Ciao a tutti!
It’s been a year of inner fights for me, and I am exhausted. There is only so much Nutella and carbs a woman in her late 30s can eat to distract her mind from such turmoil. I mean, a woman who has to keep her level of gorgeousness to a high standard, as she is on a hunt. On THE hunt, more precisely. In London. Exactly, now you see my point. I need all my energies to look for Mr Right in this big, confused, crazy, quick, restless and relentless city. I can’t waste more energies on being undecided.
What has been boiling inside me? On one side, my love for writing, my desire for sharing my amazing thoughts and surreal anecdotes, the fact I have always identified myself with Carrie (no surname needed, if you are on my same wave length), but more importantly my need to find other people (mainly women) in my same (often shitty) situation, to know that I am not alone. On the other side, my complete ignorance on blogs, and my slight diffidence towards them, supported by my terrible IT laziness to learn how to start one.
But some of my friends kept insisting, “Come on, Roby, we want to read your stuff!”. They made me feel like Britney Spears. “Everybody wants a piece of me”, I told myself, which I guess is anyway better than “Everybody wants to piss on me”, which by the way could be an interesting topic for a post (or maybe not).
Plus, the thoughts kept clogging my mind, at every chat I had with my friends, at every new date I approached with optimism and enthusiasm to then have my hopes being covered by a truckload of shit. The only way to get rid of them is, I hope, to share them.
So, here they are, my thoughts on Sex, Love and Dating, which have increased in intensity and depth ever since I found myself single 3 years ago.
An incredible curiosity, a quite open mind, a hidden hippie nature, a lot of energies, an unusual daily job that leaves me with much spare time have all concocted to bring me to having a lot of STDs (Seriously Terribly Dates). My Italian Literature professor at Uni used to say that the best flowers are those cultivated with tonnes of shit. Of course he was saying it more elegantly, but that’s the gist.
Maybe this blog can be one of the flowers being born out of all the dating disappointments, sexual frustration, paranoias, mental wanks and general challenges to my self-irony and strong belief that life is awesome.
Cool. Or, more appropriately, Cul (“ass”, in Italian, both because that’s my mother tongue, and because it will likely be a recurrent topic in my posts). Let’s start blogging then.