When it comes to rejection, life has dealt me an easy hand, meaning I haven’t had to deal with it much. Last week however, I found myself opposite the role I’m more used to playing, and I, like most people at some points in their lives, had to experience what it’s like to live the topic of so, so many whiny pop songs. I spend a few days doing sad girl shit, I ate chocolate in bed and masturbated in a t-shirt he had worn for at least two hot Portuguese spring days (so pretty much soaked in his scent), to memories of the great sex we had only a few days prior.

Then when white laundry day came, I had no reason not to wash his shirt too, and I forced myself into the next phase. I put on an outfit that is the perfect combination of classy, casual and sexy, and under the guise of needing to buy a new book, I paraded around Lisbon. Bathing myself in the attention of every gaze, every stare, and a lot of likely to be misinterpreted glances. From behind the blue reflective glasses of my shades, my eyes tracked theirs. With the left corner of my mouth curled up in a flirtatious smile, I welcomed the looks. All the while, my noise cancelling head phones blasted Nirvana and made me feel just out of reach, untouchable to the world, unrestricted by the normally mandatory participation in reality, a poltergeist here to spread just a little bit of mayhem.

As a true twenty first century girl, I not only paraded myself around physically, but online as well by firing up the dating apps. The swiping phase is fun, it serves as both a distraction as well as a reminder that there are plenty more fish in the sea. However, when those fish actually start sending me messages to get some attention in return, there’s nothing I want to do more than throw my phone into the ocean. When it comes to that kind of personally directed attention, the kind that is expecting a reply, that kind, I much rather live in shortage of.

Everyone that sends multiple messages in the timespan of only an hour, I assume to be desperate, I project a neediness onto the already insubstantial character that can be conveyed through two to six photos and a short bio. No matter how aware I am that the clinginess I sense is as much made up as it is detrimental to my interest in them, I can’t shake it. In this case, I prefer being the one wanting, instead of being wanted.

The person that rejected me last week always left me wanting, he knew exactly how to walk the fine line between displaying a for me comfortable aloofness and being a plain asshole. He kept me on my toes and almost every call I received from him, I was happy to answer. It would be nice to be able to gratefully welcome someone’s genuine and overflowing interest in me without me losing mine. But alas, abundance is predictable, and predictability is boring. And rather than being bored, I guess I’d be deprived.