15 March 2005

I am going to die alone.

Bridget Jones went a step further to say she’d be eaten by dogs and the only way her remains would be discovered is if the stench became too unbearable to ignore. Sounds tempting, but guess I’ll settle for the dying alone part, without the dogs.

See, men these days are either fickle wimps like Jude Law, or shameless sex fiends like The Doctor (forgot his name) from that illuminating movie, Closer. They just don’t make ’em like they used to. Men like Rhett Butler have been discontinued. Sorry, girls, but your letters to the manufacturer will only end up lost in the mail room, because they are still trying to sort out their anthrax problem.

And maybe I am just too hard to live with. My bad temper and negativity do get to people, I’ve observed. I just take such perverse pleasure thinking awful thoughts, like the subject of this blog.

The following observations will explain my shortcomings. In the 21st century, no-one puts up with nobody’s shit anymore. Living together is such a pain. Sharing the same bed is a nightly trial. Everyone has become too complex, obsessed with a pseudo-romantic, devastating idea of love. They are so afraid of falling out of love. They are preoccupied with fears of finding THE ONE only after marriage. They whine about being single, but at the back of their heads they know no one will be good enough for them, and they’ll never be good enough for anyone. Numbed by crippling fears, like a patient etherised upon a table.

I used to think Sumiko Tan was a woman whose columns I could read and feel consoled, because she was 38 and single. Now she’s 40 and single, and she laments at all the wasted chances she’s had in her illustrious dating history. I have begun to empathise with her, and now I actually LIKE reading her whiney “single-woman solace” column.

Maybe if I were a Victorian maiden with a tight corset and chastity belt, my droves of children would be at my deathbed, wiping my sweat and pleading with God to let me live. A life of oppression would end in a non-lonely death.

Now I’m thinking: as I lie dying, will I be staring at my flowery wallpaper? Will I have a nurse? How will I go to the toilet? Who will change my sheets? Maybe I should check into a hotel and die there, so I’d at least get room service… Will I have the strength to walk through the hotel’s revolving doors? Maybe a nice old bellboy will help me then I’ll have no reason to die alone and the nice hotel room can be used for something else, something that will beat dying for sure.


BionicScribe said...

IS it the fear of a possibility that during ur last days when u r helpless to to even feed urself leave alone go to the toilet that makes ppl hunt for the "one"? I think so. It's the fear of old age or maybe the fear of helplessness that makes ppl hunt for a partner. of course there are other interesting things u can do as well. but then that's just a side benefit.
But what's the guarantee that the partner u choose would be there when u r helpless?

workawhorlic said...

I doubt that it is fear alone that drives us poor mortals to search for THE ONE. I do believe that as sentient beings with instincts other than than the one to reproduce, we crave deep relationships, one of which, and the most intense of all, being the
"romantic relationship", so well documented in books, music and movies. And maybe dying alone is just a baby fear attached to its mother fear, which is living alone.

You are exactly right. Nothing guarantees that your partner will be by your side when death comes knocking. Nothing guarantees that you will even find a suitable partner. So maybe lamenting dying alone is pointless since for most of the population, it is a likely end.