The temptation to bat for the other side.
written: 5:32 p.m. on Sunday, Feb. 15, 2009

I was watching the Mauresmo/Jankovic Paris Open match early this morning at 2 a.m. 'cause watching tennis, even if it's the WTA, is more fun than studying. Mauresmo casually took the first set from Jankovic with ease and demonstrated amazing attacking skills, not to mention the ability to switch from defence to attack with literally the blink of the eye. In one of the rallies, I was utterly amazed when Mauresmo suddenly took charge of the rally when Jankovic was the one dominating it at first, with Mauresmo eventually finishing it off with a winner.

Absolutely fantastic. She dropped the second set 0-6 and ran back to her chair and shut it out of her mind, and then won the third set 6-1. Her response to the disaster in the second set, as well as her reactions after winning crucial points, can only be described as "man". In fact, I'm willing to bet that most male tennis players wouldn't even be able to react to a 0-6 second set loss the way she did.

I have no idea what her sexual orientation is and I don't care because that's not the point. The point is, she struck me as slightly butch and I couldn't help but find her really attractive.

What is really, really sad about this is that at some level, it shows, at least to some extent, the utter lack of faith I have in the sex that I'm actually attracted to, and I have to somehow compensate for how utterly disappointing the male species have been by projecting the things I want in a man on a woman who is kind of butch. I mean, really. What the hell? It's really sad when I find a female tennis player whom I know nothing about, whom I've only watched properly a few days ago, way more man than the guys that I actually know.

Perhaps, though, I'm just continually pissed at myself for wasting my time on people that continue proving to me they were never once worth my trouble. So I apologise if I continue to be unmoved by their declarations that they care, that they want me in their lives, that I mean a lot; because the sight of them makes me ill. The sight of them reminds me of the piece of shit I was, the pathetic excuse for a human being I became, when I was with them. That is something I can never get over, doing it to myself, and so I don't care how much this defeaning silence hurts - because it sure as hell cannot even begin to hope to compare to how much something that happened two years ago is still hurting me.

Men, I think, are pretty useless. Even the best of them. The worst of them probably don't even deserve to live.

I feel absolutely sick to my stomach.

And what the fuck, Eurosports, broadcasting the Paris final at 4.30 a.m.? Thanks a lot.

before sunrise // before sunset

Previously:
- - Tuesday, Aug. 29, 2017
I'm moving. - Sunday, Jul. 11, 2010
In all honesty - Tuesday, Jul. 06, 2010
What I want for my birthday... - Sunday, Jul. 04, 2010
On Roger's behalf. - Friday, Jul. 02, 2010