We need to talk

About us. I’m sorry. I mean, you can’t say you didn’t see this coming. I know I haven’t been in touch lately. It’s just. Well. You know. I don’t want to hurt you. I really like you. I do. But. I don’t think we should see each anymore.

That’s right. I’m dumping you. You.

And look, it’s not because I don’t need you. I do. You’re everything to me. And it’s not because I’m not having a good time. No, no. I treasure the time we have together. And don’t think it’s because I don’t like you. Hell, I LOVE you. I always have.

No, there’s no one else.

It’s just.

Well.

I guess you’d call it commitment problems. But the plain fact is that I’m good at dumping. Really good at it. Everyone’s got to have a talent. This be mine. I’m good at it. And, if we’re being honest, I like it. Or, at least, I’ve developed a taste for it. WHAT HAVE YOU GOT TO SAY ABOUT THAT, MARIELLA FROSTRUP?

Oh, she’d say something wry and world-weary and a bit aggressive and ostensibly sensible and you would KNOW, oh boy, that she’s seen your type before, that’s right, a hundred times before and, listen to me sonny, listen to me good, cos Mariella’s just prepared a long, cool glass of wake-the-hell-up juice for ya. But then Mariella spent much of the 90s managing the career of perennial bachelor botherer and surgeon‘s favourite, Patsy Kensit. So.

Now, I’m not saying I’ve developed my dumping into a fine art. Far from it. My attempts to end relationships are often as clumsy, ham-fisted and downright distressing as the relationships themselves. It’s just the quantity. It’s my breathtaking and brutal conversion rate. The sheer conversion rate. I'm ruthless. Really. I’m the man who stands on the edge of the quicksand and tells you not to worry as your feet will touch the bottom soon. But they won’t. They really fucking won’t. You can’t outdraw me.

So, 6 months passed.

And I found Love. I did. Just not the kind I was looking for.

But, hey, don’t blame Match.com. They couldn’t win. Not against me. I just couldn’t face dumping anyone again. To have entered into anything more serious than casual dating would have led to one outcome and one outcome only. Hollow statements. Little, sniffly tears. Fingers tugging cuffs. Accepting nods. The most pathetic attempts at violence. Another day, another dollar. Tra la la. You can call me arrogant. You can call me cynical. You can call me callous. But it won’t do any good. I can’t hear you. Perhaps you could email me. But it won’t do any good. I can’t read.

So, thanks, Match.com. I met many lovely people, I met many tedious people. At times I had an awful lot of fun. Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s an experience everyone should have. I mean that in complete honesty. Since my 6 months have finished, I’ve noticed with interest that there’s been a sharp spike in people using internet dating sites in the UK. It is now, apparently, not only an acceptable way of dating but, in fact, the third most likely way one of us modern types will meet the person we'll reluctantly agree to spend the rest of our life with (nestling uncomfortably between meeting someone at work and £1 sambuca shots at The Venue).

Now I am not saying I am responsible for making internet dating acceptable. I am not claiming, for a moment, that thanks to the witty and insightful way I dissected the world of online romance, many other people are now taking the plunge. I am not saying I am a modern-day cupid, a trailblazer, a genius. I’m not saying that. I’m not.

I am. I am saying that. Actually. That’s exactly what I’m saying.

I tried to keep it going, you know. I joined MySingleFriend. I did some dates. I planned a series of blogs around alternative dating methods including singles weekends and orgies.

I was going to do it all for you, you lovely person reading these words with your lovely eyes. I couldn’t bare the thought of leaving you. The 6 months I spent internet dating were torrid, tedious and trying. But I got through every last minute of it by thinking of you. Yep, while I wined and dined someone else, it was you that was on my mind. No matter who I was with, I couldn’t wait to get home to you. To tell you everything that had happened.

Oh I fell in love alright. With you.

I realise now that it’s always been you. From the start. You’re the one I wanted. It’s your attention I’ve craved. No one else stood a chance.

And, you see, that’s why we have to part. You do understand, don’t you? To continue like we have, behind the backs of all those others, to carry on this deceit. Well. It just won’t do.

You’re better off without me.

I mean, you’re not. Your life will now have a aching chasm at it’s very centre. For those ends, I’ve joined Twitter, where you can stalk me from afar. Upon this Twitterthing I will continue to make pithy and, often, shockingly ill-informed statements. Check out my first one, where I’ve made a pithy and, surprisingly, informed comment about hats. GO ON LOOK AT IT.

That's it. All over. Bye bye.

Thank you, all. You’ve been lovely.

Lots of Love,

C x