It's fine, really

Actually... It's not. I am somewhere west of apocalyptic. I really am very angry. And this is not a good thing because I'm internalising it and pushing people away.

Last night we had a party, which should have been perfect. And in many ways it was. But for three teensy little details. All of which reminded me why men are utter fuckwits and, in a peculiar way, reminded me why it's better to be alone, stand offish and, actually, rude, rather than deal with the things that really aren't worth dealing with.

First off we had the should mention the non-event. Which has really pissed me off. A salient reminder that, actually, I mean little more than occasional entertainment. I'll not go in to details, there is not a great deal to say. But when somebody claims they are desperate to see you in one breath and the only contact is a text saying they are drunk after a barbecue, well, you can see where I'm going with this.

So I got very drunk. Irresponsibly drunk. I even broke a glass. But that doesn't excuse the fact that I had somebody come on very strong and I did bugger all to discourage it right up to the point where he went from dry humping to getting his tackle out. As I stood by his other half with him behind. In this case I am really angry with myself. I was craving attention and ended getting precisely the sort of fuckwittery that I'm sure most would disapprove of. Now, 24 hours later, I can barely forgive myself. But, another salient reminder, of why I should avoid people whilst I'm alone. Which I realise will lead to perpetuating said state.

What makes it worse is that I really like the other half, she was lovely and, frankly, he doesn't deserve her.

Who's next? Oh yes. The king of the fuckwits.

Class act. I really enjoyed this one. I really enjoyed the faux pronoun mixing. The faux proper noun mixing. I enjoyed the incessant, narrow minded, bigoted probing wrapped up in a delicate purse of feigned interest. This was full on transphobic. And what's worse was it was in my home, on our balcony, at our party. I can't even begin to say how wonderful nearly all of my flatmate's friends were, but this one was declaring his true character as clearly as if it had been tattooed on his ignorant, opinionated, arrogant forehead.

The only saving grace was that, firstly, there were others present, including my flatmate and secondly, as Julia Roberts said in Pretty Woman:

I mean, in my own clothes, when someone like that guy Stuckey comes up to me,

I can handle it; I'm prepared.

But it doesn't make it right. I'm also pissed off that he took things out on my flatmate, not just about me, punched a hole in the corridor wall and, for added entertainment, has spent the day proclaiming that he was so drunk as a means to pre-emptively explain why he was such a fuckwit. So yet again it's likely I will scurry under my rock because of some deluded idiot that thinks he knows best about everything and is prepared to tell you why it's all your fault. Or, indeed, your flatmate's.

I won't have it. Of course I shall, as ever, maintain a veil of civility, but that's still more than he managed to convey with his caring, interested, constant and, actually, unwelcome probing. Things I will talk about with my closest friends but not with somebody I've just met for the first time. I also won't say who he is, or anyone else for that matter, I shall plead Chatham House rules. But you can rest assured that those who need to know are well aware of how I feel and about whom.

So here I am, scuttling for cover. I'm sure I'll emerge again, once the wounds have healed, but yet more venom has been sown and I now am pretty sure I would rather be utterly isolated than deal with the likes of this.

Life is too short.