Day Three hundred and twelve - Holding on

That I am someone capable of doing stupid things is a given. That I am also prone to doing the monumentally kind of stupid things ought to shock no one, least of all myself. To be perfectly honest, this past month or so has not been easy for me, insofar as what I have to work very hard to keep at bay - my loneliness - I have not been able to do very well, or at all. Most of it it's my fault, I put myself in situations where I feel like yeah, maybe I could be a part of this game, and then... disappointment, once more, rears its ugly head. So I go home, and I stay in, and I keep to myself. And most of the time I can feel perfectly content doing this routine, I can find something to distract me long enough until sleep claims me. But then there are times like now where it's so hard that I end up giving in to despair. Case in point - and I do say this with an immense sense of shame - I went and created a Tinder profile. It's something I used before - that's how I met Carina back in 2017, if I am not mistaken, because I truly am not sure whether it was from there or from Instagram - but I had long ago stopped using it. And it was desperation, truly, that forced my hand. And I regretted it almost instantly.

I had no idea how much the app had changed, I seemed to remember that swiping left or right mechanic, with any luck you'd be matched up with someone who was as desperate as you were, you''d get a notification saying that the app had found a match, then you'd talk to the person, they'd maybe reply, and with any luck things would happen. That's the gist of it, right? And, I suppose, it's still the gist of it now, only now everything's locked behind a paywall. Someone likes you? You don't even know who they are unless you get a premium version of the app. You won't know who they are, what they look like, what they're into or whatever - unless you pay a weekly fee. And that left me feeling disgusted with myself, it left me feeling so low and worthless. It's a testament to how lonely and disconnected people feel these days that they would pay money just for the slimmest chance of connection. And that's something I'll never do, I'll never pay for sex, and I sure as hell will not pay money to beg for some bit of fleeting affection.

Increasingly I feel that nothing about this modern way of doing things is for me. Everything feels fake and synthetic and void of life. I don't think I was made for these times. I don't think I was made for any time, really. I always, always end up falling over me.