...Psycho has a new man. Or an old man. Both, in fact: the chap she broke up with a year or two ago (and regretted it) has finally been found and reinstated as Boyfriend™.

He's the one who was too young mentally (being six years younger than her, hrm!), but was otherwise a really good chap who I do not recall having a single problem with - very rare. She's in Floaty Love Mode™. Makes me want to puke. He's grown up a lot in the last couple of years and they're both very happy.

So am I, since she's off my case for the moment.

That's precisely what I have to report after spending yesterday morning with Amel: nothing. After all this time, I finally managed to convince her to meet me outside of the supermarket. She had to go to the University to check if she can use her degree in history to bypass some of her political science courses, so she suggested we go together. I'd never seen a University here, so it would at least be interesting to compare with the one I attended in London.

After some 45 minutes in the Metro (the University is on the other side of Paris!), we spent a few hours wandering around and chatting. It was very pleasant, but strangely more like passing the time with an old friend: no stress, no relationship tension, no real interest. Oh, well.

Stolen entirely from Srah (see blogroll), this physical attractiveness test is excellent. t's quite long and complex, but comes out surprisingly accurate. My only problem with it is the "people who would be attracted to you" section, which I would have thought would be better as "people you hope would be attracted to you in return".

My results indicate that I am "Very Picky: The fact is you are drawn to the most beautiful of the beautiful. You know what you like in women and are more selective than most men your age. Your tastes seem instinctual. You'd make a great casting agent, because you have a good eye for women who have "star quality." In real life, your high standards may be an obstacle for you. It's hard to find a woman with the strong features you like, who's also well-rounded in other ways. Still, you know the importance of a real physical "spark" in a relationship, and aren't willing (or able) to settle for less. The challenge is finding a woman who really wows you physically, even if she's not the most attractive woman in the room."

In addition: "Your choices show a consistent interest in a wide variety of Asian women. These women really stood out to you as being very appealing." and "One type of body you seemed to like is scientifically called an "Ectomorph," which is a fancy way of saying you like "skinny" women." Both of these are extremely accurate!

I apparently look for "diamond" faces, "pointed-square" chins, brown eyes, glasses, "exotic" (i.e. non-standard) noses that are not small, natural lips without makeup, nice smiles and long, straight, black hair. Not that far off the mark!

Yesterday was interesting. Having spoken to Psycho in the morning, as you could probably tell from the post, I was in a bad mood throughout the day. Even so, I furthered my research into plans for getting free or cheap money for the apartment. Here in France, there are lots of additional aids for house-buyers and particularly for those planning on buying a résidence principale: the socialist government that was in office until the last election ensured that all those taxes go to some neat plans to help out. Amongst these are low-interest loans, a fund via the company, reduced taxes and so on. Things are looking hopeful for the deposit and personal part of the overall payment! Next visit is on Saturday, to a place that looks and sounds nice from the plans.

After work, I was still in a bad mood. As usual, I headed over to Psycho's place, but with the intention of thrashing things out. It struck me as odd that I was still angry: that's very unlike me and very unusual for our relationship. We talk, we discuss, we understand... we always have. To be in a bad mood for things I cannot express is wrong, so I figured on talking it out and seeing why the situation had degenerated so far.

Taking the tack that it was purely for discussion and swallowing my anger for the time being, I broached the subject with her. The fact that she treats me like a slave, that she won't get off her (very attractive) arse, that she'll guilt-trip me into doing everything for her and so on - everything. The result is both surprising and, at the same time, entirely what I expected: it's sorted out.

What it comes down to is that I have difficulty in saying 'no' to requests for help. This has always been a problem and is something I'm trying to change without becoming a totally self-serving bastard. Anger ensues when I am trapped by the guilt-trips (my father was very religious, so you can see where that comes from!). Upon hearing her side of things, I had a sudden epiphany...

It's just as hard to have someone answer 'no' to your request as it is to do the answering. I'd never thought of it like that. All is well with the world because I finally understand.

I've decided not to care any more. Not in a global sense, of course, just in a very specific "I'm fed up with Psycho always complaining" way. It has to be said that she's a professional whiner: every second sentence (that's a generous average) is a whine or complaint, which can get a bit tedious. Of course, she's not alone in this - there are many, many people who need something to be wrong in life.

I used to be like this, in fact. I'd always look for something to worry about, for something to be wrong, for something to complain over. That was until the Magic Midget pointed out to me one day, "You're not happy unless you have something to worry you." This had a profound effect on me, little did she know, in that I decided I should stop looking for things to be anxious about and to simply get on with life. Life has a habit of throwing bad stuff at us all anyway, so there's no reason to go hunting for it.

I don't care any more. Whenever she whines, I shall think "I don't care", unless it's something important. So there. Nyer.

No, this isn't a posting about the web site with all those psychotic phone calls (that'd be right here). Note the comma, implying that 'Ex-Girlfriend' describes 'Psycho' and not the other way round. This is, in fact, a post about Psycho: I have now received a total of at least a dozen emails since I started this blog, asking lots of questions about her. So I thought I would dedicate today's entry to this wonder of nature.

If you read the stuff I post here at all regularly, rather than just dropping in, yawning and departing, you must be aware of who Psycho is. If not, read the profile for the basic intro. Of course, I have also posted about her before, usually in a negative sense. Oh, and you can blame that in-sentence linking habit on Joz Of The Tongue-Cuteness... it's all her fault! Gaaaaah!

The first question everyone asks is "Does she read your blog?", to which there are, in fact, two answers. Firstly, "I don't know". She has a computer (that I bought her and set up) and an internet connection, but she's what you might call 'computer illiterate' for the moment, so she struggles to get online and do stuff. She's learning, but she never had to use computers before, so it's learn-from-scratch. She might have seen my blog, she might not. The second answer is "Do you think I'm completely suicidal or something?" - I wouldn't point her at this page voluntarily. There is nothing here that she shouldn't know, but there is a lot here that is expressed without using the PsychoFilter. That would cause problems.

Secondly, people ask "Why is she still your friend?" when they see me complain. Obviously, you all only have friends who are perfect and never annoying, who are generous, kind, beautiful people who are also good in bed, rich, charming and would do anything for you. Well, I ain't so lucky! Psycho and I went out (read 'dated' if you're stuck in US-English) for about five years, so we have a lot of baggage, particularly since those five years were the best and almost-worst of my life. There has only been one woman who has hurt me more than Psycho (that'd be E.S., the only person alive who merits my using the word 'bitch') and none who have made me happier. She is also the only friend I have in this city (and in this country) and I consider her my family. She merits some extra patience, because she has generally had that same patience for me in the past, when I have really needed it.

You should remember, as always, that this blog is just me jabbering to myself: when I complain, I do so in the moment when The Rage takes me, and I will be less calm than usual. Take my rants, rare as they are, with a pinch (or a small continent) of salt.

When it comes down to it, lots of the problems I have with Psycho are, in fact, my own fault. Is it not I who pay her rent? And do her shopping? And cook for her? And pick up her prescriptions? And solve all her problems? As all good psychologists will tell you, we grow and learn through frustration (and yes, Scary Ross, before you say it, that probably means I have grown and learnt lots... bah...). By removing her frustrations, by doing too much for her, by being a 'Too Good Mother' to (i.e. molly-coddling) her, it is, in fact, me who feeds her annoying little adolescent princess personality.

Such is life: not only must I now learn not to do so much for her and deny my stupid self-sacrificing personality, but I have to take the consequences of her whining endlessly when I do. Sometimes we dig such deep, deep holes for ourselves...

Note: I will also answer questions about Psycho in the comments if they're not rude, invasive or just too plain weird. If you're really that interested.

...Ruin My Day Before It's Even Started:

I wonder if any of you remember that Ian Dury song? "Reasons to be cheerful... 1, 2, 3..." - I only remember that bit of it, but it popped into my head when I decided to sit down and write about last night.

As an aside, I just realised that one of the blogs I visit regularly has vetted all my recent comments. As in, deleted them. I couldn't remember all the posts I'd commented on, but at least the last three were missing. I find that somewhat insulting - not because they trimmed comments, which is their right as blog owner, but since I hadn't said anything nasty or rude or anything. Oh well, I'll see if any more disappear...

And now on to last night's drama...!!

As you know from yesterday's blog, I headed off to see Psycho last night expecting the worst. I did a bit of shopping on the way, for Diet Coke (the no-caffeine, no-sugar version, which she drinks an awful lot of as part of a diet - the bubbles fill up the stomach, you see, and reduce hunger), fruit juice and some other stuff (like something to eat, for me).

When I arrived, Biscotte was scratching at the door. This is a good sign - it means Psycho is probably asleep. So I let myself in after a gentle knocking gained no response. Yes, I have keys to her apartment, as she does to mine. She may be my ex, but she's still my best friend and is welcome whenever she wants: this has, in fact, saved us both a couple of times when we've forgotten our own keys and the other has had their second set with them. It's also useful when she has a burst of exercise-fever, since I still have her running machine and stepper here (not enough room chez elle) and more open space to do stuff.

Biscotte spent a few minutes doing her normal survey of the building's corridor and being cuddled - she loves having an evening stroll - and I discovered Psycho was indeed asleep. Deep breath, and wake her up.

Surprisingly, the evening went better than I expected. She was very depressed at 'losing' the job (although she never had it to begin with), but was less vocal than I had anticipated. I cooked one of her favourite things, to try to cheer her up a little, although I'd used all the salmon the night before, so I couldn't make her absolute favourite thing. I'd also had the sense to grab a fresh mango and stock up on Taillefine chocolate desserts (0.9% fat) and some blackberry yoghurts (0% fat) - she ate loads of nice stuff to calm her depression, without putting on the kilos.

She was, as I said, less talkative than I expected. As the evening ended, however, she opened up a bit and told me how she felt. Losing that job was a real kick in the teeth for her. It had been something to look forward to and a recognition that she wasn't completely useless and unemployable. Thankfully, she still has a training session available to her, I believe, to set her up as a workplace psychologist. She'll check the details on that today, I hope, and stay mentally active while looking for another job. I managed to reassure her that she will find work, and even to get her to smile by the time I left - a couple of Friends episodes helped those smiles along a little, too.

So, all in all, the Evening Of Doom wasn't as horrid as I thought it would be. I even remembered to pick up some milk on the way home, for my breakfast this morning!

Depression is coming. Doom gathers on the horizon like dark clouds warning of an impending storm. Four figures on horseback can be seen in the distance, galloping towards me. They are the Horsemen of the Psycholypse: Joblessness, Lackofsleep, Adolescentattitude and Absolutenegativity! I run, but I cannot hide. The phone continues to ring. Six times in four hours. If I answer, I am doomed. If I do not, I am still doomed.

Yup, Psycho didn't get the job she wanted. So now I not only have a lack of sleep to deal with, but also an intensification of her negativity, depression and do-everything-for-me attitude. This evening's going to be like walking into a morgue on Everybody's Depressed Day. Oh joy.

I need a cigarette. And some coffee.

Oh my goodness! Scary Ross just sent me this URL to The Adventures of AccordionGuy in the 21st Century. It's a weblog, and the link goes straight to the archive. You just have to read this. Blogs save lives.

How many of you are nice guys? I mean, genuinely nice guys, not just "I'm a nice guy, now take me home, undress me and do unmentionably adult things to my lower appendages" nice? You are? Me too.

Of course, as all guys know, if a female calls you 'nice', it's the Kiss Of Death. I was going to say 'girl' there, but this is something that I have discovered doesn't change as one ages. To be called 'nice' is like being called 'nondescript'. We'd all rather be 'interesting' or 'mysterious' or even 'exciting', all of which generally mean "he's a total scumbag, but I'm going to sleep with him and marry him anyway". 'Nice' means, as a line in a book I once read said, "he's a great friend and you trust him and adore him, but you wouldn't f*ck him in a million years." I believe it was If You Can't Live Without Me... Why Aren't You Dead Yet?, which is a superb read. I may be wrong. It may have been (gasp!) a TV series.

So what is it about 'nice' guys that's so bad? Well, to speak personally, we're not seen as being very interesting or exciting. We're predictable, to an extent. If we say we'll be somewhere at a particular time, we're there. If we promise to do something, we do it. Birthdays are rarely forgotten. Flowers and other unexpected gifts appear randomly and for no good reason. We compliment. We listen. We're the ones women turn to when they get screwed over by the others. We don't blame our other half for everything, treat them like crap and sleep with other women. All of this, however, seems to be a sort of "anti-pheremone" for the vast majority of women and is the bane of our lives. Yet we persist, because we're nice.

Of course, nice guys are also renowned for ending up with horrible women. It's a bizarre state of affairs and can undoubtedly be explained psychologically. A good mother who's too maternal, encouraging a similar response in her child, who wants to help a lunatic cow and instead ends up sacrificing everything and getting dumped on, much like nice women with horrible men.

Apparently, I am officially nice. My boss showed me my work appraisal recently, and after the list of skills and knowledge and the list of things to learn and develop, to which other managers had added their notes, she had added "Really nice guy."

So I'm scratched from the list of eligible bachelors, unless I go looking for an axe-murderess. Hell, if even my boss can notice it, I must be seriously nice. Ain't life grand?