natural charm, dazzle her with earnest sincerity. Obviously I don't do this. The women with the potential to turn my head, to make me swoon in return, the ones that make my heart pound even before they open their pretty mouths; how could I approach them? You see, if I was to make an opening gambit to an exquisite beauty and be turned away delicately then I wouldn't get what I desired. Easier to not face the potential rejection and instead turn my attention on a different girl that I really couldn't give a shit about. It goes without saying that she will fall for my roguish nature. Because whilst the lady doth protest, we all know the truth. Every girl loves a bastard. And it's all too easy to be a bastard when you're in the company of a girl who has no real impact on you.

Alas, that narrative trail will lead me dangerously off topic and its tracks will stay warm for future exploration another time. As you doubtlessly guessed, I have a shameful record of being a bastard to a girl who's had the misfortune to fall for me. That uncouth monkey on my back can stay comfortably unmolested for the moment.

The point is that experience has taught me a simple fact. Rarely in real life, will I gamble on a girl that I really want. Instead, I aim for the easy red ball perched over the pocket of lust. And always, unerringly, it is a waste of everyone's time.

Which brings me back to online dating. The idea, presumably, is to use the power of the internet's search engines to filter the wheat from the chaff. At the same time, it's vital to showcase in 1000 characters or less exactly why you're such a fine specimen yourself. And all from behind the intangible wall that we each erect in front of our true persona when we embark on such a quest.

I can only talk from my own mindset. Each and every date that I go on with another stranger, to another generic pub, has my subconcious scream at me exactly what it is. An interview. It feels inherently wrong to spend time with someone to find out if you like them. Whatever happened to spending time with someone because you like them? The answer is glaringly obvious. In a world of instant communication with minimal effort, it's become so damn easy to hide. No longer is approaching a pretty girl in the street one of few options. Now a mixture of dating and social networking sites mean that we can all crouch behind cover and make contact without ever truly exposing ourselves. And if you don't expose yourself to the greater risk, how can you expect to claim the greater reward? The easy convenience of a digital world has made cajoling yourself to a greater effort exactly that; a greater effort.

Even as I write this, the stench of hypocrisy wafts its guilty scent up to my greedy nostrils. I'm pressed up against the sandbags of life, only too aware that to stick my head above the parapet is both everything I need and everything that I fear. I'm starting to see all too clearly that continuing to simply wave my helmet on a stick from an outstretched arm just isn't going to garner the results I yearn. The moment is approaching.

I'm going to have to go over the top.