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On The Rampage: Dates are just a losing prospect generally

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Posted July 11, 2012 by Colm O'Brien in Humour
Nighthawks
First dates, am I right? Over the past couple of weeks on Ramp, we’ve had views of one particularly bad date from both the man and the woman involved. That’d be the end of it, you’d think, but then we got a couple of emails from our old pal, ‘The Essence of What It Is To Be Human’. What’s it like in the scary world of dating when you’re an elusive abstract concept? Read on and find out!

Heyyy! Well, I was thinking about what you said. I’ve been in and out of the game since, gosh, it must be several millenia before the beginning of recorded history, but you’re right, it HAS been a while since I’ve really given it a proper go. So GUESS WHO’S GOT A BLIND DATE LINED UP FOR TONIGHT! Eek!!! I just hope I’m not too rusty/ground down by the banal reality of sentient existence, it’d be just like me to make a complete GOM of myself. Dashing out the door now, I’ll let you know how it goes! x

 

Oh my literal GOD what was that. Don’t have time to explain properly as I’m blue-arsed with work and having every cell of my corporeal form oxidise and decay in an achingly slow yet all-too-quick march towards whatever death is, so I’ll just give you the bullet points.

  • Arrive at Eddie Rocket’s. Briefly paralyzed by sudden sense of the unbridgeable gulf between Self and Other, of communication as system of bumbling approximation, of the crushing, total aloneness at the root of consciousness. Ask for table for two. Waiter now looking at me funny.
  • Order onion rings followed by plain foot-long hot-dog. Other orders the same, remarks “Sure aren’t we all as One in the end”. Nice sentiment, I mutter. Let’s see if it still holds when the bill comes.
  • Have chilling image where roof of diner tears away, revealing a screaming void. A clock appears, the hands made of bone and the length of a dying mother’s sigh. Each TICK is the sound of an iron casket slamming shut. An old man stares into my eyes, breathes his last, is replaced by his sons and daughters, who die in turn.
  • The onion rings are a bit dry.
  • Offer Other a sip of my Oreo malt, aware that this is a meagre gesture in the face of the total apathy of the universe. Nevertheless Other seems pleased. Is the date looking up?
  • NO IT IS NOT. Mustard on my hot dog. Existence is a cruel joke and we are the punchline.
  • Through a supreme act of will and fortitude, am just about able to ignore mustard and focus attention on Other, who is trying to make conversation about shared interests. Am dismayed that Other seems to be doing this un-ironically, despite utter inadequacy of symbolic language when it comes to the communication of subjective values. Nevertheless, find self grudgingly agreeing that Breaking Bad is indeed “the tits”.
  • Attempt to communicate a single true thing to Other, but as per usual the mere fact of putting it into words destroys the idea. Already imperfect syllables further mangled by the capering meat-circus that passes for the human mouth. Also, seems I have been dribbling on myself for the past few minutes, which doesn’t go down well.
  • Consider ordering coffee and a chocolate sundae for dessert. Have sudden flash of the dizzyingly complex chains of production of every product we take for granted, the oppression and deprivation routinely meted out to those unlucky enough to not be us, the colossal minute-by-minute evil inherent in every distracted half-enjoyment of every unquestioned luxury. Order rhubarb crumble instead.
  • Other seems bored, keeps checking phone. Panic. Check own phone in feeble attempt to maintain sense of pride. Have text from The Nature of Time & Space, who is in Whelan’s with Boredom As a Path to Transcendence and The Way Pink Wafer Biscuits Taste Really Good Sometimes But Not That Often. Mumble excuses to Other and make my getaway in order to forestall the inevitable pain of rejection.

There was more to the night of course, though it got all got a little theoretical around about the fifteenth round of off-brand alcopop, and I’m not sure I could put it into the kind of words understandable by a being from the material plane. That old story, eh!! Anyway, I dunno how soon I’ll be diving back into the ol dating game given what an absolute shitemare this was, but hey, never say never!

Hope all’s well with you,

Your pal, the hugglemonster (lol) xoxoxo


About the Author

Colm O'Brien

Born in Ireland at the tender young age of 0, Colm is an ardent fan of literature and computer games, and the curator of South County Wicklow’s third-finest head of hair. He likes shorts more than he used to.

  • http://twitter.com/ElleEmSee Laura C

    I love this. A lot. MOAR!!!1

  • http://twitter.com/notRuairi Rú Hickson

    This is quite brilliant. I feel listening to Bounce by MSTRKRFT enhances the reading experience.

  • Fionntan Wilson

    abso-bloody-lutely fantastic.

  • http://www.ramp.ie/ Lisa McInerney

    I re-read this tonight in an existential funk and it did the job nicely. Superb stuff.

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