Paris Splat!

I thought about writing one heck of a tearjerker because it’s such a good story and then I realized it’s not fair to the other party. I don’t want people to vilify him if you know what I mean. Besides, I may lead a semi-public (emphasis on semi) life because of this blog but in the end, we’re still both, especially him, private individuals. So let’s cut this purging session short. 

Click click click!

I confess — the main reason why I went to Paris was not for the shows but for, well, Mr. D who turned out to be Mr. Disaster. The shows were pretty much icing on the cake. In fact, I thought about going to the shows in the VERY last minute. Paris only came to the picture because it’s a great meeting point for me and someone who lives in another part of Europe.

Basically, Mr. Disaster and I only had 2 days to hang out, smack right during menswear fashion week, before he had to go back. So rather than werqing the shows, I chose to spend time with him — a decision I truly, truly regret.

During the day it went well… but come night time, it was a different story. To cut this piece short, let’s just say it got complicated in the end.

There’s much, mucho more into it but I don’t wanna make this post a big song and dance number on me not getting what I want though I must say that I feel as if my efforts were not reciprocated in the way I expected him to do.

You know you’re in very, very fucked up situation and it’s like talking to an insensitive, indifferent brick wall when you’re in tears and someone asks you “why are you crying” and then you reply, “why the fuck do you think I’m crying?”

Some just don’t get it…. maybe it’s a cultural barrier? Who knows.

To be honest, I wasn’t expecting much either. I *know* we’re treading dangerous waters because we live too far apart… but whatever happened to living in the present and enjoying what’s happening now rather than worrying about tomorrow?

I digress.

As my friend told me, there I was in Paris… my chance to live my dream (which I did, partially, thanks very much) and go to the shows but instead, some bastard fucks me over because he couldn’t live a minute without knowing the hour.

The funniest thing of all is that I fell for this guy back in January because of his text messages. Well guess what… the day AFTER he left Paris, my phone was lost/stolen at Le Queen and a ton of memories from January were there.

Good riddance, perhaps?

Now.

So you get heartbroken one day, your phone stolen the next and then you get mugged by two scary men on the third day… well, you know how it goes, bad luck always come in threes.

But you live and you learn.

I must admit though… I couldn’t help but wonder why it ended the way it did. I could only think of two reasons — either a) he’s into me but he’s a coward or b) maybe he’s just not THAT into me. Or maybe it was also my fault because I gave up on him really quick and told him to leave me alone and never contact me back (which I also regret saying).

In any case, it’s all useless and pointless now. Like what I always say, yesterday is a closed book. I’ve moved on.

Meanwhile… this whole thing reinforces my belief that fashion should go first before anything else. 

That’s all.