Timing

Timing.

The comic's best friend. The comic's worst enemy.

The catalyst of two people meeting; of sparks slicing and frittering into a night sky; to merge into something beautiful and huge, like an opera of colours and dizzying emotions that are popping out of a million champagne bottles, pop, pop, pop, POW! Right in the kisser. Bang. Shot to the heart. Shot to the pelvic area, where night flies buzz and swirl; they light you up inside, take you for a ride, turn day to night, while showing dancing lights. Timing can be beautiful.

Or timing dismisses you.

Timing is the waiting around for hours in London for girl X/Y/Z to show up, only to then find out:

A) They had got wasted on drugs with friends the night before

B) Met someone else the night before, stayed over at theirs and decided not to tell me.

C) They were getting back with their ex.

None meant to be. All duds; poor jokes and tumble weeds. Cest. La. Vie.

You can't even blame people for timing. You can blame people for being arseholes, but for timing? No.

Some people just still really love their ex; who are you to think they are an idiot for it? Just because you've had enough time, you think you have the right to feel vilified or mad? They haven't had enough nights of crying into their pillows, of torturing themselves over whether or not to send a text to the person they love, of writing for and against lists again and again as to whether or not they should stay with that person/give it another try... for old times sake. For loves sake.

Daenerys thinks the Game of Thrones is hard? She should try lesbian dating

I mean, for fucks sake. Its tough. Incredibly tough.

Right now, I am in a wonderful place where I am more or less indifferent to love and the opportunity to meet someone special. I don't crave love. Nor do I fear it. I fear living with someone again, of them taking my time, taking me away from my own life and hobbies and turning me into a faceless entity, lacking any form of identity. I have re-found myself and that took a while. Its not something I particularly wanna do again any time soon, if ever.

Jo Cooper: available for hugs most weekends.

But love is wonderful. Maybe not right now. But at some point again, of course.

The downside to dating is that we assume/hope that everyone is on the same level as us, or wants the same as us, or is at least a moderately functioning human being. However, reaching that level doesn't happen over night and ultimately all everyone wants is some attention and for someone to care. So I guess the moral to this story is, whoever you date, give them a cuddle. Doesn't matter if they don't ever call you back, or it fizzles out, or they are occupied with someone else. We are all in our own time zones; but what travels beyond those ticking clocks is a great big hug.

On Turning 27

Twenty Seven, funny old age isn't it?

Sorry for the nonchalant yet slightly awkward comedian entree into this blog post. I turned 27 on the 28th July of this wonderful year of weird weather and.... watching many a TV series and drinking rum. *coughs*

This seems to be a something of a core year within our culture; I am of course talking about the 27 club, which refers to popular musicians who died far too young and far too talented to go. The beautiful and beehived Amy Winehouse being the most recent member, she apparently quit the drugs only to dragged down by the clawed skeletal hand of an eating disorder that had kept her shackled for years. We also know how the story ends for the pained and pleading eyed Cobain, the verbose and bloated Morrison and of the mystery surrounding the dark eyed, swoonsome and self destructive Richey Edwards. 

All 27, all at a turning point in their careers; some were being crushed by the media attention and the demand for more, more, more. More songs, more stories, more shocks, more publicity.Others were being ridiculed, jeered and viewed as a joke; a caricature of something once awe inspiring and true.There were opportunities to continue into the light, into the stars and become bigger, better, bolder. There were chances to redeem themselves, come back to their fans and the critics, perhaps not as they once were, but something more raw, honest, and inspirational. Hell, they could have just gone and made some (more) babies, settled down and lived out their years quietly embracing their creativity in their own ways. Instead they died. What more was inside them? What more should have, could have, been seen or heard and embraced for its genius?

A few years from 30, an age at which many have settled down with children, a serious partner or husband/wife, 27 is also still flirting with 25, an age where many of us are still partying and unsure where we want to be or what we want to do with our lives. It is the middle ground between confused arrogance and acceptance, where we still believe somewhere deep inside that we are special and important. It is a time where we still desperately claw for what we want, for who we want to be, and where we want to go in our glittering future, before the real world grabs us kicking and screaming into the mundane. It is an age of jaded hope, of cynical dreams, of... any other relevant fucking oxymoron you can think of. 

It is a strange age for sure, and one that requires a lot of thought to ensure I make the right choices that are good for my life; where I want to be, both in career and location, and who I want to be with before it is too late. We can't fuck up now, not when we are so close to being truly brilliant.

Then again, I did just read on Twitter that 30 is the new 10. So technically I am fine for another 17 years. Is that right? God my maths is shit. *drinks rum and puts The Killing Season II on*

Moving on...