I had a really rubbish evening yesterday. When I left work, I was in a foul mood and I literally stomped down the road to Elephant with my music on as loud as it could go. At the station, I noticed that I was crying. I suppose that explains why people were giving me odd looks. I managed to cheer up enough to get home in one piece, and I then sat around aimlessly in my kitchen, trying to think of things to do. I debated whether or not to have any dinner, as it would mean I wouldn’t be able to have any lunch today. In the end I decided to have a small portion for both dinner and lunch, making it thoroughly unsatisfying.
I hate thinking about my ex boyfriend. That’s why I was so upset. He just makes me really angry, and I hate the fact that he’s still around, and can find out things really easily about me. I don’t want him to know anything about me. I don’t see why he should know anything. After all, he decided that he didn’t like me (his words were “I’ve really grown to hate you… and it gets worse every day”) so I don’t see why now he should be able to find out anything. I mean, it’s not like I think he’ll even ask anyone about me. I just don’t want him to have the opportunity.
After watching some thoroughly unsatisfying television, I went to my room to waste some more time. It feels like I tidy my room every day, yet it’s always quite a mess. Probably because I accumulate so much stuff and can’t throw anything away, and because I’m always in the middle of doing a million different things at once, most of which don’t get completed and just end up being “filed” (ie. put on the floor or piled on top of my speakers). I have broken my really awful habit of keeping mugs in my room. It looked a bit too much like this guy I used to knows room. He was disgusting. He was best friends with one of my exes, and everyone used to go to his house to smoke bongs. He lived just up the road from my sixth form, which was quite a convenient location if you were in that way inclined. His room was the basement of his parents house (his dad was never there; I think he was a polar explorer or something) and because he wasn’t allowed to smoke cigarettes or spliffs in there, he used to smoke bongs. Not only did it STINK, with no natural light, but there was no carpet, the floor was covered with tobacco and other skank, there were a million cups and spoons and it was generally really gross. I was going through my diary from back then and I’d commented that there were so many cups and spoons that I was sure there was a third world country without any. My friend H said yes, the whole of Africa. Smarmy git.
Anyway, I digress.
I had a very miserable conversation on the phone, and then a satisfying cigarette out of my bedroom window.
This morning I woke up with a huge smile on my face- it’s pay day!
I’m just about to head out on the piss (on a school night- I know, I know!) with G. He’s coming up from Brighton for the evening, and we’re going to get pissed. Nice.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Monday, January 30, 2006
My poor liver has taken quite a kicking
Wow, what an incredibly fucked up weekend. I don't really know how I feel about any of it. I'm in a bit of a funny mood right now. Sometimes I feel great. Yesterday I was on the bus, sitting right at the front, and the sun was shining on my face. I hadn't bothered putting my contact lenses in and I had my hat pulled down almost over my eyes (I figured it didn't really make much difference, I'm so blind without my contacts). I'd caught a glimpse of myself reflected off a bus, and I looked like a bit of a thug, to be honest, which I thought was pretty cool. Mainly because I never normally look like a thug, I generally look like quite a respectable human being. Or do I? Apparently I look like Katherine Hepburn. There's a programme on the Internet where you can match your face to a database of celebrities, and that's who mine came out with. Her and Ava Gardner, which I suppose is pretty cool, as they're both beautiful.
Anyway, to get back to the point. I finally got my mp3 player back in the most roundabout way ever. I'd left it at T's, and then what seems to have happened is he took it to the pub, left it there but somehow told his old boss that it was mine; he then brought it to my office but I wasn't there so he gave it to the press office. T hasn't been returning my calls or texts, perhaps because I wouldn't kiss him? I don't know. Part of my new policy is that I don't stress so much about people who don't call (I'm sure everyone reading this is sick of me banging on about that!). I only have a little bit of obsessing to do today, but more of that later.
The funny thing is, my weird mood has passed. Clearly writing a blog is therapeutic!
I trekked over to the Legend's house (hereafter known as the Caves, for reasons I can't be bothered to go into, though be assured that it's stroke of genius on my behalf). It took me ages as I have no money and had to make sure I took bendy buses the whole way. I didn't like those bendy buses when they were first introduced, but now I think they're fucking excellent as you don't have to pay. I am the ultimate skank. I had to walk part of the way- and the mp3 player had run out battery. I ask you. T steals it (ish), leaves it in a pub, and runs out the batteries! It started snowing, which was quite pretty. Bloody cold though, especially as I can't wear my big coat until I get it dry cleaned. At the Caves the boys were watching 'Peep Show' and drinking some abysmal wine. S (new year boy) wasn't there, so it was just me, Legend and Wolf. We set off for the union, hoping to get in for cheap (which we managed to miss, thanks to getting lost and walking down a dead end- thanks Wolf!!). We got ourselves some beers and a seat. The boys were discussing an exhibition they'd been to at the Imperial War Museum, 'Women at War'. I thought that it sounded perfect, as it combines their two favourite things. They told me I was completely wrong.
"That's not war! They were knitting socks and turning yellow in munitions factories. They weren't shooting anyone or killing people. What a con."
I sighed and blamed only myself for consensually going for a night out with a pair of misogynists.
"And anyway," one of them continued (it really doesn't matter which one, in this aspect they are indistinguishable), "the worst thing about the Second World War was that women thought they deserved rights after that. If the Germans had won, then fair enough, we might have all been a bit subjugated, but at least women would still be officially inferior."
"What about me?" I asked, rising to the bait, as always. "Are you saying that I'm inferior to you fat bastards because I'm female?"
"Well, yeah," they said, "but you don't really count. You're not really a girlie girl, are you? You're more like a man. You're like us."
As I was contemplating whether that was the worst compliment I had ever received, Wolf piped up with the following choice comment.
"You're like us. With great tits," he said, trying to peer down my top. "I've always thought, I'd love to make a latex model of your tits, and put it on my bedroom wall at face level."
The mental image of Wolf wanking with his face buried in a latex model of my breasts is just too appalling.
I spotted D, a guy I've slept with a couple of times working behind the bar, but I was too chicken to say anything to him. Just like on Thursday. No doubt he thinks I am the biggest loser. After a little while I decided to stop being such a weirdo and say hello to him. He seemed pleased to see me. I think I'm starting to fancy him. This is exactly what I didn't want to happen. He is a really nice guy, very funny, clever etc. But I don't want to fancy anyone. Particularly not someone who I'm almost 100 % sure doesn't fancy me. We had a little chat. He asked me why I hadn't replied to his text message, and I asked him why he hadn't sent one. Apparently he had replied to me, but I never received it. We arranged that from now on we would call each other. I don't know how things stand. I tried calling him earlier to say hello and apologise for being a hideous drunk (more details of that below) but it went to voicemail. I have ruined any chance of it being okay anyway...
This is what I did: I kissed his housemate. Who is also his best friend. Who is seeing someone.
What a real idiot. We were chatting- I've known him for years. We were trying to think up ways of cheering up some of our friends, who'd just been dumped. He asked me to come with him, and we went out of the pub, just inside the entrance of the building.
"I need to say something to you," he said. "I've kind of told this girl that I like her, and we're seeing each other. But I'm so tempted to kiss you. And if I do, I'll feel bad that I've lead you both on."
Me being me, I'd had quite a lot to drink, and I said something along the lines of, "Look, I know you don't fancy me. If you don't mind cheating on your girlfriend then do what you like. I'm not going to feel bad, or lied to or anything. It's not my problem."
"So if I kiss you, you won't hate me?"
"We're always friends, no matter what."
So we kissed.
Afterwards, he asked if I was okay.
I said, "I'm cool. I'm not sorry, if that's what you mean, and I won't say I am."
"Hang on a second..." he said. "Who's that man standing behind you, glaring at me?"
I turned round. Sure enough, there was Wolf, looking like a surly bouncer.
"Oh, that's my friend," I said, in one of the lamest explanations ever.
"Your boyfriend?"
"Hell no!" I protested.
"So why does he look like a jealous husband then?"
I appeased Wolf by going for a wander with him. He had a huge go at me, telling me I should have more self-respect. I tried telling him that I knew this guy and he wasn't just some stranger, but he wouldn't believe me. Wolf hates every man I've ever been out with, as a matter of principle. He says that I've been out with a bunch of weirdos. When I was with my ex he asked me when I would start liking 'real men'. I don't think he minded G, although he was perpetually confused as to why I would find such skinny man attractive. Wolf then started lecturing me about sleeping with people too easily, and said that that was why these men had no respect for me. I have pointed out to him many a time that he has slept with just as many people as me (it's not a huge number, by any means), but he said it's not the same for girls. He went on at me for so long that I was eventually nearly in tears and he had to buy me a drink.
Girl S had said that she would come along, but she didn't. I tried calling her but her phone is quite temperamental (or that's the excuse she uses anyway). However, another girl I kind of know came along, and Wolf started hitting on her. She didn't seem very pleased. In fact, when he said, "Can I put my arm around you?" she replied with, "I'm going to go for a walk." Legend had already decided that she was a Vanessa Feltz look-alike, which I thought was a bit mean.
Legend and his girlfriend W had a row (like every time they go drinking) and went home, leaving me alone with Wolf. We decided to drink some shots and I was talked into drinking Aftershock. Aftershock is possibly my least favourite drink in the whole world, and is almost guaranteed to make me vomit. Sure enough, I was sick. We then went around stealing other people's drinks, which was probably not the most mature thing to do. Still, we didn't get caught, so nae problem.
By this point, I was half blind. I found myself face to face with my old manager. We used to get on really really well, but then we went out one time and he's not spoken to me since (I thought we were just going out to the pub as a group, but he'd obviously thought that it was just going to be me and him, so he wasn't best pleased to see my ex (who wasn't at that point my ex) with me. Especially as my ex was in the worst mood ever). I tried to have a bit of a chat but he was quite cold towards me and told me he hadn't forgiven me for that night. I decided to give up, and had a chat to his friend, who was decidedly friendlier.
Wolf and I decided to leave. I said goodbye to D (might as well try and salvage what I can). On the way out, we saw loads of people we were in halls with, so we had a little chat with them. About a hundred metres from the pub there was a fight going on. I noticed that there was a guy lying on the floor, passed out, with blood pouring from his head. As I tend to do when I'm drunk, I waded right in there. His mates were trying to drag him to his feet, so I made them put him down. Then I got them to give me their jackets (he was very cold, and only wearing a t-shirt) and call an ambulance, while I put him in the recovery position. They were all milling about, so I got them to give him a bit of space and talk to him, to try and get him to wake up. Sometimes I think that I should be a doctor. I don't actually mind blood or anything. Obviously I wouldn't want to poke around with people's internal organs, but blood is okay. Maybe I should just be a paramedic? It would solve my current work related issues.
We finally got back to the Caves, woke up boy S with our drunken shouting, and ate some noodles. Legend had gone to W's, so Wolf went to sleep in his room, and I slept on the sofa.
In the morning, I was woken up by S brewing some coffee, which was very much appreciated. I felt a little bit awkward as I was just in my underwear (I hadn't been pissed enough to forget that I hate sleeping in my clothes), but then I thought that that was a bit silly as we'd both seen each other naked. It was nice to hang out with S for a bit. We were both horrifically hung over, so we drank lots of coffee and smoked lots of cigarettes. Then I read Legend's copy of 'Arena' (which mentioned my company!!) and S satisfied his craving for Solitaire on the computer. He told me that sometimes he even dreams of Solitaire. I reckon that's a real sign of addiction.
I tried to wake Wolf up but he looked like death so I let him sleep a bit more. I didn't want to spend too much time near him as he absolutely stinks when he's asleep. He finally got up, and Legend returned from W's. The boys spent an hour or two looking at porn on the Internet until I kicked up a fuss and demanded that we go out. We wandered down to Soho, and went to the pub for a pub lunch. Legend announced that he felt happier than he had in a long time.
Wolf told the following joke:
A nose goes into a pub and orders a pint. The barman says, "I'm not serving you! You're off your face!!"
Walking back from Soho, we popped into another pub near where we used to live. I asked the boys what they wanted to do with their lives.
Wolf declared, "All I want in life is a bird, a car, an alright house, and the chance to go fishing as much as I like."
I pointed out that I meant career wise.
"A business, blatantly," he said. "Something not too challenging. I don't want to work in the public sector or anything though. You know, I don't actually care about people. I love my friends and my family, but the average man on the street... I don't give a toss about him."
He went on to try and justify why he liked war so much. "Basically, you go to someone else's country and you plunder and pillage all their natural resources. If you want to have a car and electricity and stuff, you have to have oil and gas, and sometimes to get that, you've got to kill some people. At least I'm honest! I want a car! Let's bomb Iran!"
We went back to the Caves and drank some beer, while partaking in some of our favourite pastimes- slagging off exes and watching 'Peep Show'. In the evening we went to have a curry on Drummond Street. There's a great restaurant called Zamzama. Wolf and Legend have been there about fifty times between them, and I've been once, but S hadn't been before. All the boys had vast quantities of meat, and I had to keep reminding Wolf not to use the same spoon for his meat and for the rice we were sharing. The food was a lot better than the last time I had been.
The last time we went to Zamzama, we had a big discussion about the afterlife. Wolf thinks that we are all really miserable as we think that you just die. He likes to think that there is something afterwards, as he says that if this is all there is, then he's pissed off. The same argument started up again. In the end, andy said that when we all died, he would come and find us to say "Ha!! Told you so!" When asked about what he thought heaven would look like, he said that he thought it would be like Fabric but with a carp lake in the middle of the dance floor.
The conversation moved on to science.
"I don't think science is really all that great," said Legend, who plans to become a doctor. "If it was, then surely they would have invented a device that fits up your arse with a pencil sharpener and a bottle opener."
"Yeah!" added Wolf. "And maybe a strobe light so if you're in a club, you can show your appreciation."
Legend started warming to the subject. "It could have different settings. You could make it so that you could do spaghetti shit. And you could have a setting that made it into a vagina, so if I was really desperate, I would be able to shag Wolf."
After the meal, we went to meet Legend's friends from back home. They were incredibly boring. We had a big debate about racism. Wolf kept saying the most stupid stuff to me:
"If discrimination is illegal, how come you're allowed to do positive discrimination?"
"You're not."
"Yes you are."
"No you're not. Discrimination is illegal."
"Then why are you allowed to do positive discrimination?"
"You're not."
And so on. Eventually we got so bored that we went back to the Caves.
Sunday was generally quite a boring day. I watched the OC, called my mum (who asked whether she could have the address of my blog!), cooked some food, read the papers, tidied my room. Legend and I were going to check out the Chinese New Year celebrations in town but by the time I got home (and watched the OC- got to get your priorities right!), I couldn't really be bothered, and he had lots of work to do anyway. I did make a stir fry though, as a concession to the seasonal festivities. Xin nian hao anyway to you all.
Not long til pay day now. And not a moment too soon, really!!
Anyway, to get back to the point. I finally got my mp3 player back in the most roundabout way ever. I'd left it at T's, and then what seems to have happened is he took it to the pub, left it there but somehow told his old boss that it was mine; he then brought it to my office but I wasn't there so he gave it to the press office. T hasn't been returning my calls or texts, perhaps because I wouldn't kiss him? I don't know. Part of my new policy is that I don't stress so much about people who don't call (I'm sure everyone reading this is sick of me banging on about that!). I only have a little bit of obsessing to do today, but more of that later.
The funny thing is, my weird mood has passed. Clearly writing a blog is therapeutic!
I trekked over to the Legend's house (hereafter known as the Caves, for reasons I can't be bothered to go into, though be assured that it's stroke of genius on my behalf). It took me ages as I have no money and had to make sure I took bendy buses the whole way. I didn't like those bendy buses when they were first introduced, but now I think they're fucking excellent as you don't have to pay. I am the ultimate skank. I had to walk part of the way- and the mp3 player had run out battery. I ask you. T steals it (ish), leaves it in a pub, and runs out the batteries! It started snowing, which was quite pretty. Bloody cold though, especially as I can't wear my big coat until I get it dry cleaned. At the Caves the boys were watching 'Peep Show' and drinking some abysmal wine. S (new year boy) wasn't there, so it was just me, Legend and Wolf. We set off for the union, hoping to get in for cheap (which we managed to miss, thanks to getting lost and walking down a dead end- thanks Wolf!!). We got ourselves some beers and a seat. The boys were discussing an exhibition they'd been to at the Imperial War Museum, 'Women at War'. I thought that it sounded perfect, as it combines their two favourite things. They told me I was completely wrong.
"That's not war! They were knitting socks and turning yellow in munitions factories. They weren't shooting anyone or killing people. What a con."
I sighed and blamed only myself for consensually going for a night out with a pair of misogynists.
"And anyway," one of them continued (it really doesn't matter which one, in this aspect they are indistinguishable), "the worst thing about the Second World War was that women thought they deserved rights after that. If the Germans had won, then fair enough, we might have all been a bit subjugated, but at least women would still be officially inferior."
"What about me?" I asked, rising to the bait, as always. "Are you saying that I'm inferior to you fat bastards because I'm female?"
"Well, yeah," they said, "but you don't really count. You're not really a girlie girl, are you? You're more like a man. You're like us."
As I was contemplating whether that was the worst compliment I had ever received, Wolf piped up with the following choice comment.
"You're like us. With great tits," he said, trying to peer down my top. "I've always thought, I'd love to make a latex model of your tits, and put it on my bedroom wall at face level."
The mental image of Wolf wanking with his face buried in a latex model of my breasts is just too appalling.
I spotted D, a guy I've slept with a couple of times working behind the bar, but I was too chicken to say anything to him. Just like on Thursday. No doubt he thinks I am the biggest loser. After a little while I decided to stop being such a weirdo and say hello to him. He seemed pleased to see me. I think I'm starting to fancy him. This is exactly what I didn't want to happen. He is a really nice guy, very funny, clever etc. But I don't want to fancy anyone. Particularly not someone who I'm almost 100 % sure doesn't fancy me. We had a little chat. He asked me why I hadn't replied to his text message, and I asked him why he hadn't sent one. Apparently he had replied to me, but I never received it. We arranged that from now on we would call each other. I don't know how things stand. I tried calling him earlier to say hello and apologise for being a hideous drunk (more details of that below) but it went to voicemail. I have ruined any chance of it being okay anyway...
This is what I did: I kissed his housemate. Who is also his best friend. Who is seeing someone.
What a real idiot. We were chatting- I've known him for years. We were trying to think up ways of cheering up some of our friends, who'd just been dumped. He asked me to come with him, and we went out of the pub, just inside the entrance of the building.
"I need to say something to you," he said. "I've kind of told this girl that I like her, and we're seeing each other. But I'm so tempted to kiss you. And if I do, I'll feel bad that I've lead you both on."
Me being me, I'd had quite a lot to drink, and I said something along the lines of, "Look, I know you don't fancy me. If you don't mind cheating on your girlfriend then do what you like. I'm not going to feel bad, or lied to or anything. It's not my problem."
"So if I kiss you, you won't hate me?"
"We're always friends, no matter what."
So we kissed.
Afterwards, he asked if I was okay.
I said, "I'm cool. I'm not sorry, if that's what you mean, and I won't say I am."
"Hang on a second..." he said. "Who's that man standing behind you, glaring at me?"
I turned round. Sure enough, there was Wolf, looking like a surly bouncer.
"Oh, that's my friend," I said, in one of the lamest explanations ever.
"Your boyfriend?"
"Hell no!" I protested.
"So why does he look like a jealous husband then?"
I appeased Wolf by going for a wander with him. He had a huge go at me, telling me I should have more self-respect. I tried telling him that I knew this guy and he wasn't just some stranger, but he wouldn't believe me. Wolf hates every man I've ever been out with, as a matter of principle. He says that I've been out with a bunch of weirdos. When I was with my ex he asked me when I would start liking 'real men'. I don't think he minded G, although he was perpetually confused as to why I would find such skinny man attractive. Wolf then started lecturing me about sleeping with people too easily, and said that that was why these men had no respect for me. I have pointed out to him many a time that he has slept with just as many people as me (it's not a huge number, by any means), but he said it's not the same for girls. He went on at me for so long that I was eventually nearly in tears and he had to buy me a drink.
Girl S had said that she would come along, but she didn't. I tried calling her but her phone is quite temperamental (or that's the excuse she uses anyway). However, another girl I kind of know came along, and Wolf started hitting on her. She didn't seem very pleased. In fact, when he said, "Can I put my arm around you?" she replied with, "I'm going to go for a walk." Legend had already decided that she was a Vanessa Feltz look-alike, which I thought was a bit mean.
Legend and his girlfriend W had a row (like every time they go drinking) and went home, leaving me alone with Wolf. We decided to drink some shots and I was talked into drinking Aftershock. Aftershock is possibly my least favourite drink in the whole world, and is almost guaranteed to make me vomit. Sure enough, I was sick. We then went around stealing other people's drinks, which was probably not the most mature thing to do. Still, we didn't get caught, so nae problem.
By this point, I was half blind. I found myself face to face with my old manager. We used to get on really really well, but then we went out one time and he's not spoken to me since (I thought we were just going out to the pub as a group, but he'd obviously thought that it was just going to be me and him, so he wasn't best pleased to see my ex (who wasn't at that point my ex) with me. Especially as my ex was in the worst mood ever). I tried to have a bit of a chat but he was quite cold towards me and told me he hadn't forgiven me for that night. I decided to give up, and had a chat to his friend, who was decidedly friendlier.
Wolf and I decided to leave. I said goodbye to D (might as well try and salvage what I can). On the way out, we saw loads of people we were in halls with, so we had a little chat with them. About a hundred metres from the pub there was a fight going on. I noticed that there was a guy lying on the floor, passed out, with blood pouring from his head. As I tend to do when I'm drunk, I waded right in there. His mates were trying to drag him to his feet, so I made them put him down. Then I got them to give me their jackets (he was very cold, and only wearing a t-shirt) and call an ambulance, while I put him in the recovery position. They were all milling about, so I got them to give him a bit of space and talk to him, to try and get him to wake up. Sometimes I think that I should be a doctor. I don't actually mind blood or anything. Obviously I wouldn't want to poke around with people's internal organs, but blood is okay. Maybe I should just be a paramedic? It would solve my current work related issues.
We finally got back to the Caves, woke up boy S with our drunken shouting, and ate some noodles. Legend had gone to W's, so Wolf went to sleep in his room, and I slept on the sofa.
In the morning, I was woken up by S brewing some coffee, which was very much appreciated. I felt a little bit awkward as I was just in my underwear (I hadn't been pissed enough to forget that I hate sleeping in my clothes), but then I thought that that was a bit silly as we'd both seen each other naked. It was nice to hang out with S for a bit. We were both horrifically hung over, so we drank lots of coffee and smoked lots of cigarettes. Then I read Legend's copy of 'Arena' (which mentioned my company!!) and S satisfied his craving for Solitaire on the computer. He told me that sometimes he even dreams of Solitaire. I reckon that's a real sign of addiction.
I tried to wake Wolf up but he looked like death so I let him sleep a bit more. I didn't want to spend too much time near him as he absolutely stinks when he's asleep. He finally got up, and Legend returned from W's. The boys spent an hour or two looking at porn on the Internet until I kicked up a fuss and demanded that we go out. We wandered down to Soho, and went to the pub for a pub lunch. Legend announced that he felt happier than he had in a long time.
Wolf told the following joke:
A nose goes into a pub and orders a pint. The barman says, "I'm not serving you! You're off your face!!"
Walking back from Soho, we popped into another pub near where we used to live. I asked the boys what they wanted to do with their lives.
Wolf declared, "All I want in life is a bird, a car, an alright house, and the chance to go fishing as much as I like."
I pointed out that I meant career wise.
"A business, blatantly," he said. "Something not too challenging. I don't want to work in the public sector or anything though. You know, I don't actually care about people. I love my friends and my family, but the average man on the street... I don't give a toss about him."
He went on to try and justify why he liked war so much. "Basically, you go to someone else's country and you plunder and pillage all their natural resources. If you want to have a car and electricity and stuff, you have to have oil and gas, and sometimes to get that, you've got to kill some people. At least I'm honest! I want a car! Let's bomb Iran!"
We went back to the Caves and drank some beer, while partaking in some of our favourite pastimes- slagging off exes and watching 'Peep Show'. In the evening we went to have a curry on Drummond Street. There's a great restaurant called Zamzama. Wolf and Legend have been there about fifty times between them, and I've been once, but S hadn't been before. All the boys had vast quantities of meat, and I had to keep reminding Wolf not to use the same spoon for his meat and for the rice we were sharing. The food was a lot better than the last time I had been.
The last time we went to Zamzama, we had a big discussion about the afterlife. Wolf thinks that we are all really miserable as we think that you just die. He likes to think that there is something afterwards, as he says that if this is all there is, then he's pissed off. The same argument started up again. In the end, andy said that when we all died, he would come and find us to say "Ha!! Told you so!" When asked about what he thought heaven would look like, he said that he thought it would be like Fabric but with a carp lake in the middle of the dance floor.
The conversation moved on to science.
"I don't think science is really all that great," said Legend, who plans to become a doctor. "If it was, then surely they would have invented a device that fits up your arse with a pencil sharpener and a bottle opener."
"Yeah!" added Wolf. "And maybe a strobe light so if you're in a club, you can show your appreciation."
Legend started warming to the subject. "It could have different settings. You could make it so that you could do spaghetti shit. And you could have a setting that made it into a vagina, so if I was really desperate, I would be able to shag Wolf."
After the meal, we went to meet Legend's friends from back home. They were incredibly boring. We had a big debate about racism. Wolf kept saying the most stupid stuff to me:
"If discrimination is illegal, how come you're allowed to do positive discrimination?"
"You're not."
"Yes you are."
"No you're not. Discrimination is illegal."
"Then why are you allowed to do positive discrimination?"
"You're not."
And so on. Eventually we got so bored that we went back to the Caves.
Sunday was generally quite a boring day. I watched the OC, called my mum (who asked whether she could have the address of my blog!), cooked some food, read the papers, tidied my room. Legend and I were going to check out the Chinese New Year celebrations in town but by the time I got home (and watched the OC- got to get your priorities right!), I couldn't really be bothered, and he had lots of work to do anyway. I did make a stir fry though, as a concession to the seasonal festivities. Xin nian hao anyway to you all.
Not long til pay day now. And not a moment too soon, really!!
Friday, January 27, 2006
A box of condoms and a packet of cheesy wotsits
I just love having a day off work. I feel so refreshed and happy. Yesterday evening I literally bounced up Battersea High Street. Not walked, but bounced. Fantabulous.
When I got home I watched Question Time, which soured the day somewhat. I simply cannot believe how bigoted some people living in this country are. So Simon Hughes is gay. So what? Does it really matter? Can gay people make decisions about education, foreign policy, health care… I’d say they can. However, some people don’t seem to agree. Some members of the audience were really having a go. A woman with overly large jowls said that Mark Oaten should quit as an MP. Then a man- aged about sixty- announced that he thought it was a disgrace that a homosexual would try and lead the country, and that he thought politicians should have some morals, as we live in a Christian country.
Well, I have a bone to pick on almost every single one of those points, thank you very much. Firstly, this may be a Christian country, but how many people are actually practicing Christians? Sure, I’ve been christened, but how often do I go to church? I go on Christmas day. I would go to wedding’s and stuff, but no one I know has got married for a couple of years, and even then I can’t remember if that was in a church. There are probably more practicing Muslim’s than there are Christian’s in this country. I’ll leave aside the issue of someone telling me that I live in a religious state, when I fully believed I was living in a secular society. I don’t understand why having a gay leader is a big problem. Well, actually, being technical, Simon Hughes isn’t gay- he’s bisexual. But obviously that’s an equally heinous crime in the eyes of these bigots. Why on earth does it matter if a politician is gay? Does having gay sex make you incapable of thinking about foreign policy? Does fancying someone of the same sex as you make you lose all knowledge of economic growth? No. So why on earth is it a problem? And finally, since when did people look to politicians for a ‘moral standard’? I certainly do not model myself on cheating, conniving, manipulative megalomaniacs. If I did, I’m sure I would have succumbed to a fatal wanking accident long before now.
I’m just so incensed about the blatant homophobia that I didn’t realise was so rife in this country. Tonight I’m going to take some steps to sorting that out, by forming a big gay mafia. If you- or anyone else- would like to join, send your application forms to me and I’ll sort you out with a gay card.
Equally worrying, the other day, was the news that Google have decided to move into China. This, of course, means operating a streamed system. Not only does that go against everything that Google was meant to stand for, but it is a real blow for the internet as a whole. Google- like those other favourites, Yahoo! and Hotmail- will help the Chinese government to monitor its’ people by monitoring sensitive words. Words not allowed include ‘democracy’ and ‘freedom’. Even more worrying was Google’s failure to deny that it would like to move into North Korea and Burma. I suppose the moral of the story for anti-capitalist internet whiz kids everywhere is “the grass is always greener on the other side”. Bah humbug.
The other big political story is Hamas’ election in Palestine. In some ways I’m pleased. I have a hell of a lot of sympathy for Hamas, and can fully understand why they would use suicide bombers as a means of defence (and let’s face it, the Palestinians are not attacking, the Israelis are. The Palestinians are attempting to defend their homeland). However, there has been (at least muted) condemnation of Hamas from the international community following the elections. Tony Blair made a statement so bland I can’t recall a single word of it. George Dubya cocked up his speech (you’d think autocue would be easy!). Netanyahu announced that Israel would not deal with terrorist organisations. Clearly he is slightly misguided. Hamas is not a terrorist organisation. Hamas is a political party with an armed wing. The middle east is now in a real mess. No doubt the wall will continue to be built, and yet more Palestinians will be cut off from their schools, family, workplaces, clean water… The USA will use this as an excuse to go lumbering in with that oh-so-deft touch they’re renowned for. The UK will do nothing, conveniently forgetting that it’s pretty much Britain’s fault that this whole mess was created in the first place. In a way, I’m glad I’m not in charge of trying to sort out the region. However, I worry, with the choice of people entrusted with the task.
Enough of me whining about the news of the day.
Here are some conversations I’ve had or heard lately…
Girl: I got Repetitive Strain Injury from picking up the phone too much.
Me: Yeah, I’ve had RSI too, from playing the violin.
Girl: You got RSI from wanking??!
Boy: I find the concept of having sex outdoors stupid. Why not just use your house?
Me: I dunno, I guess it’s okay if you’re a child.
Boy: I think you had a misspent youth.
Me: I meant teenager…
Guy at work: Why are so many Indian women flying to India to abort baby foetus’s? Can’t they do it in the UK?
Me: Female infanticide is not actually legal in this country, that’s probably the reason.
Me: I’ll have a tea.
Pretensious man at scummy student café: Can I have a large, fairtrade, skinny latte please?
Me (turning away in an attempt to be subtle): What a wanker!
Man: What?
Me: Sorry. I have tourettes.
Journalist: Okay, the place we need to go to is near Hyde Road, then it’s one block east from there.
Editor: I can’t find One Block East in the A-Z.
On that note, I bid you all farewell. I am off to form my big gay mafia and then tomorrow we’re going dogging.
By the way, I may or may not be quitting my job. Suggestions on a post card please!
When I got home I watched Question Time, which soured the day somewhat. I simply cannot believe how bigoted some people living in this country are. So Simon Hughes is gay. So what? Does it really matter? Can gay people make decisions about education, foreign policy, health care… I’d say they can. However, some people don’t seem to agree. Some members of the audience were really having a go. A woman with overly large jowls said that Mark Oaten should quit as an MP. Then a man- aged about sixty- announced that he thought it was a disgrace that a homosexual would try and lead the country, and that he thought politicians should have some morals, as we live in a Christian country.
Well, I have a bone to pick on almost every single one of those points, thank you very much. Firstly, this may be a Christian country, but how many people are actually practicing Christians? Sure, I’ve been christened, but how often do I go to church? I go on Christmas day. I would go to wedding’s and stuff, but no one I know has got married for a couple of years, and even then I can’t remember if that was in a church. There are probably more practicing Muslim’s than there are Christian’s in this country. I’ll leave aside the issue of someone telling me that I live in a religious state, when I fully believed I was living in a secular society. I don’t understand why having a gay leader is a big problem. Well, actually, being technical, Simon Hughes isn’t gay- he’s bisexual. But obviously that’s an equally heinous crime in the eyes of these bigots. Why on earth does it matter if a politician is gay? Does having gay sex make you incapable of thinking about foreign policy? Does fancying someone of the same sex as you make you lose all knowledge of economic growth? No. So why on earth is it a problem? And finally, since when did people look to politicians for a ‘moral standard’? I certainly do not model myself on cheating, conniving, manipulative megalomaniacs. If I did, I’m sure I would have succumbed to a fatal wanking accident long before now.
I’m just so incensed about the blatant homophobia that I didn’t realise was so rife in this country. Tonight I’m going to take some steps to sorting that out, by forming a big gay mafia. If you- or anyone else- would like to join, send your application forms to me and I’ll sort you out with a gay card.
Equally worrying, the other day, was the news that Google have decided to move into China. This, of course, means operating a streamed system. Not only does that go against everything that Google was meant to stand for, but it is a real blow for the internet as a whole. Google- like those other favourites, Yahoo! and Hotmail- will help the Chinese government to monitor its’ people by monitoring sensitive words. Words not allowed include ‘democracy’ and ‘freedom’. Even more worrying was Google’s failure to deny that it would like to move into North Korea and Burma. I suppose the moral of the story for anti-capitalist internet whiz kids everywhere is “the grass is always greener on the other side”. Bah humbug.
The other big political story is Hamas’ election in Palestine. In some ways I’m pleased. I have a hell of a lot of sympathy for Hamas, and can fully understand why they would use suicide bombers as a means of defence (and let’s face it, the Palestinians are not attacking, the Israelis are. The Palestinians are attempting to defend their homeland). However, there has been (at least muted) condemnation of Hamas from the international community following the elections. Tony Blair made a statement so bland I can’t recall a single word of it. George Dubya cocked up his speech (you’d think autocue would be easy!). Netanyahu announced that Israel would not deal with terrorist organisations. Clearly he is slightly misguided. Hamas is not a terrorist organisation. Hamas is a political party with an armed wing. The middle east is now in a real mess. No doubt the wall will continue to be built, and yet more Palestinians will be cut off from their schools, family, workplaces, clean water… The USA will use this as an excuse to go lumbering in with that oh-so-deft touch they’re renowned for. The UK will do nothing, conveniently forgetting that it’s pretty much Britain’s fault that this whole mess was created in the first place. In a way, I’m glad I’m not in charge of trying to sort out the region. However, I worry, with the choice of people entrusted with the task.
Enough of me whining about the news of the day.
Here are some conversations I’ve had or heard lately…
Girl: I got Repetitive Strain Injury from picking up the phone too much.
Me: Yeah, I’ve had RSI too, from playing the violin.
Girl: You got RSI from wanking??!
Boy: I find the concept of having sex outdoors stupid. Why not just use your house?
Me: I dunno, I guess it’s okay if you’re a child.
Boy: I think you had a misspent youth.
Me: I meant teenager…
Guy at work: Why are so many Indian women flying to India to abort baby foetus’s? Can’t they do it in the UK?
Me: Female infanticide is not actually legal in this country, that’s probably the reason.
Me: I’ll have a tea.
Pretensious man at scummy student café: Can I have a large, fairtrade, skinny latte please?
Me (turning away in an attempt to be subtle): What a wanker!
Man: What?
Me: Sorry. I have tourettes.
Journalist: Okay, the place we need to go to is near Hyde Road, then it’s one block east from there.
Editor: I can’t find One Block East in the A-Z.
On that note, I bid you all farewell. I am off to form my big gay mafia and then tomorrow we’re going dogging.
By the way, I may or may not be quitting my job. Suggestions on a post card please!
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
Progress report
A week ago I wrote a list of things I planned to do that week. Here's the definitive report on how it went, with marks out of ten.
- Sleep in my own bed every night this week. This is instead of anyone elses sofa or random peoples beds. I didn't buy these bed covers just to look pretty, you know.
9/10 - I did sleep in my own room every night this week. However, on Friday night I fell asleep on top of my covers, and during my nap on Saturday I did the same, though I didn't even clear enough space to lie down properly (hence the nail scissors in the head situation).
- Take a packed lunch to work every day.
10/10 What a star.
- Don't use the vending machine at work. Smarties chocolate bars are not your friend.
4/10 - I can't help it. I'm completely addicted. I tried to combat my chocolate eating by baking cookies. However, I ate them all in pretty much one go, so that wasn't such a good idea. Damn good cookies though! Today I've been good though. I brought in pine nuts to snack on. Not quite a chocolate substitute in my eyes, but I feel virtuous.
- Apply for my Masters course.
8/10 - Last week I went in to uni and got the references sorted. I've started on my personal statement and I'm getting it checked on Thursday. Could probably have done a bit more on it though.
- Get a haircut.
0/10 - Done nothing.
- Go to the bank. And grovel. Nuff said.
0/10 I chickened out, even when the debt recovery people called. I think I am bank phobic.
- Finish reading that sociology book I started ages ago. I really should stop being so lazy.
0/10 or 10/10, depending on how you look at it - I didn't read the book I was talking about, but I have read three other books and I've started work on some translations of some poems, which is very hard work.
- Stop obsessing about the fact that certain people haven't texted you back. I'm not naming names as that would reveal the shameful depths of lameness I've sunk to.
8/10 I did a bit of obsessing, but I've chilled out a lot now and I'm acting fairly sane. I think I'm obsessing slightly less as some of the people in question have actually got in touch, whereas the others I've decided I don't care about anyway. That still leaves a couple of people for me to dwell on, but I'm trying not to.
Overall, I'd say nice work. I reckon I've done pretty well.
- Sleep in my own bed every night this week. This is instead of anyone elses sofa or random peoples beds. I didn't buy these bed covers just to look pretty, you know.
9/10 - I did sleep in my own room every night this week. However, on Friday night I fell asleep on top of my covers, and during my nap on Saturday I did the same, though I didn't even clear enough space to lie down properly (hence the nail scissors in the head situation).
- Take a packed lunch to work every day.
10/10 What a star.
- Don't use the vending machine at work. Smarties chocolate bars are not your friend.
4/10 - I can't help it. I'm completely addicted. I tried to combat my chocolate eating by baking cookies. However, I ate them all in pretty much one go, so that wasn't such a good idea. Damn good cookies though! Today I've been good though. I brought in pine nuts to snack on. Not quite a chocolate substitute in my eyes, but I feel virtuous.
- Apply for my Masters course.
8/10 - Last week I went in to uni and got the references sorted. I've started on my personal statement and I'm getting it checked on Thursday. Could probably have done a bit more on it though.
- Get a haircut.
0/10 - Done nothing.
- Go to the bank. And grovel. Nuff said.
0/10 I chickened out, even when the debt recovery people called. I think I am bank phobic.
- Finish reading that sociology book I started ages ago. I really should stop being so lazy.
0/10 or 10/10, depending on how you look at it - I didn't read the book I was talking about, but I have read three other books and I've started work on some translations of some poems, which is very hard work.
- Stop obsessing about the fact that certain people haven't texted you back. I'm not naming names as that would reveal the shameful depths of lameness I've sunk to.
8/10 I did a bit of obsessing, but I've chilled out a lot now and I'm acting fairly sane. I think I'm obsessing slightly less as some of the people in question have actually got in touch, whereas the others I've decided I don't care about anyway. That still leaves a couple of people for me to dwell on, but I'm trying not to.
Overall, I'd say nice work. I reckon I've done pretty well.
Sunday, January 22, 2006
Camp drama!
After my last little outburst, I'm feeling a hell of a lot better. I actually feel quite sorted, which is, to be honest, an odd emotion for me. Especially as the last time I wrote anything, I was feeling like shit. Since then, quite a lot and nothing has happened. Maybe this change in mood is just a temporary thing, but I'm enjoying it all the same.
I didn't actually get pissed on Thursday as I was planning to do. Instead I went to ballet. It was a really easy class as our normal teacher was away. We had a replacement who had no idea what level we were. At one point she asked us if we could do pose pirouettes- something we have all been able to years. Of course, we didn't say anything and enjoyed having a relaxing class. Even the allegro combination was easy- just glissardes, pas de chat and a couple of other easy steps. Though of course, I didn't do the allegro- I just sat on the floor and did some stretches.
On Friday, things started to go a bit tits-up. I'd got up pretty early but managed to waste so much time in the morning that I didn't manage to get to work early. It really seems that whatever time I get up has no bearing on what time I get to work. The more time I have in the mornings, the more time I manage to waste. Anyway, work was okay. I started on my personal statement, and helped draft a letter to the HR department telling them to stop pissing me about if they wanted to keep me. I almost had a falling out with a guy I share a room with as he got annoyed that I'd gone for a cigarette break. Sometimes I'd like to shove a lit cigarette up his moaning arse.
After work, K and I headed out for a drink. She was off on a hot date and needed a drink to calm her nerves. We ended up perched on the end of a table. The couple at the other end of the table had an argument and the woman stormed out. The guy responded in such a feeble way- he sort of stared at her, open mouthed, then turned back to the table and poured the rest of the wine into his glass. Nice to see that men are equally useless wherever you go (note to all male readers: I'm sure you're not all pathetic. It must be just all the ones I've met). I love hanging out with K but I've not seen her all that much since Christmas. We've both been ill, and when I haven't been ill, I've been a bit nuts (walking out of parties and the such like).
Anyway, K went off on her date and I set off home. I called a friend to see whether anything was happening that evening- when I'd spoken to her earlier in the week she'd said she would keep me updated. When I finally got through (my mobile really needs replacing- its top of my list of things to do), she said that there was some thing happening in east London and that I should come. However, then the ultimate spanner was thrown in: "oh, we've invited your ex but you should still come". Rather than spitting in the gutter (what I felt like doing on hearing that) or kicking something (what I thought about doing a split second later- I would've done it had I not learnt my lesson from the last kicking incident), I tried to be very polite- though I probably failed, I don't know, I was a bit angry- and hung up, then walked home, swearing under my breath the whole way. I'm not very good when I'm angry. I either lose it completely and start shouting, or I bottle it all up and turn a bit malevolent. Luckily (for Thameslink trains at least), I only had to wait three minutes for a train, or else I might have been tempted to become a little destructive.
Back home, I decided I didn't want to eat potato bake. Fuming, I cooked some chana masala, though it was quite watery with tears, and I added enough spice to suit my pretty fiery mood. As I was cooking, I poured myself a giant vodka. My housemate got home, and knocked back some booze of her own, which of course, made me drink more. And then I started crying again, though this time about what I thought about the world in a more general sense, rather than my own personal world.
I retreated to my room where I put on some music as loud as I thought I could get away with and drank more vodka. I stopped drinking Zubrowka as it was less alcoholic than the Smirnoff I had in my room. Zubrowka is a nice 40%- enough to get you pissed, but you don't get pissed quick enough to turn into a liability. Smirnoff Blue is 50%, and I usually drink it far too quickly. However, I had watered it down a little with 40% vodka when I was in Norway. I'd been sick on the Blue and decided that adding a little weaker vodka would stop me being sick. It worked- I wasn't sick, though I was quite a horrible drunk. As usual, I started feeling a bit lonely, and I tried to call people. I called M- no answer. I called S- she was pissed at the Barfly. I called the friend I'd spoken to earlier and apologised for the text message I'd sent her, even though I couldn't remember what I'd said, and even though I know that apologising for your actions- especially if you don't know if you mean it- is pretty fucking weak.
In the end, however, I had quite a good night. My music collection is pretty cool (to me anyway) and kept me entertained for hours. The vodka seemed never ending (though the mixer seemed to be, which of course meant stronger drinks as the night went on). I even found someone to talk to who was just as pissed as me and didn't mind running up a huge phone bill. I fell asleep, if not happy, then drunk and content.
On Saturday, I decided to be ultimately lazy. I had- before I started drinking- planned to go to the library, and then go to girl S's for dinner before meeting up for another friends birthday. As it happened, I didn't even get dressed. I just hung out in my pyjamas all day, baked some cookies and read a book. I had some nice chats with some of my friends, and hung out with my housemate for a bit. I even, as I was in such a lazy mood, had a nap, though I was rudely awoken thanks to the fact that I'd fallen asleep on a pair of nail scissors.
The thing that upset me the most on Saturday was the whale. I hadn't been following the progress of this whale. In fact, it was only on Friday that I realised that when they said it was in the Thames, they meant it was actually in London, rather than in the Estuary. Seeing the pictures of the poor whale on the boat, dying, made me really sad and I ran to my housemates room in tears. I find myself crying so much nowadays. I cry about a whale. How sad is that? I even cried when Ariel Sharon had a stroke, and I'm completely anti-Israeli (or pro-Palestinian, I guess they're one and the same, sentiment wise). I dont know why a whale would upset me so much. I think I have real issues about death, but I'm hoping I can put off addressing these.
Sunday was a nice day, all in all. My mum came to visit. I'd figured that she wouldn't get here until just before three, and planned my time accordingly. So I was a little surprised when I was in the shower and my housemate knocked on the door to tell me she was here. Seems she ran for her connecting train. They're resourceful, these mums! It was really nice, hanging out with my mum. I showed her round the Camp (that's the name of where I live, long story) properly, as she hadn't seen it since I moved in, and hadn't really seen most of the flat. She was amazed that it was possible to fit so much stuff into my room. I guess it's quite packed full of random stuff, as well as having far too many clothes and books for the amount of space. I like it that way though. I know my room is very unique- no one else would want one like this. It's tidy, but only out of necessity. If I let it get messy then I can't find the floor, so its easier to keep everything in order.
My mum and I went for a stroll around the area (which takes all of 5 minutes to do) and went to a Spanish restaurant for lunch. Over an enormous paella (for me) and a plate of flesh (lamb or something, for her) as well as chocolate souffles, I talked and talked about everything that was going on. She- amazingly- agreed with most of the things I was saying. She too thinks I should have more self-respect and should not be around (or even care about) people who don't respect me and don't treat me in an acceptable way. She also agrees with my views on my current job situation, and doesn't think I should let them basically shit on me. The funny thing is that I do actually have a lot of respect for myself- it's just that I don't always expect other people to act in a similar way towards me. And I've had enough of that. From now on, if someone is my friend, they will have to act like that. I'm not chasing anyone in the hope of finding some intimacy when they have no intention of doing the same.
Some friendships are, by their very nature, transitionary, and the best thing to do is to know when to let go. That's not to say that I am going to shift to being mean to anyone. No, I'm just going to stop expecting relationships with people to be carried out with the level of integrity that I like to think I have myself. Some friendships are also not worth the effort that goes into them. Is there really any point trying to force something that won't grow naturally? I'm not so sure that that's the way we should be conducting our lives. A far better way would be to see things as temporary, rather than a thing that can be quantified and labelled. What may feel right one day may not the next week. The person you feel the closest to might not the same person one week to the next. No one's emotions are static, and so neither should be their friendships.
I suppose what I'm trying to say is that I'm going to relax and take things at face value. At the end of the day, the only person I can rely on and trust is myself. You can only really achieve intimacy through physical closeness. Is this why I sleep with people? Possibly. Is that bad? I don't think so. It's certainly no worse than trying to achieve intimacy through other methods. Why are certain types of intimacy seen as being worse than others? Frankly, I don't see what the point in being open emotionally is if you're unwilling to be open physically. That doesn't mean that it has to be to the same person. In fact it's often better if it's not. Pretty much all the people I share my thoughts and feelings with, I would never ever want to sleep with. And that works both ways. Realistically, what are the odds that you will connect with someone on a physical and emotional level? In my current state, the answer is zero as I will do anything to avoid being put in that situation.
This is turning into a bit of a tirade, and a very badly written one at that. I'm not sure I'm expressing myself very well. If it comes across like I am sleeping with people left, right and centre, then please be assured that I'm not. Nor am I talking about my feelings with people all over the place. This blog doesnt count as there is a degree of separation, making it far easier for me to write about how I feel. Plus the fact that I will probably never meet most of the people reading this.
The other thing I have been thinking about recently is this: There is absolutely no need for me (or anyone else) to use other peoples opinions to validate myself. Constantly seeking the approval of others in order to feel good about yourself is stupid and completely devoid of any purpose. If you are happy with something then that is enough. It doesn't matter that it's not the coolest band or the best book or the most fashionable jeans. If you like it, then have the fucking strength of character to stick with it. Don't be so impressionable and weak that you value other peoples opinions over yourself. Recently I had a conversation about the profiles that people write on myspace and the concerted effort that goes into the lists of favourite bands and so on. Why lie? Are you that insecure that you think writing the truth will scare people away? So you like Take That. Write it down! So you think that the Crazy Frog is on a par with Mozart. Write that! To be fair, there must be quite a few people who like it, wasn't it number 1 for about four months? Someone must be buying it, and I dont think its those green toad-like creatures living in the pond. Its the painfully-wannabe-cool music lists that are the worst, stuff along the lines of "I'm so fucking edgy, look at my hipper-than-thou music taste and my eminently superior style. I'm so up-to-the-fucking-minute that by the time you read this, it will be so pass. I'm off to start another uber-cool trend that I've stolen directly from the Guardian style magazine".
Actually, that was probably an excellent description of The Rakes. What a bunch of tossers they are. Sorry if anyone likes them. I personally think their music sucks and that they're wankers- though I would say that, really.
I've gone off completely on a tangent now and I can't remember what I was writing about. You'd think that the obvious thing would be to scroll up and have a look, but my mouse is broken and it would be too much hassle to do it any other way.
Oh, just so I don't forget, The Rakes is a shit name for a band anyway.
Hmm, I think I was going off on a rant about myspace music lists that think theyre too cool for school before I started going on a rant about The Rakes. I have completely lost whatever train of thought I had, anyway. Which is probably just as well, as it's bedtime.
Good night all- I'm off to listen to the crappest music I can possibly find. Love to you all!!
I didn't actually get pissed on Thursday as I was planning to do. Instead I went to ballet. It was a really easy class as our normal teacher was away. We had a replacement who had no idea what level we were. At one point she asked us if we could do pose pirouettes- something we have all been able to years. Of course, we didn't say anything and enjoyed having a relaxing class. Even the allegro combination was easy- just glissardes, pas de chat and a couple of other easy steps. Though of course, I didn't do the allegro- I just sat on the floor and did some stretches.
On Friday, things started to go a bit tits-up. I'd got up pretty early but managed to waste so much time in the morning that I didn't manage to get to work early. It really seems that whatever time I get up has no bearing on what time I get to work. The more time I have in the mornings, the more time I manage to waste. Anyway, work was okay. I started on my personal statement, and helped draft a letter to the HR department telling them to stop pissing me about if they wanted to keep me. I almost had a falling out with a guy I share a room with as he got annoyed that I'd gone for a cigarette break. Sometimes I'd like to shove a lit cigarette up his moaning arse.
After work, K and I headed out for a drink. She was off on a hot date and needed a drink to calm her nerves. We ended up perched on the end of a table. The couple at the other end of the table had an argument and the woman stormed out. The guy responded in such a feeble way- he sort of stared at her, open mouthed, then turned back to the table and poured the rest of the wine into his glass. Nice to see that men are equally useless wherever you go (note to all male readers: I'm sure you're not all pathetic. It must be just all the ones I've met). I love hanging out with K but I've not seen her all that much since Christmas. We've both been ill, and when I haven't been ill, I've been a bit nuts (walking out of parties and the such like).
Anyway, K went off on her date and I set off home. I called a friend to see whether anything was happening that evening- when I'd spoken to her earlier in the week she'd said she would keep me updated. When I finally got through (my mobile really needs replacing- its top of my list of things to do), she said that there was some thing happening in east London and that I should come. However, then the ultimate spanner was thrown in: "oh, we've invited your ex but you should still come". Rather than spitting in the gutter (what I felt like doing on hearing that) or kicking something (what I thought about doing a split second later- I would've done it had I not learnt my lesson from the last kicking incident), I tried to be very polite- though I probably failed, I don't know, I was a bit angry- and hung up, then walked home, swearing under my breath the whole way. I'm not very good when I'm angry. I either lose it completely and start shouting, or I bottle it all up and turn a bit malevolent. Luckily (for Thameslink trains at least), I only had to wait three minutes for a train, or else I might have been tempted to become a little destructive.
Back home, I decided I didn't want to eat potato bake. Fuming, I cooked some chana masala, though it was quite watery with tears, and I added enough spice to suit my pretty fiery mood. As I was cooking, I poured myself a giant vodka. My housemate got home, and knocked back some booze of her own, which of course, made me drink more. And then I started crying again, though this time about what I thought about the world in a more general sense, rather than my own personal world.
I retreated to my room where I put on some music as loud as I thought I could get away with and drank more vodka. I stopped drinking Zubrowka as it was less alcoholic than the Smirnoff I had in my room. Zubrowka is a nice 40%- enough to get you pissed, but you don't get pissed quick enough to turn into a liability. Smirnoff Blue is 50%, and I usually drink it far too quickly. However, I had watered it down a little with 40% vodka when I was in Norway. I'd been sick on the Blue and decided that adding a little weaker vodka would stop me being sick. It worked- I wasn't sick, though I was quite a horrible drunk. As usual, I started feeling a bit lonely, and I tried to call people. I called M- no answer. I called S- she was pissed at the Barfly. I called the friend I'd spoken to earlier and apologised for the text message I'd sent her, even though I couldn't remember what I'd said, and even though I know that apologising for your actions- especially if you don't know if you mean it- is pretty fucking weak.
In the end, however, I had quite a good night. My music collection is pretty cool (to me anyway) and kept me entertained for hours. The vodka seemed never ending (though the mixer seemed to be, which of course meant stronger drinks as the night went on). I even found someone to talk to who was just as pissed as me and didn't mind running up a huge phone bill. I fell asleep, if not happy, then drunk and content.
On Saturday, I decided to be ultimately lazy. I had- before I started drinking- planned to go to the library, and then go to girl S's for dinner before meeting up for another friends birthday. As it happened, I didn't even get dressed. I just hung out in my pyjamas all day, baked some cookies and read a book. I had some nice chats with some of my friends, and hung out with my housemate for a bit. I even, as I was in such a lazy mood, had a nap, though I was rudely awoken thanks to the fact that I'd fallen asleep on a pair of nail scissors.
The thing that upset me the most on Saturday was the whale. I hadn't been following the progress of this whale. In fact, it was only on Friday that I realised that when they said it was in the Thames, they meant it was actually in London, rather than in the Estuary. Seeing the pictures of the poor whale on the boat, dying, made me really sad and I ran to my housemates room in tears. I find myself crying so much nowadays. I cry about a whale. How sad is that? I even cried when Ariel Sharon had a stroke, and I'm completely anti-Israeli (or pro-Palestinian, I guess they're one and the same, sentiment wise). I dont know why a whale would upset me so much. I think I have real issues about death, but I'm hoping I can put off addressing these.
Sunday was a nice day, all in all. My mum came to visit. I'd figured that she wouldn't get here until just before three, and planned my time accordingly. So I was a little surprised when I was in the shower and my housemate knocked on the door to tell me she was here. Seems she ran for her connecting train. They're resourceful, these mums! It was really nice, hanging out with my mum. I showed her round the Camp (that's the name of where I live, long story) properly, as she hadn't seen it since I moved in, and hadn't really seen most of the flat. She was amazed that it was possible to fit so much stuff into my room. I guess it's quite packed full of random stuff, as well as having far too many clothes and books for the amount of space. I like it that way though. I know my room is very unique- no one else would want one like this. It's tidy, but only out of necessity. If I let it get messy then I can't find the floor, so its easier to keep everything in order.
My mum and I went for a stroll around the area (which takes all of 5 minutes to do) and went to a Spanish restaurant for lunch. Over an enormous paella (for me) and a plate of flesh (lamb or something, for her) as well as chocolate souffles, I talked and talked about everything that was going on. She- amazingly- agreed with most of the things I was saying. She too thinks I should have more self-respect and should not be around (or even care about) people who don't respect me and don't treat me in an acceptable way. She also agrees with my views on my current job situation, and doesn't think I should let them basically shit on me. The funny thing is that I do actually have a lot of respect for myself- it's just that I don't always expect other people to act in a similar way towards me. And I've had enough of that. From now on, if someone is my friend, they will have to act like that. I'm not chasing anyone in the hope of finding some intimacy when they have no intention of doing the same.
Some friendships are, by their very nature, transitionary, and the best thing to do is to know when to let go. That's not to say that I am going to shift to being mean to anyone. No, I'm just going to stop expecting relationships with people to be carried out with the level of integrity that I like to think I have myself. Some friendships are also not worth the effort that goes into them. Is there really any point trying to force something that won't grow naturally? I'm not so sure that that's the way we should be conducting our lives. A far better way would be to see things as temporary, rather than a thing that can be quantified and labelled. What may feel right one day may not the next week. The person you feel the closest to might not the same person one week to the next. No one's emotions are static, and so neither should be their friendships.
I suppose what I'm trying to say is that I'm going to relax and take things at face value. At the end of the day, the only person I can rely on and trust is myself. You can only really achieve intimacy through physical closeness. Is this why I sleep with people? Possibly. Is that bad? I don't think so. It's certainly no worse than trying to achieve intimacy through other methods. Why are certain types of intimacy seen as being worse than others? Frankly, I don't see what the point in being open emotionally is if you're unwilling to be open physically. That doesn't mean that it has to be to the same person. In fact it's often better if it's not. Pretty much all the people I share my thoughts and feelings with, I would never ever want to sleep with. And that works both ways. Realistically, what are the odds that you will connect with someone on a physical and emotional level? In my current state, the answer is zero as I will do anything to avoid being put in that situation.
This is turning into a bit of a tirade, and a very badly written one at that. I'm not sure I'm expressing myself very well. If it comes across like I am sleeping with people left, right and centre, then please be assured that I'm not. Nor am I talking about my feelings with people all over the place. This blog doesnt count as there is a degree of separation, making it far easier for me to write about how I feel. Plus the fact that I will probably never meet most of the people reading this.
The other thing I have been thinking about recently is this: There is absolutely no need for me (or anyone else) to use other peoples opinions to validate myself. Constantly seeking the approval of others in order to feel good about yourself is stupid and completely devoid of any purpose. If you are happy with something then that is enough. It doesn't matter that it's not the coolest band or the best book or the most fashionable jeans. If you like it, then have the fucking strength of character to stick with it. Don't be so impressionable and weak that you value other peoples opinions over yourself. Recently I had a conversation about the profiles that people write on myspace and the concerted effort that goes into the lists of favourite bands and so on. Why lie? Are you that insecure that you think writing the truth will scare people away? So you like Take That. Write it down! So you think that the Crazy Frog is on a par with Mozart. Write that! To be fair, there must be quite a few people who like it, wasn't it number 1 for about four months? Someone must be buying it, and I dont think its those green toad-like creatures living in the pond. Its the painfully-wannabe-cool music lists that are the worst, stuff along the lines of "I'm so fucking edgy, look at my hipper-than-thou music taste and my eminently superior style. I'm so up-to-the-fucking-minute that by the time you read this, it will be so pass. I'm off to start another uber-cool trend that I've stolen directly from the Guardian style magazine".
Actually, that was probably an excellent description of The Rakes. What a bunch of tossers they are. Sorry if anyone likes them. I personally think their music sucks and that they're wankers- though I would say that, really.
I've gone off completely on a tangent now and I can't remember what I was writing about. You'd think that the obvious thing would be to scroll up and have a look, but my mouse is broken and it would be too much hassle to do it any other way.
Oh, just so I don't forget, The Rakes is a shit name for a band anyway.
Hmm, I think I was going off on a rant about myspace music lists that think theyre too cool for school before I started going on a rant about The Rakes. I have completely lost whatever train of thought I had, anyway. Which is probably just as well, as it's bedtime.
Good night all- I'm off to listen to the crappest music I can possibly find. Love to you all!!
Thursday, January 19, 2006
My current emotional state
I'd like to take this moment to express how I feel. It's either that or start crying in the smoking room again, and no girl should suffer that indignity twice (okay, if I'm being honest, four times) in one day.
I hate our HR department. I hate the fact that I have just spent the last four months doing work that no one gives a shit about. I hate that I was gullible and naive enough to think that if I did a good job, then that would be recognised and I would be praised, or maybe even paid the amount I deserve. I hate that my manager has taken until this point to tell me that actually, the company couldn't care less about you and so you can't have a pay rise. Even though I've been doing this work, and I know I've done a good job of it.
I'm so angry. I don't know why I went to university for three years and got myself in so much debt for nothing. Literally nothing. My friend told me that to get ahead in this organisation, it helps if you don't have any natural intelligence or ability to think independently. I wish I didn't have either. Everyone has always told me that it's so good to be clever and that the way I think is really unique/innovative/brave/whatever. But I wish so much that it wasn't because look where I am. I wish I was stupid and happy to settle for anything, and that I didn't have any thoughts of my own.
I'm going to cry again.
The thing is, if I leave here, I'm so worried I won't be able to make any new friends. I'm not very good at making friends. What I am good at is isolating people around me and generally coming across like a complete moron. I don't want to have to go to another office and meet new people, and have them all look at me and think "who the fuck are you?"
Whose great idea was it for me to have high expectations? Why on earth did I decide that going to the LSE would do anything for a) my self-esteem, or b) my future career prospects. And then people wonder why I'm a pessimist. Simple answer: if you're a pessimist, you can't get disappointed. Which begs the question, what on earth made me think that not being a pessimist would be a good idea? Why did I ever listen to anyone who ever said anything positive about me?
I hate our HR department. I hate the fact that I have just spent the last four months doing work that no one gives a shit about. I hate that I was gullible and naive enough to think that if I did a good job, then that would be recognised and I would be praised, or maybe even paid the amount I deserve. I hate that my manager has taken until this point to tell me that actually, the company couldn't care less about you and so you can't have a pay rise. Even though I've been doing this work, and I know I've done a good job of it.
I'm so angry. I don't know why I went to university for three years and got myself in so much debt for nothing. Literally nothing. My friend told me that to get ahead in this organisation, it helps if you don't have any natural intelligence or ability to think independently. I wish I didn't have either. Everyone has always told me that it's so good to be clever and that the way I think is really unique/innovative/brave/whatever. But I wish so much that it wasn't because look where I am. I wish I was stupid and happy to settle for anything, and that I didn't have any thoughts of my own.
I'm going to cry again.
The thing is, if I leave here, I'm so worried I won't be able to make any new friends. I'm not very good at making friends. What I am good at is isolating people around me and generally coming across like a complete moron. I don't want to have to go to another office and meet new people, and have them all look at me and think "who the fuck are you?"
Whose great idea was it for me to have high expectations? Why on earth did I decide that going to the LSE would do anything for a) my self-esteem, or b) my future career prospects. And then people wonder why I'm a pessimist. Simple answer: if you're a pessimist, you can't get disappointed. Which begs the question, what on earth made me think that not being a pessimist would be a good idea? Why did I ever listen to anyone who ever said anything positive about me?
Amazingly, a happy post!
What a fabulous day I've just had. And for once, I'm not actually being sarcastic when I say that. I really have had a great day. Which is funny, really, as it so nearly wasnt a good day at all. And I suppose, looking back at the day, there were quite a few things that went wrong, or could have gone better.
For a start, I woke up quite late. Bearing in mind that I didn't have to go to work, but that I did have a lot to do, I'd set my alarm for 08:30. I woke up at about 06:15 thanks to the bin men making an absolute cacophony. That kept me awake for ages. I think it was the reversing noise more than anything. They must have reversed half way across London, it went on so long. Then I slept through my alarms. I just couldn't rouse myself. At one point I did get up and even got as far as washing my face, but then I went back to bed. I tried playing music to wake me up. That failed. I tried listening to the radio, but all that did was give me weird dreams. In the end I got up properly just before 11:00.
It was just as well that I woke up then as the debt recovery agents called me fifteen minutes later and asked why I hadn't been making my payments. I had to promise to pay them £20 by the end of the day or they'd get their solicitors onto me. I dont have £20 but I had to agree. In the end it was okay as a guy who goes to my old uni lent me the money, as well as reserving a book for me. So a bad situation was made better.
I was feeling so chirpy walking up Fleet Street, thinking about how great it will be going back to uni. I was annoyed with myself for not appreciating student life a bit more. Just as I was thinking how I'd happily walk up Fleet Street every day if I was a student again, a bus came past and splashed a puddle up at me. Sometimes I wonder if fate is trying to tell me something? Thankfully it didn't go on my dress- I would have gone nuts if it had as it's a vintage white woollen dress. Not the kind of thing you want covered with street skank.
I had one of the funniest conversations with one of my friends:
Him: People keep writing mean things about me in the newspaper.
Me: Oh, that sucks
Him: I suppose I should be glad I'm being written about.
Me: Yeah. Any publicity is good publicity!
Him: That's true. Just look at Hitler! People are still talking about him and he died ages ago.
Me: That's not quite what I had in mind.
I went to see my old tutor to sort out my references and personal statement for my masters application. I queued for ages outside his office, but all these Americans kept pushing in front. Now, I've nothing against Americans as such. I couldn't really admit to it anyway, seeing as I work in race relations and all that. But LSE attracts a really awful type of American. They're obnoxious. They're rude. They think theyre god's bloody gift. They whinge about how crap London is but still bust a gut and spend a fortune to stay here. They live in Chelsea and wear flip flops all year round. They can't actually write essays because thats not how American universities work. Argh! Anyway, there were loads of these in the department today. There were so many that my tutor didn't have time to see me and I had completely wasted my time.
This could have been a bad situation, but it turned out okay. I went to see my favourite teacher of all time. Actually, first of all I knocked on another teachers door to say something along the lines of, "You know how you said that I was rubbish in comparison to other people and that you hoped one day I would find something that I'm good at? Well, fuck you!" Or something equally mature. She wasn't there, which was probably a good thing. I hadn't brought in my degree certificate, and waving that in her face would have been the piece de resistance.
My favourite teacher was wonderful and as always, she made me feel really good about myself. For some reason she thinks that I'm clever. If I had to choose a mother (that wasnt already my mother) I would choose her in an instant. She promised to check my personal statement, and got all the information she needed to write my reference. Whenever I speak to her, I feel so much more sorted. She's helped me to get so much more clarity in my writing that it actually makes my thoughts clearer too (NB, when I say writing, I don't mean this. I'm well aware that my blog is pretty poorly written- but it's in the vernacular, and so doesn't count. I mean my proper writing, academic work and the like).
This evening I had a really good ballet class. I walked there from Lavender Hill, which didn't take too long. I quite like doing so much walking. I just wish I had my mp3 player back from T as it would make walking so much more interesting. It's really good for my ankle too. Anyway, in the class, things went pretty well. I had really bad period pains all day so I didn't know how well it would go. Someone once said to me that they found it easier to balance when on their period, and I think I found it easier too. That and the fact that Ive been really concentrating on my sides and which muscles will stop you from falling over. My feet didnt want to move very quickly, so some of the exercises were a bit of a shambles, but for once I felt like my weight placement was right. I even did some nice pirouettes, which is quite an achievement as I'm still very dizzy from coming off my medication. I still can't do jumps though, so I had to miss all the fun allegro exercises. When I got home, however, I had a letter from the physiotherapists asking me to call and make an appointment. So hopefully I will be in full working order soon.
Other things than have brought a smile to my face today:
- Watching birds fly under the bridge at Clapham Junction station (they look like theyre having a race)
- Having people call you and let you know that they care
- Arranging for old friends to come and stay. Well, in this case, ex-boyfriend, but it was so long ago that it doesn't count and he's just classified as an old friend, right?
- Cooking up yet another storm. This time I made potato and apple bake. It looks delicious but I haven't tried it yet as its for my packed lunch
- Reading fantastic books
- Reading Calvin and Hobbes- the best way to relax before bedtime!
For a start, I woke up quite late. Bearing in mind that I didn't have to go to work, but that I did have a lot to do, I'd set my alarm for 08:30. I woke up at about 06:15 thanks to the bin men making an absolute cacophony. That kept me awake for ages. I think it was the reversing noise more than anything. They must have reversed half way across London, it went on so long. Then I slept through my alarms. I just couldn't rouse myself. At one point I did get up and even got as far as washing my face, but then I went back to bed. I tried playing music to wake me up. That failed. I tried listening to the radio, but all that did was give me weird dreams. In the end I got up properly just before 11:00.
It was just as well that I woke up then as the debt recovery agents called me fifteen minutes later and asked why I hadn't been making my payments. I had to promise to pay them £20 by the end of the day or they'd get their solicitors onto me. I dont have £20 but I had to agree. In the end it was okay as a guy who goes to my old uni lent me the money, as well as reserving a book for me. So a bad situation was made better.
I was feeling so chirpy walking up Fleet Street, thinking about how great it will be going back to uni. I was annoyed with myself for not appreciating student life a bit more. Just as I was thinking how I'd happily walk up Fleet Street every day if I was a student again, a bus came past and splashed a puddle up at me. Sometimes I wonder if fate is trying to tell me something? Thankfully it didn't go on my dress- I would have gone nuts if it had as it's a vintage white woollen dress. Not the kind of thing you want covered with street skank.
I had one of the funniest conversations with one of my friends:
Him: People keep writing mean things about me in the newspaper.
Me: Oh, that sucks
Him: I suppose I should be glad I'm being written about.
Me: Yeah. Any publicity is good publicity!
Him: That's true. Just look at Hitler! People are still talking about him and he died ages ago.
Me: That's not quite what I had in mind.
I went to see my old tutor to sort out my references and personal statement for my masters application. I queued for ages outside his office, but all these Americans kept pushing in front. Now, I've nothing against Americans as such. I couldn't really admit to it anyway, seeing as I work in race relations and all that. But LSE attracts a really awful type of American. They're obnoxious. They're rude. They think theyre god's bloody gift. They whinge about how crap London is but still bust a gut and spend a fortune to stay here. They live in Chelsea and wear flip flops all year round. They can't actually write essays because thats not how American universities work. Argh! Anyway, there were loads of these in the department today. There were so many that my tutor didn't have time to see me and I had completely wasted my time.
This could have been a bad situation, but it turned out okay. I went to see my favourite teacher of all time. Actually, first of all I knocked on another teachers door to say something along the lines of, "You know how you said that I was rubbish in comparison to other people and that you hoped one day I would find something that I'm good at? Well, fuck you!" Or something equally mature. She wasn't there, which was probably a good thing. I hadn't brought in my degree certificate, and waving that in her face would have been the piece de resistance.
My favourite teacher was wonderful and as always, she made me feel really good about myself. For some reason she thinks that I'm clever. If I had to choose a mother (that wasnt already my mother) I would choose her in an instant. She promised to check my personal statement, and got all the information she needed to write my reference. Whenever I speak to her, I feel so much more sorted. She's helped me to get so much more clarity in my writing that it actually makes my thoughts clearer too (NB, when I say writing, I don't mean this. I'm well aware that my blog is pretty poorly written- but it's in the vernacular, and so doesn't count. I mean my proper writing, academic work and the like).
This evening I had a really good ballet class. I walked there from Lavender Hill, which didn't take too long. I quite like doing so much walking. I just wish I had my mp3 player back from T as it would make walking so much more interesting. It's really good for my ankle too. Anyway, in the class, things went pretty well. I had really bad period pains all day so I didn't know how well it would go. Someone once said to me that they found it easier to balance when on their period, and I think I found it easier too. That and the fact that Ive been really concentrating on my sides and which muscles will stop you from falling over. My feet didnt want to move very quickly, so some of the exercises were a bit of a shambles, but for once I felt like my weight placement was right. I even did some nice pirouettes, which is quite an achievement as I'm still very dizzy from coming off my medication. I still can't do jumps though, so I had to miss all the fun allegro exercises. When I got home, however, I had a letter from the physiotherapists asking me to call and make an appointment. So hopefully I will be in full working order soon.
Other things than have brought a smile to my face today:
- Watching birds fly under the bridge at Clapham Junction station (they look like theyre having a race)
- Having people call you and let you know that they care
- Arranging for old friends to come and stay. Well, in this case, ex-boyfriend, but it was so long ago that it doesn't count and he's just classified as an old friend, right?
- Cooking up yet another storm. This time I made potato and apple bake. It looks delicious but I haven't tried it yet as its for my packed lunch
- Reading fantastic books
- Reading Calvin and Hobbes- the best way to relax before bedtime!
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
The link I was talking about
This is the link to the Guardian article I mentioned in my last post... (hope it works)
http://books.guardian.co.uk/extracts/story/0,,1686011,00.html
I found it enlightening, I hope you do too.
http://books.guardian.co.uk/extracts/story/0,,1686011,00.html
I found it enlightening, I hope you do too.
Dee dum dee dum...
I don’t normally talk about my depression. It’s not really the done thing, I suppose. But I was talking to a friend of mine yesterday, and realised that far more people have it than is commonly thought. The stigma attached to “mental illness” is unfair and does far more harm than good. For example, my ex boyfriend thought that having depression meant that I was inherently cuckoo. I tried to explain that it was an illness in the same way that asthma is- you take the medication (or asthma inhaler) and then it is as if there is nothing wrong with you. Although, being a rational person, he was completely capable of understanding this, he chose to dismiss this theory. Instead he would call me “mental” whenever he wanted to win an argument. Or he would ignore my opinion on something that differed from him, saying that I was crazy, and what would I know…
That kind of attitude to mental health- in this apparently enlightened day and age- is very worrying, not to mention completely counter-productive.
I’ve now reached the point where if I don’t talk about my own depression, then it just perpetuates the whole cycle I despise so much. Depression really isn’t uncommon. I am twenty-one.
I have had depression for about ten years now. It wasn’t diagnosed then. I first went to the doctor when I was fifteen. At sixteen I was sent to therapy by my school. At eighteen I went back to the doctor and started my first anti-depressants. Since then I’ve taken six different types, as well as beta-blockers.
The first time I went to the doctor, they told me that it was just a teenage thing, and that I should basically just get over it. I’ve been self harming since I was about twelve. Then at sixth form, a teacher noticed my arms and told my senior tutor, who sent me to see a therapist. I really didn’t like the therapist; she was incredibly patronising, and kept her room far to warm, so all I felt like doing was falling asleep. I stopped going, but continued self harming. I started taking beta blockers to deal with the signs of my nervousness. In the summer before I went to university, I realised that I had a problem. At the time, I was standing on a bridge- a footbridge- and thinking how I should probably just throw myself off. I went to the doctor, who put me on the first of the many SSRI’s I have taken.
When I came to London, in September 2002, I started to lose the plot even more. I started going out with my ex, and we took a lot of drugs together. I was sleeping about ten hours a week, and keeping a diary of everything I was eating. I was completely convinced that no one liked me, and cried a lot of the time. I went to the university doctor. I was told that I had clinical depression and severe anxiety disorder. They gave me Venlafaxine to deal with my depression and Diazepam to help me sleep. I started seeing a new therapist, who was also patronising, but less so than the last one. But I kept taking all the other drugs, and I didn’t get any better. I vividly recall lying in my bed in halls, and thinking how much effort it would take to get up and walk across the street to the A&E department. In the end I didn’t, I just took a packet of pain killers instead.
Fast forward a year and I was no longer living in halls, and had stopped taking the anti-depressants as I couldn’t see any benefits. I’d also stopped taking the Diazepam, but only because I couldn’t get them to prescribe me any more. I was still pretty fucked up, and eventually went back to the doctor, fearing I was losing my mind. They put me on some other SSRI’s. I had to take a high dose to feel anything, and then I really suffered with the side effects. Well, one side effect really. I completely lost my sex drive. As if the doctor doesn’t think you’re mental enough, I reveal that I’m actually a nymphomaniac. After that I tried yet another SSRI.
Like a kid in a candy store, picking out penny sweets.
In the spring of 2004, I started at a new doctor. The doctor I had was the nicest doctor I have ever had. He really took the time to listen to me, and was just lovely. He decided that I should try Venlafaxine again, but a modified release version, which would mean only taking one tablet a day. I am sure that some people have had positive results using Venlafaxine, but I had a terrible experience. Soon after starting on a high dose, I developed some of the nasty side-effects you get when you mess around with these drugs- namely agitation, anxiety, disturbed sleep and mania. I felt crazier than had I not been taking anything. I went back to the doctor and was sent to the psychiatric hospital. They put me back on SSRI’s, and then a month later, doubled the dose. I’ve been on 100mg- which is double the recommended maintenance dose, but half the maximum dose- for 18 months.
But not any more. And boy, I am suffering. For those who’ve never had SSRI withdrawal, I will attempt to explain how it feels, and why the hell I would want to do this.
You know that feeling on a rollercoaster, where you feel like you’ve left your head at the top of a loop, and your stomach somewhere else? That’s how I feel, all the time. If I move, it’s worse, but it happens even when I’m sitting down, staying still. It’s like walking in the funhouse. Add to this the feeling that your legs aren’t really attached to your body. And aching muscles through clenching too much, a sore head and always, always being too hot, except when I’m unbearably cold. That’s pretty much how I’m feeling right now.
I didn’t mean to come off them. Not now anyway. Not after my little crazy episode the other week. But the truth of the matter is, I ran out of money and I can’t afford to get my prescription. I’m carrying it around with me, waiting until pay day when I can stop this out of body experience.
In a way, it’s nice not to be taking them, even though I know that I should really get back to taking them again before I throw myself under a bus or similar (already I’m thinking about jumping out of windows). But it’s nice not taking anything, not being reliant on anything. The drugs companies are cunts. I read an article in the Guardian on Saturday about SSRI’s. I’ll try and link it to this blog, though it might not work- I’m not overly technical. Basically it said that SSRI’s didn’t have great results in trials versus placebos and that they caused suicidal feelings, as well as being “more difficult to come off them than anticipated”. I’ll fucking say. And while it’s nice to not be taking anything, and not lining the pockets of some pharmaceutical company, I now that I’m on a much thinner tightrope than when I’m taking my pill of sanity every morning.
I so want to cure this through sheer willpower. I keep looking at the prescription in my bag and contemplating throwing it away. But all I want to do is get my drugs and take them, and make everything okay. I’m so hooked on these things. An SSRI junkie.
In other news… I’m sure absolutely no one is reading this now, seeing as I have just decided to share my medical history with the world…The HR department at work have finally stopped making pension deductions from my pay. I have no intention of building up a pension at the moment. Let’s take into consideration the huge amount of debt I’m in. Does it really seem like I have spare cash so when I’m 85 I can go to Waitrose and not Asda? I don’t understand all the fuss about the retirement age going up. I’m going to working until I kick the bucket. I don’t think I can afford not to. Though if there are any rich men out there reading this, then offers off marriage to the following address…. (I may not be able to get rid of my debt, but I have no qualms about getting other people to do it for me)
What else? I haven’t forgotten that I need to lay out my new philosophy, courtesy of A (T's housemate). You’ll have to wait for that one though.
I’ve made a list of things to do this week. So far it’s going well. The list is:
- Sleep in my own bed every night this week. This is instead of anyone else’s sofa or random people’s beds. I didn’t buy these bed covers just to look pretty, you know.
- Take a packed lunch to work every day. I managed that today, and made enough tonight to take in tomorrow.
- Don’t use the vending machine at work. Smarties chocolate bars are not your friend.
- Apply for my Masters course. Going well so far. I’ve even emailed my old tutors to get references.
- Get a haircut. Haven’t managed that one yet, but it is only Monday after all. I’ve called my hairdresser but I don’t think he’s returning my calls. Yes, hairdressing really IS that lame!
- Go to the bank. And grovel. Nuff said.
- Finish reading that sociology book I started ages ago. I really should stop being so lazy.
- Stop obsessing about the fact that certain people haven’t texted you back. I’m not naming names as that would reveal the shameful depths of lameness I’ve sunk to.
I’ll give a progress report at the end of the week. I’m sure I will have done fabulously.
Right, time to have a ciggie out of the bedroom window.
I just realised that I no longer talk to people about what I’ve been up to or how I feel as I write it all down here. I hope that means that I have more time for fun, rather than the other interpretation, which would be that I have no friends and these people are just happy to have got away. You’d think it would be an easy decision, but I’m actually scuppered on this one.
That kind of attitude to mental health- in this apparently enlightened day and age- is very worrying, not to mention completely counter-productive.
I’ve now reached the point where if I don’t talk about my own depression, then it just perpetuates the whole cycle I despise so much. Depression really isn’t uncommon. I am twenty-one.
I have had depression for about ten years now. It wasn’t diagnosed then. I first went to the doctor when I was fifteen. At sixteen I was sent to therapy by my school. At eighteen I went back to the doctor and started my first anti-depressants. Since then I’ve taken six different types, as well as beta-blockers.
The first time I went to the doctor, they told me that it was just a teenage thing, and that I should basically just get over it. I’ve been self harming since I was about twelve. Then at sixth form, a teacher noticed my arms and told my senior tutor, who sent me to see a therapist. I really didn’t like the therapist; she was incredibly patronising, and kept her room far to warm, so all I felt like doing was falling asleep. I stopped going, but continued self harming. I started taking beta blockers to deal with the signs of my nervousness. In the summer before I went to university, I realised that I had a problem. At the time, I was standing on a bridge- a footbridge- and thinking how I should probably just throw myself off. I went to the doctor, who put me on the first of the many SSRI’s I have taken.
When I came to London, in September 2002, I started to lose the plot even more. I started going out with my ex, and we took a lot of drugs together. I was sleeping about ten hours a week, and keeping a diary of everything I was eating. I was completely convinced that no one liked me, and cried a lot of the time. I went to the university doctor. I was told that I had clinical depression and severe anxiety disorder. They gave me Venlafaxine to deal with my depression and Diazepam to help me sleep. I started seeing a new therapist, who was also patronising, but less so than the last one. But I kept taking all the other drugs, and I didn’t get any better. I vividly recall lying in my bed in halls, and thinking how much effort it would take to get up and walk across the street to the A&E department. In the end I didn’t, I just took a packet of pain killers instead.
Fast forward a year and I was no longer living in halls, and had stopped taking the anti-depressants as I couldn’t see any benefits. I’d also stopped taking the Diazepam, but only because I couldn’t get them to prescribe me any more. I was still pretty fucked up, and eventually went back to the doctor, fearing I was losing my mind. They put me on some other SSRI’s. I had to take a high dose to feel anything, and then I really suffered with the side effects. Well, one side effect really. I completely lost my sex drive. As if the doctor doesn’t think you’re mental enough, I reveal that I’m actually a nymphomaniac. After that I tried yet another SSRI.
Like a kid in a candy store, picking out penny sweets.
In the spring of 2004, I started at a new doctor. The doctor I had was the nicest doctor I have ever had. He really took the time to listen to me, and was just lovely. He decided that I should try Venlafaxine again, but a modified release version, which would mean only taking one tablet a day. I am sure that some people have had positive results using Venlafaxine, but I had a terrible experience. Soon after starting on a high dose, I developed some of the nasty side-effects you get when you mess around with these drugs- namely agitation, anxiety, disturbed sleep and mania. I felt crazier than had I not been taking anything. I went back to the doctor and was sent to the psychiatric hospital. They put me back on SSRI’s, and then a month later, doubled the dose. I’ve been on 100mg- which is double the recommended maintenance dose, but half the maximum dose- for 18 months.
But not any more. And boy, I am suffering. For those who’ve never had SSRI withdrawal, I will attempt to explain how it feels, and why the hell I would want to do this.
You know that feeling on a rollercoaster, where you feel like you’ve left your head at the top of a loop, and your stomach somewhere else? That’s how I feel, all the time. If I move, it’s worse, but it happens even when I’m sitting down, staying still. It’s like walking in the funhouse. Add to this the feeling that your legs aren’t really attached to your body. And aching muscles through clenching too much, a sore head and always, always being too hot, except when I’m unbearably cold. That’s pretty much how I’m feeling right now.
I didn’t mean to come off them. Not now anyway. Not after my little crazy episode the other week. But the truth of the matter is, I ran out of money and I can’t afford to get my prescription. I’m carrying it around with me, waiting until pay day when I can stop this out of body experience.
In a way, it’s nice not to be taking them, even though I know that I should really get back to taking them again before I throw myself under a bus or similar (already I’m thinking about jumping out of windows). But it’s nice not taking anything, not being reliant on anything. The drugs companies are cunts. I read an article in the Guardian on Saturday about SSRI’s. I’ll try and link it to this blog, though it might not work- I’m not overly technical. Basically it said that SSRI’s didn’t have great results in trials versus placebos and that they caused suicidal feelings, as well as being “more difficult to come off them than anticipated”. I’ll fucking say. And while it’s nice to not be taking anything, and not lining the pockets of some pharmaceutical company, I now that I’m on a much thinner tightrope than when I’m taking my pill of sanity every morning.
I so want to cure this through sheer willpower. I keep looking at the prescription in my bag and contemplating throwing it away. But all I want to do is get my drugs and take them, and make everything okay. I’m so hooked on these things. An SSRI junkie.
In other news… I’m sure absolutely no one is reading this now, seeing as I have just decided to share my medical history with the world…The HR department at work have finally stopped making pension deductions from my pay. I have no intention of building up a pension at the moment. Let’s take into consideration the huge amount of debt I’m in. Does it really seem like I have spare cash so when I’m 85 I can go to Waitrose and not Asda? I don’t understand all the fuss about the retirement age going up. I’m going to working until I kick the bucket. I don’t think I can afford not to. Though if there are any rich men out there reading this, then offers off marriage to the following address…. (I may not be able to get rid of my debt, but I have no qualms about getting other people to do it for me)
What else? I haven’t forgotten that I need to lay out my new philosophy, courtesy of A (T's housemate). You’ll have to wait for that one though.
I’ve made a list of things to do this week. So far it’s going well. The list is:
- Sleep in my own bed every night this week. This is instead of anyone else’s sofa or random people’s beds. I didn’t buy these bed covers just to look pretty, you know.
- Take a packed lunch to work every day. I managed that today, and made enough tonight to take in tomorrow.
- Don’t use the vending machine at work. Smarties chocolate bars are not your friend.
- Apply for my Masters course. Going well so far. I’ve even emailed my old tutors to get references.
- Get a haircut. Haven’t managed that one yet, but it is only Monday after all. I’ve called my hairdresser but I don’t think he’s returning my calls. Yes, hairdressing really IS that lame!
- Go to the bank. And grovel. Nuff said.
- Finish reading that sociology book I started ages ago. I really should stop being so lazy.
- Stop obsessing about the fact that certain people haven’t texted you back. I’m not naming names as that would reveal the shameful depths of lameness I’ve sunk to.
I’ll give a progress report at the end of the week. I’m sure I will have done fabulously.
Right, time to have a ciggie out of the bedroom window.
I just realised that I no longer talk to people about what I’ve been up to or how I feel as I write it all down here. I hope that means that I have more time for fun, rather than the other interpretation, which would be that I have no friends and these people are just happy to have got away. You’d think it would be an easy decision, but I’m actually scuppered on this one.
Monday, January 16, 2006
I can't think of a title...
I think my last post was one of my lowest points. Actually, no, the low points continued all night, until about 2 am. I might as well be truthful here. Damn the low points. I know that without them I wouldn’t feel the high points, but I just can’t take feeling that bad, and I don’t have the internal mechanisms necessary to deal with my emotions. I pretend to be wise- I even (and this is the worst, most hypocritical thing of all) give advice to other people. I try to deal with my life by ridiculing it. Having a blog is a fantastic was of doing that. Not only can I take the piss of my very existence, but also I can allow the entire bloody world to read all about it, and fill their shoes with pity.
Sometimes I really am a sorry excuse for a person, let alone the adult I masquerade as.
Having started this entry in possibly one of the most depressing manners I’ve ever done- forgive me, my internal monologue is taking on Vesuvius proportions- I’d like to state that I’m not actually in such a tumultuous mental state as one could be forgiven for thinking I am in. This weekend I have done a lot of thinking, and have made some realisations about myself that I think are potentially very important. I suppose now is the point in the blog where I list the events of the last weekend, in a similar vein to a parrot…
Immediately after writing my last post, I went to the pub. Actually, first I went to the loos and brushed my teeth. But then I walked to the pub with another girl from work, who was wearing a very pretty dress, as she was off to a gentlemen’s club in Mayfair later on in the evening. It was T’s leaving drinks, so most people came along, though not all for very long. I chatted to one of the lawyers, for the first half hour or so. Then I talked to a guy in my department for a while. He really made me laugh, as he’s so sarcastic. When he starts laughing, I can’t help myself and I just HAVE to laugh. His laugh sort of gurgles up from inside him, and it’s very addictive. It all kind of went downhill from there. I was rude to a girl I work with, calling her patronising. I started ranting at one of T’s friends about my ideas for European development. At one point he was almost shouting at me: “Will you just listen to me? Will you let me speak?” Eventually he just left.
Amazingly, things went even further downhill after that. That this was possible doesn’t cease to astonish me. I decided it would be a good idea to give S a call. I don’t really remember what I said. I think I just wanted to be loved, hence me pretty much begging for affection. I’m sure I sounded like a complete fool. I sent her a text message after that, which I think said sorry, though it could have said anything really. My eyes (at the time) and memory (now) are obviously in a big conspiracy against me. Why else would I remember only that I’d made an arse of myself, without the details? After last weekend, I just wanted her to like me. Not even because I want affection from her specifically, but because I just needed affection. In truth, I just want her as a friend. But when I’m drunk, the thought of anyone holding me seems so appealing. I think we’re still friends though. She’s not ignoring me, anyway.
Everyone decided to leave, and T and I got a taxi to east London. He kept trying to kiss me in the cab, which I found quite wearing and also incredibly annoying. I may be emotionally starved but I can’t stand for men to be, particularly if they’re apparently my friends. There’s nothing worse than having a ‘friend’ who you then find out is only your friend because they’re trying to shag you (I will ignore the fact that S probably thinks that about me, as I’m not just trying to shag her, I’m just a bit stupid, especially after I’ve been drinking). T and I had a curry, which was quite funny as the waiter dropped a plate of rice all over the table/floor/me. The food itself wasn’t all that great, and the waiter was a bit rude to me as he thought that I couldn’t understand the menu. Yes, this gora can understand what aloo saag is, thanks. I ordered the rest of the food in Punjabi, just to prove a point. Lame, I know, but it seemed like the pinnacle of wit at the time.
Going into T’s apartment block, he managed to fall up the stairs to his flat and smash a bottle of wine into the palm of his hand. I had to get glass out of it and bandage it up. Then go downstairs and try and clean up the blood that was literally everywhere (on the stairs, the wall, the door, the floor, the sofa...). That was quite amusing. As that was the bottle of wine we were going to drink, we needed to get more wine. I was sent out to get some, and ended up getting a lift from a stranger, who drove me to Dalston and back. He was clearly trying to hit on me, so I had a go at him for picking up strange girls with no regard for their safety. I pulled the old trick, “Do you have a sister? Would you be happy with her getting into cars with people she didn’t know?” He pointed out that I was the one walking down Commercial Road at silly o’clock looking for an off licence, but I ended up doing quite a good job of making him feel bad and he actually apologised. Ha! He apologised for driving to the Kingsland Road just so I could get some wine. Looking back, it wasn’t a very safe thing for me to do, and so the less said about it, the better. You know I’m an idiot. I know I’m an idiot. The point doesn’t really need reiterating.
In my last post, I asked, rhetorically, for someone to save me. I found that someone. She is T’s housemate. T went to bed fairly soon after I got back with the wine, as he was too drunk to even speak. A and I stayed up most of the night, talking about everything under the sun and listening to Leonard Cohen, snuggled up under a duvet. A told me so many things I was so happy to hear. We’re from the same town but she’s eleven years older so we don’t have any mutual friends. She didn’t talk any bullshit and said things that weren’t necessarily the nicest to hear… but I was so happy to listen. I still need to think so much about all the things we talked about, and when I have made some sense of it in my head, I will write it here. Most importantly, she told me never to apologise for who I am, and to view intimacy as a transient thing, rather than something that is fixed. And thankfully, I didn't make an idiot of myself and try and kiss her, which is quite a relief.
I eventually went to sleep on the sofa, fully clothed. I woke up when the others got up, but didn’t open my eyes, as I wasn’t sure if they were going to stay awake (and therefore wake me up!). I woke up again a few hours later with a completely numb leg (that’s sleeping in jeans for you!), a stonking headache and a feeling like I’d been kicked viciously in the kidneys. Not pleasant. I managed to make my way back home, and spent quite a pleasant journey reading the newspaper and eating a Cadbury’s Caramel Egg (my new favourite chocolate, in case anyone is feeling generous).
Back home, I made some calls and then metamorphosed into some sort of Martha Stewart hybrid. Though without the prison. I baked some scones, made potato pancakes and a huge pot of dhal. I wish I’d had a pinny to complete the domestic goddess look, though I did have the requisite flour on my face. After cooking up a storm- quite literally- my housemate and I sat down to eat. She’d drunk a bottle of wine, and we made the executive decision that she should call her ex to tell him that she had a new boyfriend. Not in a callous way, of course, but because her ex is coming to stay in a couple of weeks and she wanted him to know before he got here. Turns out that he’s been doing some Olympic style shagging, and wasn’t going to tell her until he got here- and that was only because he didn’t think that they should have sex, as he hadn’t always used a condom. We decided to crack open the vodka. We spent the night bitching about men, describing our various medical problems, trying to explain just how mental we really were, and getting stupidly drunk. In the end, she crashed out on top of her duvet. I tucked her up and tried to clear up the ash she’d spilt on her bed, and then got her a pint of water and some paracetamol. She drank some of the water and asked me to sleep in her room, as she thought she might be sick. Now sober, I can’t believe I agreed to sleep in a bed with someone who had just told me they might puke, but that’s what I did. Her first thought the next morning was, apparently, “I feel rough…. Who the hell is that in my bed?”
Yesterday I passed the day being quite idle. The first episode of the new series of ‘The OC’ was on, so I watched that while eating some of my scones and drinking a whole pot of tea. I love trashy shows like ‘The OC’. It’s the TV equivalent of a marshmallow- delicious but lacking substance.
I started looking for my employment contract. In the end, I ended up completely sorting out all of my papers- bank statements, phone bills, hospital letters, etc.- but I didn’t find the contract. Still, everything is very organised and I managed to make some space, so I was able to finally unpack the books I was given last weekend. I was so chuffed with myself. Next on the list of things to do is buy a new scrapbook (the old one is full) and some more glue, and get started on that.
We could smell gas in the hallway YET AGAIN, so we called out Transco (YET AGAIN). The man came pretty quickly and we all pestered him, bossing him around and telling him that we could smell the gas and so there must be a leak, and if he couldn’t detect it then he should look harder. After noting that we looked like the witches of Eastwick, we went back to watching TV. He said that we had yet another leak but that he’d fixed it. I was ready to turn the gas off completely. I get so paranoid about gas.
I couldn’t sleep last night as I was actually sick with worry. You know the phrase? Well, I was actually physically sick thinking about how poor I was and what the hell I was going to do about it. I wrote up a budget and figured that if I only spent 5p a week on non-essentials, I would have enough money to pay my rent, bills, loan repayment and maybe be able to save a tenner so I can go travelling. I hate being this poor. I had more money as a student, as I didn’t have to pay council tax and had a loan and a scholarship (as well as two jobs). I didn’t really go out all that much back then though. Not only did I have no money, I was convinced I had no friends. Now I don’t care if I don’t have any friends, and I have even less money. Life is pretty shitty sometimes. The only way I could get to sleep was to put ‘Amelie’ on in the background. There’s nothing like that film to soothe you, though it does always make me cry.
Today I don’t feel so bad. I may be poor, but I’m okay. I’m a pretty good person. I can get another job where I earn a little more. I have great prospects. I guess I’m quite pretty. I know that things are only looking down at the moment for a limited number of reasons (which I can’t be bothered to go into right now). Things are okay. I am okay.If I say this enough times then I will start to believe it.
Sometimes I really am a sorry excuse for a person, let alone the adult I masquerade as.
Having started this entry in possibly one of the most depressing manners I’ve ever done- forgive me, my internal monologue is taking on Vesuvius proportions- I’d like to state that I’m not actually in such a tumultuous mental state as one could be forgiven for thinking I am in. This weekend I have done a lot of thinking, and have made some realisations about myself that I think are potentially very important. I suppose now is the point in the blog where I list the events of the last weekend, in a similar vein to a parrot…
Immediately after writing my last post, I went to the pub. Actually, first I went to the loos and brushed my teeth. But then I walked to the pub with another girl from work, who was wearing a very pretty dress, as she was off to a gentlemen’s club in Mayfair later on in the evening. It was T’s leaving drinks, so most people came along, though not all for very long. I chatted to one of the lawyers, for the first half hour or so. Then I talked to a guy in my department for a while. He really made me laugh, as he’s so sarcastic. When he starts laughing, I can’t help myself and I just HAVE to laugh. His laugh sort of gurgles up from inside him, and it’s very addictive. It all kind of went downhill from there. I was rude to a girl I work with, calling her patronising. I started ranting at one of T’s friends about my ideas for European development. At one point he was almost shouting at me: “Will you just listen to me? Will you let me speak?” Eventually he just left.
Amazingly, things went even further downhill after that. That this was possible doesn’t cease to astonish me. I decided it would be a good idea to give S a call. I don’t really remember what I said. I think I just wanted to be loved, hence me pretty much begging for affection. I’m sure I sounded like a complete fool. I sent her a text message after that, which I think said sorry, though it could have said anything really. My eyes (at the time) and memory (now) are obviously in a big conspiracy against me. Why else would I remember only that I’d made an arse of myself, without the details? After last weekend, I just wanted her to like me. Not even because I want affection from her specifically, but because I just needed affection. In truth, I just want her as a friend. But when I’m drunk, the thought of anyone holding me seems so appealing. I think we’re still friends though. She’s not ignoring me, anyway.
Everyone decided to leave, and T and I got a taxi to east London. He kept trying to kiss me in the cab, which I found quite wearing and also incredibly annoying. I may be emotionally starved but I can’t stand for men to be, particularly if they’re apparently my friends. There’s nothing worse than having a ‘friend’ who you then find out is only your friend because they’re trying to shag you (I will ignore the fact that S probably thinks that about me, as I’m not just trying to shag her, I’m just a bit stupid, especially after I’ve been drinking). T and I had a curry, which was quite funny as the waiter dropped a plate of rice all over the table/floor/me. The food itself wasn’t all that great, and the waiter was a bit rude to me as he thought that I couldn’t understand the menu. Yes, this gora can understand what aloo saag is, thanks. I ordered the rest of the food in Punjabi, just to prove a point. Lame, I know, but it seemed like the pinnacle of wit at the time.
Going into T’s apartment block, he managed to fall up the stairs to his flat and smash a bottle of wine into the palm of his hand. I had to get glass out of it and bandage it up. Then go downstairs and try and clean up the blood that was literally everywhere (on the stairs, the wall, the door, the floor, the sofa...). That was quite amusing. As that was the bottle of wine we were going to drink, we needed to get more wine. I was sent out to get some, and ended up getting a lift from a stranger, who drove me to Dalston and back. He was clearly trying to hit on me, so I had a go at him for picking up strange girls with no regard for their safety. I pulled the old trick, “Do you have a sister? Would you be happy with her getting into cars with people she didn’t know?” He pointed out that I was the one walking down Commercial Road at silly o’clock looking for an off licence, but I ended up doing quite a good job of making him feel bad and he actually apologised. Ha! He apologised for driving to the Kingsland Road just so I could get some wine. Looking back, it wasn’t a very safe thing for me to do, and so the less said about it, the better. You know I’m an idiot. I know I’m an idiot. The point doesn’t really need reiterating.
In my last post, I asked, rhetorically, for someone to save me. I found that someone. She is T’s housemate. T went to bed fairly soon after I got back with the wine, as he was too drunk to even speak. A and I stayed up most of the night, talking about everything under the sun and listening to Leonard Cohen, snuggled up under a duvet. A told me so many things I was so happy to hear. We’re from the same town but she’s eleven years older so we don’t have any mutual friends. She didn’t talk any bullshit and said things that weren’t necessarily the nicest to hear… but I was so happy to listen. I still need to think so much about all the things we talked about, and when I have made some sense of it in my head, I will write it here. Most importantly, she told me never to apologise for who I am, and to view intimacy as a transient thing, rather than something that is fixed. And thankfully, I didn't make an idiot of myself and try and kiss her, which is quite a relief.
I eventually went to sleep on the sofa, fully clothed. I woke up when the others got up, but didn’t open my eyes, as I wasn’t sure if they were going to stay awake (and therefore wake me up!). I woke up again a few hours later with a completely numb leg (that’s sleeping in jeans for you!), a stonking headache and a feeling like I’d been kicked viciously in the kidneys. Not pleasant. I managed to make my way back home, and spent quite a pleasant journey reading the newspaper and eating a Cadbury’s Caramel Egg (my new favourite chocolate, in case anyone is feeling generous).
Back home, I made some calls and then metamorphosed into some sort of Martha Stewart hybrid. Though without the prison. I baked some scones, made potato pancakes and a huge pot of dhal. I wish I’d had a pinny to complete the domestic goddess look, though I did have the requisite flour on my face. After cooking up a storm- quite literally- my housemate and I sat down to eat. She’d drunk a bottle of wine, and we made the executive decision that she should call her ex to tell him that she had a new boyfriend. Not in a callous way, of course, but because her ex is coming to stay in a couple of weeks and she wanted him to know before he got here. Turns out that he’s been doing some Olympic style shagging, and wasn’t going to tell her until he got here- and that was only because he didn’t think that they should have sex, as he hadn’t always used a condom. We decided to crack open the vodka. We spent the night bitching about men, describing our various medical problems, trying to explain just how mental we really were, and getting stupidly drunk. In the end, she crashed out on top of her duvet. I tucked her up and tried to clear up the ash she’d spilt on her bed, and then got her a pint of water and some paracetamol. She drank some of the water and asked me to sleep in her room, as she thought she might be sick. Now sober, I can’t believe I agreed to sleep in a bed with someone who had just told me they might puke, but that’s what I did. Her first thought the next morning was, apparently, “I feel rough…. Who the hell is that in my bed?”
Yesterday I passed the day being quite idle. The first episode of the new series of ‘The OC’ was on, so I watched that while eating some of my scones and drinking a whole pot of tea. I love trashy shows like ‘The OC’. It’s the TV equivalent of a marshmallow- delicious but lacking substance.
I started looking for my employment contract. In the end, I ended up completely sorting out all of my papers- bank statements, phone bills, hospital letters, etc.- but I didn’t find the contract. Still, everything is very organised and I managed to make some space, so I was able to finally unpack the books I was given last weekend. I was so chuffed with myself. Next on the list of things to do is buy a new scrapbook (the old one is full) and some more glue, and get started on that.
We could smell gas in the hallway YET AGAIN, so we called out Transco (YET AGAIN). The man came pretty quickly and we all pestered him, bossing him around and telling him that we could smell the gas and so there must be a leak, and if he couldn’t detect it then he should look harder. After noting that we looked like the witches of Eastwick, we went back to watching TV. He said that we had yet another leak but that he’d fixed it. I was ready to turn the gas off completely. I get so paranoid about gas.
I couldn’t sleep last night as I was actually sick with worry. You know the phrase? Well, I was actually physically sick thinking about how poor I was and what the hell I was going to do about it. I wrote up a budget and figured that if I only spent 5p a week on non-essentials, I would have enough money to pay my rent, bills, loan repayment and maybe be able to save a tenner so I can go travelling. I hate being this poor. I had more money as a student, as I didn’t have to pay council tax and had a loan and a scholarship (as well as two jobs). I didn’t really go out all that much back then though. Not only did I have no money, I was convinced I had no friends. Now I don’t care if I don’t have any friends, and I have even less money. Life is pretty shitty sometimes. The only way I could get to sleep was to put ‘Amelie’ on in the background. There’s nothing like that film to soothe you, though it does always make me cry.
Today I don’t feel so bad. I may be poor, but I’m okay. I’m a pretty good person. I can get another job where I earn a little more. I have great prospects. I guess I’m quite pretty. I know that things are only looking down at the moment for a limited number of reasons (which I can’t be bothered to go into right now). Things are okay. I am okay.If I say this enough times then I will start to believe it.
Friday, January 13, 2006
Urgh
God, I really need to get a more satisfying job. I can't believe the most exciting thing I have to do is potentially move my blog from one place to another. How sad can I be?
We're all going to the pub now. I'm really not feeling in the mood. Please, someone, make my life less pointless. Please make me smile. I feel like my face has ossified, it's been so long since I've smiled. Please, someone, make this dismal nothingness feel like something.
I sound so teenage and I'm sorry.
We're all going to the pub now. I'm really not feeling in the mood. Please, someone, make my life less pointless. Please make me smile. I feel like my face has ossified, it's been so long since I've smiled. Please, someone, make this dismal nothingness feel like something.
I sound so teenage and I'm sorry.
Some facts about me (physically)
I am 5 foot 10, which makes me the smallest of my siblings.
I broke two of my fingers at secondary school- one playing hockey and one playing basketball.
I have curly hair, but I keep it really short so no one knows.
I kicked a door so hard that I’ve damaged the ligaments in my ankle and now I have to go to physiotherapy, rock on.
I can hardly see anything without my contact lenses in.
I have what my friend refers to as “abnormally large breasts”.
I have almost no control over my body temperature and have had both heatstroke and hypothermia (not at the same time, obviously).
I fractured my wrist when I was seventeen.
I am allergic to grass and get a rash if my skin touches it for too long.
I have hyper-extended arms and hypo-extended legs.
I have a scar on the back of my neck from where I had a mole that needed to be removed.
I bruise and scar quite easily, which seems unfair as I’m pretty clumsy.
I give great oral sex.
I also give great hand jobs.
I have a crescent shaped scar on my knee from when I fell off a climbing frame as a kid.
I have a very tiny and very faint birthmark on my inside thigh.
I have another birthmark on my head but I’ve never seen it, as it is not only behind me, but also covered with my hair.
I look like a bright red hedgehog in the mornings, thanks to my hair.
I have a cigarette burn on my arm from when I was about fifteen and at a party.
I have no qualms about being naked.
I'll put some other facts about me, more psychological ones, on here soon.
I broke two of my fingers at secondary school- one playing hockey and one playing basketball.
I have curly hair, but I keep it really short so no one knows.
I kicked a door so hard that I’ve damaged the ligaments in my ankle and now I have to go to physiotherapy, rock on.
I can hardly see anything without my contact lenses in.
I have what my friend refers to as “abnormally large breasts”.
I have almost no control over my body temperature and have had both heatstroke and hypothermia (not at the same time, obviously).
I fractured my wrist when I was seventeen.
I am allergic to grass and get a rash if my skin touches it for too long.
I have hyper-extended arms and hypo-extended legs.
I have a scar on the back of my neck from where I had a mole that needed to be removed.
I bruise and scar quite easily, which seems unfair as I’m pretty clumsy.
I give great oral sex.
I also give great hand jobs.
I have a crescent shaped scar on my knee from when I fell off a climbing frame as a kid.
I have a very tiny and very faint birthmark on my inside thigh.
I have another birthmark on my head but I’ve never seen it, as it is not only behind me, but also covered with my hair.
I look like a bright red hedgehog in the mornings, thanks to my hair.
I have a cigarette burn on my arm from when I was about fifteen and at a party.
I have no qualms about being naked.
I'll put some other facts about me, more psychological ones, on here soon.
The Royal Ballet’s ‘Giselle’, 10th January 2006
I’d planned to walk to the Royal Opera House, but my ankle was giving me a bit of grief so I took a bus part of the way there. I arrived with ten minutes or so to spare, which I thought was quite reasonable. My seat was in the Amphitheatre, right at the top of the building. My ticket said that it was a ‘tall and loose’ seat, which sounded interesting. After stashing my coat in the cloakroom I headed off up a flights of stairs, an escalator, through a bar, up some more stairs, along a corridor and then up another flight of stairs. I thought that I would be sitting on the roof, but there were still seats up this high. My seat looked like a bar stool, with a footrest. It was quite comfortable, as it had padding on the seat and on the back, though one of the legs was a little wonky, which proved to be a little annoying. I had been a little worried that I wouldn’t be able to see anything from up this high, but once I got settled into my seat, I found that I had a great view of the stage. The next row down from me were on chairs, not stools, so there was quite a big gap between my line of sight and the head of the person in front of me.
The lights dimmed, and the orchestra began the overture. When the lights finally came up, I was very excited. As it turns out, the overture wasn’t long, and the curtain soon rose. I didn’t have a programme so I was a little bit lost by the story line. However, plots in ballets are very often the flimsiest of things. I know people complain about musicals (my friend announced, during ‘Chicago’, that he’d never seen such tenuous excuses to have a song and dance), but ballets really do win the prize for most ludicrous plot lines. I’d read a synopsis on the Internet, and so could probably sum up the story thus:
Girl lives in village and is loved by all who see her. Girl meets dashing young man who woos her and sweeps her off her feet. They get engaged (pretty swiftly, it must be said- a little more patience and the story might have had a different ending). Girl’s mum is none to pleased and has premonitions that girl will meet sticky end and be turned into a ghost, like all girls who die before their wedding day. Girl ignores mum as that would ruin the plot, although by all accounts is a very obedient girl anyway. Girl dances around with her new beau. Girl finds out that said dashing young is actually a lying pig as he is already engaged to some rich girl. Girl dies of a broken heart (since when does this happen?? A more realistic version would be that girl dies of obesity having eating her weight in chocolates while watching girlie films in a misguided attempt to “get over him”). Girl turns into a ghost with the sole purpose of haunting her still-alive fiancé. Girl hangs around in graveyard with other ghosts and waits for her man. Man turns up and girl haunts him. Girl and other ghosts attempt to dance him to death (huh??). Girl begs Head Ghost to spare him. Head Ghost spares him and girl goes off with other ghosts to go haunt someone else. Man gets off scot-free and probably goes to shag his other fiancée, the rich chick.
What’s the moral there? If your fiancé cheats on you and you die, then it’s okay as you’re going to be a ghost forever and he’s going to be alive and kicking (and possibly shagging)? Check whether your prospective lover is single or else you’ll end up haunting graveyards for all eternity?
Anyway, the dancing was really good. Tamara Rojo was playing Giselle. She had very precise footwork, and I thought that she suited the role well. The men were excellent and very athletic. The men’s jumps in particular were brilliant. I preferred the second Act to the first. In the first, everyone was dressed as peasants and although the costumes were fabulous (I would love a skirt that swing round like that!), it all seemed a little contrived and the dancing didn’t seem that dynamic. In the second Act, all semblance of a plot had vaporised, so I was able to concentrate more on the actual dancing. My favourite dancer was Zenaida Yanowsky, who was the Head Ghost. I could hardly take my eyes off her! There were some fantastic solos.
At the end I clapped so hard my hands were hurting. The only down side to the whole thing was that it was freezing inside the auditorium. It was cold the last time I was at the theatre, so I should really have been more prepared. In the interval I’d headed outside to chain-smoke. I was a bit worried that I’d have to go all the way down to street level, as there was a no smoking policy indoors. Luckily the Royal Opera House has a large balcony section that overlooks Covent Garden Market, and so I went out there, along with all the other smokers. I didn’t have my coat on and I was incredibly cold. Still, smoking takes priority I guess…
I’m really looking forward to going to the ballet again. I’m going on the 28th February, and I’m going to see Darcey Bussell. My all time favourite dancer. What could be better??
The lights dimmed, and the orchestra began the overture. When the lights finally came up, I was very excited. As it turns out, the overture wasn’t long, and the curtain soon rose. I didn’t have a programme so I was a little bit lost by the story line. However, plots in ballets are very often the flimsiest of things. I know people complain about musicals (my friend announced, during ‘Chicago’, that he’d never seen such tenuous excuses to have a song and dance), but ballets really do win the prize for most ludicrous plot lines. I’d read a synopsis on the Internet, and so could probably sum up the story thus:
Girl lives in village and is loved by all who see her. Girl meets dashing young man who woos her and sweeps her off her feet. They get engaged (pretty swiftly, it must be said- a little more patience and the story might have had a different ending). Girl’s mum is none to pleased and has premonitions that girl will meet sticky end and be turned into a ghost, like all girls who die before their wedding day. Girl ignores mum as that would ruin the plot, although by all accounts is a very obedient girl anyway. Girl dances around with her new beau. Girl finds out that said dashing young is actually a lying pig as he is already engaged to some rich girl. Girl dies of a broken heart (since when does this happen?? A more realistic version would be that girl dies of obesity having eating her weight in chocolates while watching girlie films in a misguided attempt to “get over him”). Girl turns into a ghost with the sole purpose of haunting her still-alive fiancé. Girl hangs around in graveyard with other ghosts and waits for her man. Man turns up and girl haunts him. Girl and other ghosts attempt to dance him to death (huh??). Girl begs Head Ghost to spare him. Head Ghost spares him and girl goes off with other ghosts to go haunt someone else. Man gets off scot-free and probably goes to shag his other fiancée, the rich chick.
What’s the moral there? If your fiancé cheats on you and you die, then it’s okay as you’re going to be a ghost forever and he’s going to be alive and kicking (and possibly shagging)? Check whether your prospective lover is single or else you’ll end up haunting graveyards for all eternity?
Anyway, the dancing was really good. Tamara Rojo was playing Giselle. She had very precise footwork, and I thought that she suited the role well. The men were excellent and very athletic. The men’s jumps in particular were brilliant. I preferred the second Act to the first. In the first, everyone was dressed as peasants and although the costumes were fabulous (I would love a skirt that swing round like that!), it all seemed a little contrived and the dancing didn’t seem that dynamic. In the second Act, all semblance of a plot had vaporised, so I was able to concentrate more on the actual dancing. My favourite dancer was Zenaida Yanowsky, who was the Head Ghost. I could hardly take my eyes off her! There were some fantastic solos.
At the end I clapped so hard my hands were hurting. The only down side to the whole thing was that it was freezing inside the auditorium. It was cold the last time I was at the theatre, so I should really have been more prepared. In the interval I’d headed outside to chain-smoke. I was a bit worried that I’d have to go all the way down to street level, as there was a no smoking policy indoors. Luckily the Royal Opera House has a large balcony section that overlooks Covent Garden Market, and so I went out there, along with all the other smokers. I didn’t have my coat on and I was incredibly cold. Still, smoking takes priority I guess…
I’m really looking forward to going to the ballet again. I’m going on the 28th February, and I’m going to see Darcey Bussell. My all time favourite dancer. What could be better??
Monday, January 09, 2006
My new favourite website
I almost forgot- I have a new favourite website:
www.stuffonmycat.com
How great is that?? I have been laughing at it all day.
www.stuffonmycat.com
How great is that?? I have been laughing at it all day.
This is the week that was
It's been a funny old week.
I guess I will start at the beginning, the only logical place to, I suppose. On Tuesday I went back to work. Like a complete spakker I took the wrong train and ended up at Blackfriars. Pretty stupid. On Tuesday evening I started feeling really depressed. No one I called picked up. In the end I rang one of my exes, who asked me what it was like sleeping with his friend. I told him that I found even the concept of him asking was incredibly weird. We discussed whether shagging numerous people made you a slag. I told him that after I’d had sex with A, I’d lain awake thinking that I was a slag. He said that he didn’t think that was a bad thing, and that sometimes he was kept awake by that too, but more down to furiously masturbating over his immense sexual prowess than feeling in any way regretful.
By Wednesday the black cloud I had sensed had really settled on me. I couldn’t do anything, I just stayed in bed and tried to sleep. I didn’t even let my housemates know that I was in, so that no one would talk to me. It seemed like no one wanted to talk to me anyway. All the people I tried ringing didn’t answer the phone. It’s funny, when I’m at my lowest I find out who are really good friends. Depression, with me at least, is not something that’s going to go anywhere any time soon, so I just need to deal with it. And I do deal with it pretty well, most of the time. I guess after ten years you do get quite acclimatised. Nowadays, I’m normally fine (though stuffed full of anti-depressants), but I have bad episodes, where I am almost incapable of doing anything.
The next day, I finally emerged from my room, but only to go as far as the living room. The Wolf called, and I told him about how I was feeling. He’s had depression too- well, still has it. His advice was to go outside and get some fresh air, and if possible go tot Camden and look at the tramps, and think “well, at least I’m not a fuck-up like that”, which I thought was very wise, but also completely typical of the Wolf. He had remembered sleazing at my friend, and his way of dealing with her rejection of him was to cal her vacuous. I asked him why he would say that about someone that he quite clearly likes, and he said it was an automatic reaction- you wolf whistle at a girl, she tells you to fuck off, so you shout “you’re ugly anyway”. I love the twisted, simple logic of men.
I hadn’t heard from S- my New Year conquest. I’d even called and left a voicemail message. When I was feeling really low, sometime on Wednesday, I wrote up a list of all the men who I’ve kissed and they’ve said they’ll call and I’ve never heard from again. It was quite depressing. Anyway, I decided to make an effort and go out, and went round to the Legend's house. S was there. I asked him why he hadn’t returned my text message or my call, and he said he wasn’t ignoring me and that he was just crap. Hmm. In the pub (i.e., after I’d got a drink in me) I asked him whether he did want to hang out sometime, and he said that he did, but he didn’t want a relationship or anything. Like I was asking for commitment or a relationship or anything. I may love the male crazy logic, but I really don’t understand it at all. Straight away I texted my friend with the news, and she was very sweet about it. I told the Wolf, and he suggested I go for Cousin Will instead. Cousin Will was once described by Wolf as “a boring fucker”, though at the time he didn’t know that Cousin Will was standing just behind him. So I am probably not going to be throwing myself in Cousin Will’s direction anytime soon. We all got really pissed. S had to go home because he was so pissed. Legend got really moody. Afterwards, I was going to go home but Legend had left his wallet in the pub so I walked over to there to give it back. Another friend from halls was also there with his very dull girlfriend, and some upper-class toff who was doing everyone’s head in. Legend's girlfriend and I ended up staying up late drinking beer and taking the piss out of this guy, who would not go home, despite our none-too-subtle hints. In the end he went, but he forgot his scarf, so we’ve kept it. It’s a nice cashmere scarf, which’ll be good as present for a dad or uncle or the such like. I decided that going home was too much of a challenge and I slept on the sofa, still with my jeans on.
In the morning I was woken by Legend having an absurdly loud shower. I had to get back as I had to collect some furniture. My new housemate made quite a fuss about giving me a lift, but did in the end. When I was there, I saw the short Irish guy I slept with a few weeks ago, which was a tiny bit awkward, not least because I still have his Madonna CD.
I went to Borough to my friends leaving do, where I was introduced to the girlfriend of the Scottish guy I kissed at the Christmas party. I don’t think she knows. If she does, she was being remarkably nice about it. I drank lots of wine, and announced that I was gay to about twenty people. Which was quite ominous of me, but I’ll come to that later. I started feeling quite depressed again and decided to leave.
The most exciting part of my week was when I went to Afterskool, an indie night, with my friend S (not new year boy S. Using initials is a pain in the arse sometimes). She's so beautiful in such a cool without even trying kind of way, and really smart too. A girl spent an inordinately long amount of time telling me how beautiful I was, which was quite flattering. S and I proceeded to get stupidly drunk. Two of my friends were working at the bar so we had to pay nominal prices- £1 for two double vodka and cokes. One of them I slept with a few months ago, but hadn’t seen him in ages. We also saw S’s ex and I was quite cutting to him. It’s only what he deserves. S and I ended up on the stage, and we kissed. It wasn’t really just kissing; we were all over each other. She pinned me against the wall. I just wanted to touch her (which I did) and kiss her (ditto). Now all I can think about is sleeping with her. That’s pretty bad on two counts: 1) you shouldn’t sleep with your friends. 2) Thinking about having sex with someone else during the act is always wrong, but if you’re shagging a man and thinking about a woman, that’s just insane.
As is fairly obvious from the above, I got laid, but by a man, not a woman. At the end of the night, I’d lost S and presumed she’d gone home. My two friends who’d been working invited me back to theirs, and had a car, so my decision was quite forced. And of course I ended up shagging that guy again. I was so pissed, I said some really embarrassing things. One of the worst was “I really like your cock, it’s just the right size and shape”. Worst thing is, he was sober, so he will remember all of this. I was marginally less pissed than when I slept with him before. I can’t really remember too much of the last time, I’m ashamed to say. But this time it was good, and I can actually remember it, so I’m not making that up. We had sex a couple of times, watched Family Guy and then went to sleep. He’s really nice to sleep next to and he cuddles properly, and stroked my hair and kissed me on the forehead. I may be a complete slut but I do like a bit of romance like that. When I eventually woke up, I stood on a used condom getting out of bed, which was quite funny, and made me feel a little like Tracey Emin.
To finish off the weekend, I cut my friends hair and hung around at his house. I decided that I would walk back to Brixton from New Cross (where he lives). It was probably a bit of a stupid plan, bearing in mind that I didn’t have a map. It was quite nice walking, I had my mp3 player, and although it was raining and cold, I had my big winter coat on, so I didn’t really mind. When I got home and checked my map, I realised that I hadn’t gone the quickest way at all, and that there was actually no need for me to have walked through Peckham at all. Things you learn, I suppose.
Still, the walk gave me chance to reflect on everything. I don’t feel as depressed as I did earlier in the week. I don’t care what it is that’s made me less depressed- yet more random sex, lots of booze, kissing pretty girls- as long as I feel better. I have given up having a conscience. Quite selfishly, I am following a strategy of personal gratification. I figure that I am the only person I can realistically rely on to always think of me, so that’s what I shall do. Part of that plan involves getting some new batteries for my vibrator.
Right. Off to bed…
I guess I will start at the beginning, the only logical place to, I suppose. On Tuesday I went back to work. Like a complete spakker I took the wrong train and ended up at Blackfriars. Pretty stupid. On Tuesday evening I started feeling really depressed. No one I called picked up. In the end I rang one of my exes, who asked me what it was like sleeping with his friend. I told him that I found even the concept of him asking was incredibly weird. We discussed whether shagging numerous people made you a slag. I told him that after I’d had sex with A, I’d lain awake thinking that I was a slag. He said that he didn’t think that was a bad thing, and that sometimes he was kept awake by that too, but more down to furiously masturbating over his immense sexual prowess than feeling in any way regretful.
By Wednesday the black cloud I had sensed had really settled on me. I couldn’t do anything, I just stayed in bed and tried to sleep. I didn’t even let my housemates know that I was in, so that no one would talk to me. It seemed like no one wanted to talk to me anyway. All the people I tried ringing didn’t answer the phone. It’s funny, when I’m at my lowest I find out who are really good friends. Depression, with me at least, is not something that’s going to go anywhere any time soon, so I just need to deal with it. And I do deal with it pretty well, most of the time. I guess after ten years you do get quite acclimatised. Nowadays, I’m normally fine (though stuffed full of anti-depressants), but I have bad episodes, where I am almost incapable of doing anything.
The next day, I finally emerged from my room, but only to go as far as the living room. The Wolf called, and I told him about how I was feeling. He’s had depression too- well, still has it. His advice was to go outside and get some fresh air, and if possible go tot Camden and look at the tramps, and think “well, at least I’m not a fuck-up like that”, which I thought was very wise, but also completely typical of the Wolf. He had remembered sleazing at my friend, and his way of dealing with her rejection of him was to cal her vacuous. I asked him why he would say that about someone that he quite clearly likes, and he said it was an automatic reaction- you wolf whistle at a girl, she tells you to fuck off, so you shout “you’re ugly anyway”. I love the twisted, simple logic of men.
I hadn’t heard from S- my New Year conquest. I’d even called and left a voicemail message. When I was feeling really low, sometime on Wednesday, I wrote up a list of all the men who I’ve kissed and they’ve said they’ll call and I’ve never heard from again. It was quite depressing. Anyway, I decided to make an effort and go out, and went round to the Legend's house. S was there. I asked him why he hadn’t returned my text message or my call, and he said he wasn’t ignoring me and that he was just crap. Hmm. In the pub (i.e., after I’d got a drink in me) I asked him whether he did want to hang out sometime, and he said that he did, but he didn’t want a relationship or anything. Like I was asking for commitment or a relationship or anything. I may love the male crazy logic, but I really don’t understand it at all. Straight away I texted my friend with the news, and she was very sweet about it. I told the Wolf, and he suggested I go for Cousin Will instead. Cousin Will was once described by Wolf as “a boring fucker”, though at the time he didn’t know that Cousin Will was standing just behind him. So I am probably not going to be throwing myself in Cousin Will’s direction anytime soon. We all got really pissed. S had to go home because he was so pissed. Legend got really moody. Afterwards, I was going to go home but Legend had left his wallet in the pub so I walked over to there to give it back. Another friend from halls was also there with his very dull girlfriend, and some upper-class toff who was doing everyone’s head in. Legend's girlfriend and I ended up staying up late drinking beer and taking the piss out of this guy, who would not go home, despite our none-too-subtle hints. In the end he went, but he forgot his scarf, so we’ve kept it. It’s a nice cashmere scarf, which’ll be good as present for a dad or uncle or the such like. I decided that going home was too much of a challenge and I slept on the sofa, still with my jeans on.
In the morning I was woken by Legend having an absurdly loud shower. I had to get back as I had to collect some furniture. My new housemate made quite a fuss about giving me a lift, but did in the end. When I was there, I saw the short Irish guy I slept with a few weeks ago, which was a tiny bit awkward, not least because I still have his Madonna CD.
I went to Borough to my friends leaving do, where I was introduced to the girlfriend of the Scottish guy I kissed at the Christmas party. I don’t think she knows. If she does, she was being remarkably nice about it. I drank lots of wine, and announced that I was gay to about twenty people. Which was quite ominous of me, but I’ll come to that later. I started feeling quite depressed again and decided to leave.
The most exciting part of my week was when I went to Afterskool, an indie night, with my friend S (not new year boy S. Using initials is a pain in the arse sometimes). She's so beautiful in such a cool without even trying kind of way, and really smart too. A girl spent an inordinately long amount of time telling me how beautiful I was, which was quite flattering. S and I proceeded to get stupidly drunk. Two of my friends were working at the bar so we had to pay nominal prices- £1 for two double vodka and cokes. One of them I slept with a few months ago, but hadn’t seen him in ages. We also saw S’s ex and I was quite cutting to him. It’s only what he deserves. S and I ended up on the stage, and we kissed. It wasn’t really just kissing; we were all over each other. She pinned me against the wall. I just wanted to touch her (which I did) and kiss her (ditto). Now all I can think about is sleeping with her. That’s pretty bad on two counts: 1) you shouldn’t sleep with your friends. 2) Thinking about having sex with someone else during the act is always wrong, but if you’re shagging a man and thinking about a woman, that’s just insane.
As is fairly obvious from the above, I got laid, but by a man, not a woman. At the end of the night, I’d lost S and presumed she’d gone home. My two friends who’d been working invited me back to theirs, and had a car, so my decision was quite forced. And of course I ended up shagging that guy again. I was so pissed, I said some really embarrassing things. One of the worst was “I really like your cock, it’s just the right size and shape”. Worst thing is, he was sober, so he will remember all of this. I was marginally less pissed than when I slept with him before. I can’t really remember too much of the last time, I’m ashamed to say. But this time it was good, and I can actually remember it, so I’m not making that up. We had sex a couple of times, watched Family Guy and then went to sleep. He’s really nice to sleep next to and he cuddles properly, and stroked my hair and kissed me on the forehead. I may be a complete slut but I do like a bit of romance like that. When I eventually woke up, I stood on a used condom getting out of bed, which was quite funny, and made me feel a little like Tracey Emin.
To finish off the weekend, I cut my friends hair and hung around at his house. I decided that I would walk back to Brixton from New Cross (where he lives). It was probably a bit of a stupid plan, bearing in mind that I didn’t have a map. It was quite nice walking, I had my mp3 player, and although it was raining and cold, I had my big winter coat on, so I didn’t really mind. When I got home and checked my map, I realised that I hadn’t gone the quickest way at all, and that there was actually no need for me to have walked through Peckham at all. Things you learn, I suppose.
Still, the walk gave me chance to reflect on everything. I don’t feel as depressed as I did earlier in the week. I don’t care what it is that’s made me less depressed- yet more random sex, lots of booze, kissing pretty girls- as long as I feel better. I have given up having a conscience. Quite selfishly, I am following a strategy of personal gratification. I figure that I am the only person I can realistically rely on to always think of me, so that’s what I shall do. Part of that plan involves getting some new batteries for my vibrator.
Right. Off to bed…
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
A very long entry
Well, it’s been a while since I wrote my blog, as I can’t do it at home, not having broadband and all that. And I haven’t been at work, it being Christmas and all that. So right now- it’s Monday 2nd January 2006- I’m at home writing this, and I plan to cut and paste it onto my blog in the morning. So if anyone wonders why I haven’t written in so long, this is why. I can hardly type at the moment, it’s been a while since I used my computer for anything other than listening to music and playing DVD’s. For added interest, I can’t actually see the screen. I have a wireless keyboard and mouse, so I’m sitting on my bed typing. I mainly watch DVD’s on this computer- as I said- so it’s the perfect distance for that. However, it’s not really the optimum distance for typing.
I feel like writing all my thoughts down today. My internal monologue is making a bid for freedom.
So where do I start?
Back in 2005… that’d be the 21st December… I was completely enamoured with the beautiful boy. I probably still would be was it not for the fact that he’s moved back to Australia. We went out for lunch at Tas, and had some of the strangest soup ever. It was meant to Leek and Potato, but I didn’t find any leek, and only a little potato. It was nice, but a little too much lemon. Afterwards, we cam back to the office, and larked about in his room for a while.
Then I did something really stupid. I emailed him, telling him that I liked him. Afterwards I could hardly sit still with nerves and I even climbed onto my desk, apparently to rearrange the posters, but in reality just to get rid of some of my nervous energy. He emailed back after what seemed like an eternity, but in reality was more like 20 minutes. He said that he was very flattered but that he was going away on Saturday and so nothing could happen. This of course prompted me to go for a cigarette break. I was quite gutted, but not really surprised. I emailed back asking him if he wanted to make the most of the few days he did have left in the UK. He sent back one of the oddest replies, in what- to me- seemed one of the most cack-handed brush-offs ever.
That night I went out for a curry with some friends from uni- the Wolf, the Legend and his girlfriend. Two of them were also in my halls, until they got thrown out anyway. When I was with my ex I didn’t see all that much of them as he didn’t like me being friends with them. The Wolf couldn’t stand him anyway. We went to the pub afterwards and made some prank calls- to the Jeremy Kyle show, and also to a man trying to sell his car, which was parked outside the pub. He was actually in the pub, but because we were laughing s much, he noticed us and told us to piss off. Wolf offered me a charity shag now that I’m single, saying that a friend in need was a friend indeed. I declined, unsurprisingly. I have heard from numerous sources that he is possibly the worst shag ever in the history of the world. Also, I’ve seen him naked on many occasions, and it’s not a pretty sight. On the way home I started to get quite a sore throat. I thought that if I got straight to bed it would be better, but when I woke in the morning I had a fever and swollen glands, along with a very sore throat. I took the day off and lay in bed feeling quite miserable. In the end I got up and went into Brixton to get some pic’n’mix from Woolies, then went home, got back into my pyjamas and watched Peep Show, eating the pic’n’mix. Good stuff.
The next day- 23rd December- I went back to work, it being the last day and everything. I’d brought in a big bag of Lebkuchen which I took round to everyone. I’d also made cards for T and K, and written one for the boy. It took me three drafts, but I was happy in the end, and I left it on his desk like the sad little stalker that I am. We all thought it would be a half day, but 12:30 came and went and went, and we were still there. It was eventually decided that we could go at 15:00, though by then lots of people had already left, and those who were there hadn’t done any work. We all went to the pub and had quite an odd anti-climatic evening. The beautiful one had said that he was going to come to the pub, but then he rang me in the early evening to tell me that he was doing some last minutes shopping for his travels the next day. That was the last time I heard from him. He’s got my email address, but I don’t know if I’ll ever hear from him again. I don’t see any reason why he would think of me when he’s travelling around India, or even when he’s at his family’s house in Tasmania. I guess it will always be one of those “I wonder what might have happened?” things. Not that I don’t have other things on my mind, as I shall detail below…
So, Christmas. I went back to my parents for the good old festive season, as that’s what is done by children all across the world. I guess it’s like in the Nativity Play; Joseph has to go to Bethlehem because he is from the house of David. Thankfully I didn’t have to ride a donkey, or have a pregnant virgin with me. Instead, I caught the train up to the fens, where my parents (foolishly, in my opinion, but who am I to say?) live. One thing I always forget, but am getting better at remembering, is that it’s bloody freezing in the countryside. It had been cold in London, but it was icy and everything when I stepped off the train. That kind of stuff always bodes well for a great holiday, although of course you know that it won’t actually snow on Christmas day. I don’t understand the fascination people have with a white Christmas. It’s just snow. I’d rather have it in January, when there’s nothing else happening. January could do with cheering up with some snowball fights and the such like. Christmas already has trees and carols and baby Jesus and all that.
On Christmas day itself I was forced out of bed at some ungodly hour, as is tradition. I’d asked my mum the night before what time we had to get up and she’d said that we could have a lie in… until 9:00!! Now that, to me, is not a lie in. Bah humbug. Anyway, Father Christmas obviously realised that negotiating the stairs would be too much on Christmas morning so the presents were under the tree in the upstairs living room. When we were little we used to leave sherry and mince pies out for Father Christmas, and we’d make dad open the chimney so he’d be able to get in. Then we’d put straw out in the yard for the reindeers, with a carrot on top. Looking back, that’s kind of stupid. Why would the reindeers land in the yard, only for Father Christmas to scale up the side of the house and climb down the chimney? Why not just use the back door? I always wondered what happened if you didn’t have a chimney, like my friend who lived in a bungalow. She told me that they used to leave the back door open. To be fair, they probably did. Growing up in the countryside there wasn’t really any danger, except for maybe the road that runs through the village. I remember the most dangerous things in the village when I was growing up were the geese in the pond, which pecked my friends’ leg and made it bleed. Oh, and foxes, but they were only dangerous for the chickens.
Anyway, I completely digress. At 10:00 we went to church. The village church is quite old and it’s always cold. They have some antiquated heaters that I always worry are a health risk (they stink of gas), but I invariably position myself close to them as I don’t want to risk frostbite. Or chilblains. I haven’t had one of those since I was a kid, when I used to get them all the time. If you’ve never had one, you’re lucky. They’re unbelievably itchy. The church service was alright. I was worried that it would drag on for ages, but it was quite short. I didn’t sing most of the songs or join in with all the “amen” stuff as I’m not religious. I certainly didn’t go up for a blessing- I’m not a complete hypocrite. There were a few people at the church that I knew. To be fair, there weren’t all that many people there- it is a small village after all. My mum’s best friends family were there or some of them anyway). There was another family there who I knew, but none of us like them. The mum is morbidly obese. I mean MORBIDLY. She looks like a giant Christmas pudding. There’s nothing worse than the obese. I know it sounds really mean and judgmental, but there’s nothing worse than obese people. That is actually a little hypocritical as I have a bit of a belly nowadays, but I don’t have a BMI of over 40, like that woman in my village no doubt has. Her husband is a pain in the arse too. He has a really terrible moustache. I guess he probably doesn’t feel the need to make an effort, if his wife is going to walk around like that and everything. Their daughters are completely devoid of any talents whatsoever, and he younger one in particular is intensely irritating.
I’m not going to bother describing what I was given for Christmas, as I really can’t be bothered, but I did get some nice presents, and overall, I was very pleased.
My family have huge problems with me being a vegetarian. They don’t seem to understand it at all. My dad keeps asking me if I eat fish, and pretended to be confused as to why I wasn’t going to have any turkey. My mum actually made me my own special food- a chestnut and courgette pie, which was surprisingly nice. I say surprisingly not because I doubt the quality of my mum’s cooking, but because I didn’t think I liked chestnuts. I still don’t think I’d choose them, given a choice, but at least I can eat them. They all ate the normal turkey and such like.
Later on I decided to get drunk. My mum and dad were watching “The Importance of Being Earnest” so I went downstairs to where they were to drink wine. I started getting quite sarcastic, as I often do when I’ve had a glass of wine. When “Jerry Maguire” cam on, it was the final straw. I can not take that amount of poorly acted schmaltz. My youngest brother had come downstairs by this point, and we decided to get pissed. Mum and dad went to bed and I dragged my brother outside so I could have a cigarette, which he started preaching about, sanctimonious little brat!! We talked for hours, ate all the sweets in the untouched advent calendar and drank all the red wine in the house. By the end I was so drunk I could hardly see, but I still managed to send quite a pissed text message to one of my ex boyfriends. He sent me back a message the next day, laughing at me. I finally dragged myself to bed at about seven in the morning, and did wake up until four the next day. Even then, it was only because I was hungry that I got out of bed, and I went back to bed an hour later, waking up at about midnight to read the copy of F1 Racing I’d been saving for exactly this sort of occasion.
On the Tuesday- that must have been the 27th- I was woken up and told that we were going shopping as a big family outing. I told my mum that I needed to have a shower, and that it would take me half an hour or so before I was ready, but when I ran downstairs, I was greeted with my mum screaming like a banshee at me:
“We can’t go now! You knew your dad needed to be back this afternoon and now there’s not enough time to go and come back!”
I told her that I didn’t know that, as I’d been asleep all the previous day.
She shouted: “You’re so selfish!! When are you going to grow up and stop being late for everything? You always do this, all the time!”
I got pretty annoyed- I was outside with wet hair in the bloody snow, for fuck’s sake. I told her, “How would I be able to do this ‘all the time’? I don’t live here!! I live in London, not with you. How often do I come back here for you to call ‘always’?”
She wasn’t best pleased, but after my parents having a bit of a shouting match (I could hear it, sitting in the car, and they were upstairs, inside) my mum got in the car and we went shopping as planned. I think it was my dad she was mad at more than me. Neither of us apologised. Well, I did at the time, but I didn’t really mean it- how can you mean that you’re sorry for having a shower, and not being able to get straight out of bed and into a car? I think they expect the impossible from me and my brothers. It can only ever lead to disappointment. That sounds pretty harsh, and my mum’s not really like that. My dad is, and he’s the one that gets angry the most. He doesn’t quite so much now that there’s only one of us at home for most of the time. It was a nice day in the end, though I worry about my mum spending so much. Especially as we’re not always- or maybe ever- the nicest kids to have. In the evening we went out for a meal, apparently for my middle brothers birthday, some eleven days previously. Still, it was nice, though dad got quite drunk and mum had to drive.
I’m getting so bored of writing about everything I’ve done. I don’t think anyone would be in any way interested in anything I’ve just written. I thought 2006 would be ‘new year, new me’, but instead it’s just the same old chicky, fucked up as ever. I’m having a real crisis of confidence. This is meant to be the year we take over the world. Instead it might just be the year I stay in bed.
I’m going to make an effort to finish this, as if there’s one thing I really fucking hate, is quitting. There’s nothing better than finishing a task, accomplishing something, even if it’s something quite small, or inconsequential. I think that the best thing to do is think positive thoughts and trick myself into feeling happy. I know I can do it. I’m just having a real down moment. When I think about my life it seems very boring, but maybe to some people it sounds interesting. Having said that, they’d probably need to be living in completely blank room for that to happen. I need to snap out of this. Maybe it’s time for another ciggie out the bedroom window…
On Wednesday I made my way into Cambridge. That’s quite a mission from my parents’ house. First I had to take a tin little bus, driven by this guy who does this same route six days a week. There are only four buses a day from my parents’ village to the nearest market town. Clearly my parents never intended for any of their children to have any semblance of a social life! Then after sitting in the freezing cold at the bus station, a bus to Cambridge finally turned up. They’ve got remarkably pricy. I remember the good old days when it was only 70p to Cambridge. I had to pay £2.50 for that same journey last week. Rip off merchants. They’d take your blood if they could. Anyway, finally I got to Cambridge. I’d bought some new headphones for my mp3 player the day before, so I was finally able to listen to music in two ears, which made a bloody change. I met some friends and we went to the King’s Street Run.
For those who don’t know Cambridge, you’re really missing out on a treat. Well, not really. King Street used to have lots of pubs on it, something like ten, and you had to go from one end to the other and have a pint in each, and this was called the King Street run., hence the name of the pub. Now there’s only three, I think. There’s the Rattle and Hum, more commonly known as the Scum (which has changed names now to something quite anodyne). Then there’s a pub next to the noodle bar, which I think I’ve been to but can’t really remember. Then further up the street there’s the Run, and there’s another on the corner, where I once had sex in the toilets. So that makes four, which is hardly a run, more like a crawl. Anyway, we went to the Run, which is the “alternative” pub. I quite like it there, even though it’s full of pretentious wannabe punks. The music was far too loud and they played Atari Teenage Riot, which I wasn’t particularly pleased about. Thankfully it was only one song and then something more palatable came on, which doesn’t really narrow the field. A couple of pints there, and we headed off to M’s for supper.
Let me just get a couple of things out of the way first of all. I love M. I love M’s house. I love M’s mum. I love M’s dad. I love his sister. I love his cat. I love literally everything about everything to do with M. I therefore loved having supper there, and chatting to M’s slightly bonkers dad about suitable insane topics. M thinks that they (i.e. his family) are highly embarrassing- his dad at least. I can see why, but I have fun! I’m not going to gush about that family anymore, it sickens even me.
We headed off to the pub once we’d eaten. There’s a pub in Cambridge that used to be called the Hogshead. Then someone got abducted and killed from outside it, and the next day they changed the name to the Avery. Coincidence or what. There’s nothing like national notoriety to initiate a quick change of plan. Anyway, many drinks there. Then many drinks at another pub, where I threw beer mats at people and saw I guy who I nearly went out with when I was about 16. At some point I managed to nearly kiss one of my friends (he’s wanted to kiss me since I was 13, so full marks for trying I suppose) and another friend... Eventually I ended up at one of my ex’s friend’s house, via someone else’s house, and nearly crashing on the dark fen roads. A, the friend of my ex, is quite a nice guy though he is possibly the laziest person in the world. That really is something, as I know a lot of extremely lazy people. He spends weeks- literally weeks- in bed. I met him years ago, before I met my ex. He was in one of his not-so-lazy moments, which involves sitting around in a coffee house. I was at college, which means sitting around in coffee houses and skiving my lessons, learning about completely unrelated things to anything I was meant to be studying. The place I always went to was a place called Clowns, also on King Street. It’s owned by this crazy Italian man, who always hugs and kisses the girls. I think it’s changed a lot now, but when I was there, you could sit and smoke and drink tea, and there were huge tables, so you could really spread your work out. I used to meet a lot of very interesting people in there, and this one time, I met A. He told me how he’d been at a club and a girl had licked his eyeball. When I met him again, about six months later, with my then-boyfriend, it was quite funny, as my ex had no idea how we knew each other. Anyhow, A and I spent the next 18 hours in bed, alternately sleeping and shagging. It was good sex, as you’d expect from someone who spends so much time in bed. There was just one thing that was really really weird- he was completely silent, all the way through. Now, I’m not expecting- or even wanting- some sort of song and dance, but complete silence is quite unnerving. I felt like shouting things out, and blaming it on Tourettes. I didn’t of course, as I’m far too much of a lady. I’m not sure what kind of lady that would be, having random sex with yet another person she doesn’t fancy. But that’s my story, and I’m sticking with it.
When I got home, my mum asked me if I’d had a nice time, and where had I been, etc. I muttered something about a friend and asked for a lift to the train station.
I’m getting tired, and I’ve only just got to the good bit.
On the 30th I felt quite rough all day, and had an upset stomach. In the evening the first guy to ever break my heart came round my house. He was driving from Cambridge to Bristol, but detoured to London to see me. It was completely surreal.
New Year. Legend had a party, and I had already asked him to put in a good word for me to his brother, who is really really lovely. I met him when I went to stay at the Legend's one summer, and of course he tells me about him. It was a fun party, despite there only being three girls, including me. Legend and his brother, S, share a flat near Euston. The Wolf was there, and Legend's girlfriend, and I brought a friend (who the Wolf decided he was in love with, and proceeded to letch all over). At about 1 in the morning, S kissed me. I stayed the night. I don’t think I could have been forced out. Then we spent the next day hanging out at their flat. The four of us went to a Nepalese restaurant, and watched “Chicago”, and the whole time I felt like I was on fire, I just wanted to touch S and kiss him. I stayed another night.
I don’t want to think about it feels when he kisses me. I don’t want to think about how sweet he is, or how he makes sure my arm is around him when he’s sleeping. And I don’t want to think about how soft his hair is, and the way he’s funny, kind, musical… I really don’t want to think about any of this because I don’t know if he’ll ever call me.
I’m sure anyone reading this thinks I’m fickle. I mean, how can someone who jumps from one bed to another actually say she really likes someone? But I do really like him. He’s actually a nice guy, unlike most of the men in my life. But I don’t want to think about this because I don’t want to get hurt for the millionth time.
I feel like writing all my thoughts down today. My internal monologue is making a bid for freedom.
So where do I start?
Back in 2005… that’d be the 21st December… I was completely enamoured with the beautiful boy. I probably still would be was it not for the fact that he’s moved back to Australia. We went out for lunch at Tas, and had some of the strangest soup ever. It was meant to Leek and Potato, but I didn’t find any leek, and only a little potato. It was nice, but a little too much lemon. Afterwards, we cam back to the office, and larked about in his room for a while.
Then I did something really stupid. I emailed him, telling him that I liked him. Afterwards I could hardly sit still with nerves and I even climbed onto my desk, apparently to rearrange the posters, but in reality just to get rid of some of my nervous energy. He emailed back after what seemed like an eternity, but in reality was more like 20 minutes. He said that he was very flattered but that he was going away on Saturday and so nothing could happen. This of course prompted me to go for a cigarette break. I was quite gutted, but not really surprised. I emailed back asking him if he wanted to make the most of the few days he did have left in the UK. He sent back one of the oddest replies, in what- to me- seemed one of the most cack-handed brush-offs ever.
That night I went out for a curry with some friends from uni- the Wolf, the Legend and his girlfriend. Two of them were also in my halls, until they got thrown out anyway. When I was with my ex I didn’t see all that much of them as he didn’t like me being friends with them. The Wolf couldn’t stand him anyway. We went to the pub afterwards and made some prank calls- to the Jeremy Kyle show, and also to a man trying to sell his car, which was parked outside the pub. He was actually in the pub, but because we were laughing s much, he noticed us and told us to piss off. Wolf offered me a charity shag now that I’m single, saying that a friend in need was a friend indeed. I declined, unsurprisingly. I have heard from numerous sources that he is possibly the worst shag ever in the history of the world. Also, I’ve seen him naked on many occasions, and it’s not a pretty sight. On the way home I started to get quite a sore throat. I thought that if I got straight to bed it would be better, but when I woke in the morning I had a fever and swollen glands, along with a very sore throat. I took the day off and lay in bed feeling quite miserable. In the end I got up and went into Brixton to get some pic’n’mix from Woolies, then went home, got back into my pyjamas and watched Peep Show, eating the pic’n’mix. Good stuff.
The next day- 23rd December- I went back to work, it being the last day and everything. I’d brought in a big bag of Lebkuchen which I took round to everyone. I’d also made cards for T and K, and written one for the boy. It took me three drafts, but I was happy in the end, and I left it on his desk like the sad little stalker that I am. We all thought it would be a half day, but 12:30 came and went and went, and we were still there. It was eventually decided that we could go at 15:00, though by then lots of people had already left, and those who were there hadn’t done any work. We all went to the pub and had quite an odd anti-climatic evening. The beautiful one had said that he was going to come to the pub, but then he rang me in the early evening to tell me that he was doing some last minutes shopping for his travels the next day. That was the last time I heard from him. He’s got my email address, but I don’t know if I’ll ever hear from him again. I don’t see any reason why he would think of me when he’s travelling around India, or even when he’s at his family’s house in Tasmania. I guess it will always be one of those “I wonder what might have happened?” things. Not that I don’t have other things on my mind, as I shall detail below…
So, Christmas. I went back to my parents for the good old festive season, as that’s what is done by children all across the world. I guess it’s like in the Nativity Play; Joseph has to go to Bethlehem because he is from the house of David. Thankfully I didn’t have to ride a donkey, or have a pregnant virgin with me. Instead, I caught the train up to the fens, where my parents (foolishly, in my opinion, but who am I to say?) live. One thing I always forget, but am getting better at remembering, is that it’s bloody freezing in the countryside. It had been cold in London, but it was icy and everything when I stepped off the train. That kind of stuff always bodes well for a great holiday, although of course you know that it won’t actually snow on Christmas day. I don’t understand the fascination people have with a white Christmas. It’s just snow. I’d rather have it in January, when there’s nothing else happening. January could do with cheering up with some snowball fights and the such like. Christmas already has trees and carols and baby Jesus and all that.
On Christmas day itself I was forced out of bed at some ungodly hour, as is tradition. I’d asked my mum the night before what time we had to get up and she’d said that we could have a lie in… until 9:00!! Now that, to me, is not a lie in. Bah humbug. Anyway, Father Christmas obviously realised that negotiating the stairs would be too much on Christmas morning so the presents were under the tree in the upstairs living room. When we were little we used to leave sherry and mince pies out for Father Christmas, and we’d make dad open the chimney so he’d be able to get in. Then we’d put straw out in the yard for the reindeers, with a carrot on top. Looking back, that’s kind of stupid. Why would the reindeers land in the yard, only for Father Christmas to scale up the side of the house and climb down the chimney? Why not just use the back door? I always wondered what happened if you didn’t have a chimney, like my friend who lived in a bungalow. She told me that they used to leave the back door open. To be fair, they probably did. Growing up in the countryside there wasn’t really any danger, except for maybe the road that runs through the village. I remember the most dangerous things in the village when I was growing up were the geese in the pond, which pecked my friends’ leg and made it bleed. Oh, and foxes, but they were only dangerous for the chickens.
Anyway, I completely digress. At 10:00 we went to church. The village church is quite old and it’s always cold. They have some antiquated heaters that I always worry are a health risk (they stink of gas), but I invariably position myself close to them as I don’t want to risk frostbite. Or chilblains. I haven’t had one of those since I was a kid, when I used to get them all the time. If you’ve never had one, you’re lucky. They’re unbelievably itchy. The church service was alright. I was worried that it would drag on for ages, but it was quite short. I didn’t sing most of the songs or join in with all the “amen” stuff as I’m not religious. I certainly didn’t go up for a blessing- I’m not a complete hypocrite. There were a few people at the church that I knew. To be fair, there weren’t all that many people there- it is a small village after all. My mum’s best friends family were there or some of them anyway). There was another family there who I knew, but none of us like them. The mum is morbidly obese. I mean MORBIDLY. She looks like a giant Christmas pudding. There’s nothing worse than the obese. I know it sounds really mean and judgmental, but there’s nothing worse than obese people. That is actually a little hypocritical as I have a bit of a belly nowadays, but I don’t have a BMI of over 40, like that woman in my village no doubt has. Her husband is a pain in the arse too. He has a really terrible moustache. I guess he probably doesn’t feel the need to make an effort, if his wife is going to walk around like that and everything. Their daughters are completely devoid of any talents whatsoever, and he younger one in particular is intensely irritating.
I’m not going to bother describing what I was given for Christmas, as I really can’t be bothered, but I did get some nice presents, and overall, I was very pleased.
My family have huge problems with me being a vegetarian. They don’t seem to understand it at all. My dad keeps asking me if I eat fish, and pretended to be confused as to why I wasn’t going to have any turkey. My mum actually made me my own special food- a chestnut and courgette pie, which was surprisingly nice. I say surprisingly not because I doubt the quality of my mum’s cooking, but because I didn’t think I liked chestnuts. I still don’t think I’d choose them, given a choice, but at least I can eat them. They all ate the normal turkey and such like.
Later on I decided to get drunk. My mum and dad were watching “The Importance of Being Earnest” so I went downstairs to where they were to drink wine. I started getting quite sarcastic, as I often do when I’ve had a glass of wine. When “Jerry Maguire” cam on, it was the final straw. I can not take that amount of poorly acted schmaltz. My youngest brother had come downstairs by this point, and we decided to get pissed. Mum and dad went to bed and I dragged my brother outside so I could have a cigarette, which he started preaching about, sanctimonious little brat!! We talked for hours, ate all the sweets in the untouched advent calendar and drank all the red wine in the house. By the end I was so drunk I could hardly see, but I still managed to send quite a pissed text message to one of my ex boyfriends. He sent me back a message the next day, laughing at me. I finally dragged myself to bed at about seven in the morning, and did wake up until four the next day. Even then, it was only because I was hungry that I got out of bed, and I went back to bed an hour later, waking up at about midnight to read the copy of F1 Racing I’d been saving for exactly this sort of occasion.
On the Tuesday- that must have been the 27th- I was woken up and told that we were going shopping as a big family outing. I told my mum that I needed to have a shower, and that it would take me half an hour or so before I was ready, but when I ran downstairs, I was greeted with my mum screaming like a banshee at me:
“We can’t go now! You knew your dad needed to be back this afternoon and now there’s not enough time to go and come back!”
I told her that I didn’t know that, as I’d been asleep all the previous day.
She shouted: “You’re so selfish!! When are you going to grow up and stop being late for everything? You always do this, all the time!”
I got pretty annoyed- I was outside with wet hair in the bloody snow, for fuck’s sake. I told her, “How would I be able to do this ‘all the time’? I don’t live here!! I live in London, not with you. How often do I come back here for you to call ‘always’?”
She wasn’t best pleased, but after my parents having a bit of a shouting match (I could hear it, sitting in the car, and they were upstairs, inside) my mum got in the car and we went shopping as planned. I think it was my dad she was mad at more than me. Neither of us apologised. Well, I did at the time, but I didn’t really mean it- how can you mean that you’re sorry for having a shower, and not being able to get straight out of bed and into a car? I think they expect the impossible from me and my brothers. It can only ever lead to disappointment. That sounds pretty harsh, and my mum’s not really like that. My dad is, and he’s the one that gets angry the most. He doesn’t quite so much now that there’s only one of us at home for most of the time. It was a nice day in the end, though I worry about my mum spending so much. Especially as we’re not always- or maybe ever- the nicest kids to have. In the evening we went out for a meal, apparently for my middle brothers birthday, some eleven days previously. Still, it was nice, though dad got quite drunk and mum had to drive.
I’m getting so bored of writing about everything I’ve done. I don’t think anyone would be in any way interested in anything I’ve just written. I thought 2006 would be ‘new year, new me’, but instead it’s just the same old chicky, fucked up as ever. I’m having a real crisis of confidence. This is meant to be the year we take over the world. Instead it might just be the year I stay in bed.
I’m going to make an effort to finish this, as if there’s one thing I really fucking hate, is quitting. There’s nothing better than finishing a task, accomplishing something, even if it’s something quite small, or inconsequential. I think that the best thing to do is think positive thoughts and trick myself into feeling happy. I know I can do it. I’m just having a real down moment. When I think about my life it seems very boring, but maybe to some people it sounds interesting. Having said that, they’d probably need to be living in completely blank room for that to happen. I need to snap out of this. Maybe it’s time for another ciggie out the bedroom window…
On Wednesday I made my way into Cambridge. That’s quite a mission from my parents’ house. First I had to take a tin little bus, driven by this guy who does this same route six days a week. There are only four buses a day from my parents’ village to the nearest market town. Clearly my parents never intended for any of their children to have any semblance of a social life! Then after sitting in the freezing cold at the bus station, a bus to Cambridge finally turned up. They’ve got remarkably pricy. I remember the good old days when it was only 70p to Cambridge. I had to pay £2.50 for that same journey last week. Rip off merchants. They’d take your blood if they could. Anyway, finally I got to Cambridge. I’d bought some new headphones for my mp3 player the day before, so I was finally able to listen to music in two ears, which made a bloody change. I met some friends and we went to the King’s Street Run.
For those who don’t know Cambridge, you’re really missing out on a treat. Well, not really. King Street used to have lots of pubs on it, something like ten, and you had to go from one end to the other and have a pint in each, and this was called the King Street run., hence the name of the pub. Now there’s only three, I think. There’s the Rattle and Hum, more commonly known as the Scum (which has changed names now to something quite anodyne). Then there’s a pub next to the noodle bar, which I think I’ve been to but can’t really remember. Then further up the street there’s the Run, and there’s another on the corner, where I once had sex in the toilets. So that makes four, which is hardly a run, more like a crawl. Anyway, we went to the Run, which is the “alternative” pub. I quite like it there, even though it’s full of pretentious wannabe punks. The music was far too loud and they played Atari Teenage Riot, which I wasn’t particularly pleased about. Thankfully it was only one song and then something more palatable came on, which doesn’t really narrow the field. A couple of pints there, and we headed off to M’s for supper.
Let me just get a couple of things out of the way first of all. I love M. I love M’s house. I love M’s mum. I love M’s dad. I love his sister. I love his cat. I love literally everything about everything to do with M. I therefore loved having supper there, and chatting to M’s slightly bonkers dad about suitable insane topics. M thinks that they (i.e. his family) are highly embarrassing- his dad at least. I can see why, but I have fun! I’m not going to gush about that family anymore, it sickens even me.
We headed off to the pub once we’d eaten. There’s a pub in Cambridge that used to be called the Hogshead. Then someone got abducted and killed from outside it, and the next day they changed the name to the Avery. Coincidence or what. There’s nothing like national notoriety to initiate a quick change of plan. Anyway, many drinks there. Then many drinks at another pub, where I threw beer mats at people and saw I guy who I nearly went out with when I was about 16. At some point I managed to nearly kiss one of my friends (he’s wanted to kiss me since I was 13, so full marks for trying I suppose) and another friend... Eventually I ended up at one of my ex’s friend’s house, via someone else’s house, and nearly crashing on the dark fen roads. A, the friend of my ex, is quite a nice guy though he is possibly the laziest person in the world. That really is something, as I know a lot of extremely lazy people. He spends weeks- literally weeks- in bed. I met him years ago, before I met my ex. He was in one of his not-so-lazy moments, which involves sitting around in a coffee house. I was at college, which means sitting around in coffee houses and skiving my lessons, learning about completely unrelated things to anything I was meant to be studying. The place I always went to was a place called Clowns, also on King Street. It’s owned by this crazy Italian man, who always hugs and kisses the girls. I think it’s changed a lot now, but when I was there, you could sit and smoke and drink tea, and there were huge tables, so you could really spread your work out. I used to meet a lot of very interesting people in there, and this one time, I met A. He told me how he’d been at a club and a girl had licked his eyeball. When I met him again, about six months later, with my then-boyfriend, it was quite funny, as my ex had no idea how we knew each other. Anyhow, A and I spent the next 18 hours in bed, alternately sleeping and shagging. It was good sex, as you’d expect from someone who spends so much time in bed. There was just one thing that was really really weird- he was completely silent, all the way through. Now, I’m not expecting- or even wanting- some sort of song and dance, but complete silence is quite unnerving. I felt like shouting things out, and blaming it on Tourettes. I didn’t of course, as I’m far too much of a lady. I’m not sure what kind of lady that would be, having random sex with yet another person she doesn’t fancy. But that’s my story, and I’m sticking with it.
When I got home, my mum asked me if I’d had a nice time, and where had I been, etc. I muttered something about a friend and asked for a lift to the train station.
I’m getting tired, and I’ve only just got to the good bit.
On the 30th I felt quite rough all day, and had an upset stomach. In the evening the first guy to ever break my heart came round my house. He was driving from Cambridge to Bristol, but detoured to London to see me. It was completely surreal.
New Year. Legend had a party, and I had already asked him to put in a good word for me to his brother, who is really really lovely. I met him when I went to stay at the Legend's one summer, and of course he tells me about him. It was a fun party, despite there only being three girls, including me. Legend and his brother, S, share a flat near Euston. The Wolf was there, and Legend's girlfriend, and I brought a friend (who the Wolf decided he was in love with, and proceeded to letch all over). At about 1 in the morning, S kissed me. I stayed the night. I don’t think I could have been forced out. Then we spent the next day hanging out at their flat. The four of us went to a Nepalese restaurant, and watched “Chicago”, and the whole time I felt like I was on fire, I just wanted to touch S and kiss him. I stayed another night.
I don’t want to think about it feels when he kisses me. I don’t want to think about how sweet he is, or how he makes sure my arm is around him when he’s sleeping. And I don’t want to think about how soft his hair is, and the way he’s funny, kind, musical… I really don’t want to think about any of this because I don’t know if he’ll ever call me.
I’m sure anyone reading this thinks I’m fickle. I mean, how can someone who jumps from one bed to another actually say she really likes someone? But I do really like him. He’s actually a nice guy, unlike most of the men in my life. But I don’t want to think about this because I don’t want to get hurt for the millionth time.
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