Dating Men: A Queer Extreme Sport

​Also, dating men is an extreme sport, y’all. I don’t know how we do it.

You find one, cuff him kanti he doesn’t really like feminine men. Y’all break up.
You find one who doesn’t care that you’re feminine but is ironically, a misogynist. Now I have to dump you because you have outdated notions.
You find one who has no problem with you femininity, isn’t a misogynist but is transphobic. Misgendering people intentionally (always happens, I’ve noticed when Caitlyn Jenner is mentioned). Dumped. 
You find one who has isn’t transphobic, loves your femininity, isn’t a misogynist but forms part of the “I’m not like other queer men” brigade. This bunch oft shames Beyoncé loving queers, Lacantina and Liquid Blue and will try to sound faux intelligent by mentioning that we don’t need pride because straight people don’t have pride. Boy, bye.
Then you find one that’s amazing with his politics in place until you get to the “no fats, no femmes” part of his online dating profile. Says it’s his preference. Usually a gym bunny.
Then there are the lads who want a monogamous relationship but cheat. When you introduce an alternative to monogamy, they don’t believe in it. 
While all of this is happening, you have to meet guys online, decide whether they’re worth being serial killed for and go on dates. On these dates, you have to deal with narcissism, no real knowledge of how the world works, people being rude to waiters and his mêlée of friends who all came to check on him. In. The. Middle. Of. A. Date.

Did I mention abafana bamo kasi who hurl slurs at you the whole day only to give you bomb sex that night? These are also the ones most likely to kill you because fragile masculinity.

I could go on forever.

I really don’t know how we do it and go on to form very beautiful couplings….. 

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Staying Alive When You Really Don’t Want To

2016 has been trash. Consistently. There was no time to rest before we were bombarded with more bad news.

Here in TsheggLand, the year started off fine (not counting antidepressants that left me constipated or that time the antidepressants I liked nearly got me killed) and gradually transgressed into a total shitpile. The details are unimportant but I am now almost 10 grand in debt, probably have some sort of health issue (because cigarettes, booze and fast food), single and very unhappy with my life.

Checking Out

For the past 3 months, I’ve been contemplating suicide. Not just once a month when the going gets tough. No. Daily. I have written several suicide notes and have thought of ways to do it that won’t be too painful or too slow. The suicide note is a complete list of my failures, people to call in case I finally do it and succeed and even a playlist. 24 whole songs to celebrate a life I don’t want anymore.

One of the main reasons I haven’t done it yet (one being that ironically, I’m afraid of death) is because of my Mother. See, I live with just her and she is quite elderly (yep, I’m a living cliché: 20 something year old failure still living at home). I don’t want to burden and scar her by letting her find my body. I also think my death would kill her, not that I’m important or anything. The thought of putting her through all that pain again (pain she surely felt after my Father died) is the reason I’m still on this miserable rock. I love my Mother too much to hurt her. 

It is the worst thing being alive when you no longer have the desire to. Nothing gives you pleasure anymore. Everything hurts all the time. You’re confronted, daily, by all your failures. The failure to make a success of yourself. The failure to make a relationship work. The failure at being a good son, brother, uncle and friend. It’s all there and there isn’t a damn thing you can do about it. I keep being told to go back to therapy. Here’s my thing: I’ll still be the no good failure when I leave the psychologist’s office, bbz. 

Here’s to hoping (haha!) that 2017 is better. If it isn’t, at least I’ll have enough courage to join the Forever 27 Club. But then I’d need some sort of talent to get in, no? Sigh. Even in death, I can’t win.