Life is peachy. I had a fun ballet class, then went to the pub with and drank wine and acted silly. I wanted everyone to come but there was only 3 of us, plus one (her boyfriend). I'm going to have a dinner party and we're going to eat cheese and drink port. Sweet. I went home and N was waiting for me and I got to hold him all night. I danced around my room (which I desperately tidied this morning as it was a foot deep in clothes) for half an hour and then went to work where I had an email from Lul saying she'd GOT MARRIED and was living in Beirut and planning to move to Malawi. And an email from my brother saying my mum had caught our younger brother in bed with his girlfriend. Hilarity.
Now I have a week off work and everything is brilliant. I am going to the pub to apologise to S for scaring the crap out of her. Tomorrow we are going to Primark and to do cultural things ("you mean Primark isn't cultural?").
Life would be complete if anyone could remind me of the name of the book with the cow that got on the barge and went to Amsterdam... I loved that book. Please pretty please!!
The next entry I will try to use longer sentences. Cos I'm intellectual. Innit.
Friday, March 31, 2006
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Reasons why I am happy right now
1) N is maybe coming round tonight
2) I worked out that I have been on the wrong code for national insurance and that from now on I will get £40 a month more (it doesn't sound a lot but it's a hell of a lot to me)
3) I also worked out I don't have a proper tax code and when I get one I should get loads/some back
4) It's pay day tomorrow
5) I have next week off work
6) My friends are the most lovely people and I love them to bits
7) It looks like it might actually be spring soon
8) I did lots/some right in ballet yesterday and didn't fall over
9) My colleagues have let me sing all day
10) It's my birthday in exactly three weeks
I'd say these are all good reasons to be happy. I would do the counter-list: "reasons why I am unhappy right now", but to be honest, that constitutes most of my entries and I'm sure you could all do without reading all of that again. So yes. Just happiness today. Only slight social awkwardness to report. Doing good, cowgirl!
2) I worked out that I have been on the wrong code for national insurance and that from now on I will get £40 a month more (it doesn't sound a lot but it's a hell of a lot to me)
3) I also worked out I don't have a proper tax code and when I get one I should get loads/some back
4) It's pay day tomorrow
5) I have next week off work
6) My friends are the most lovely people and I love them to bits
7) It looks like it might actually be spring soon
8) I did lots/some right in ballet yesterday and didn't fall over
9) My colleagues have let me sing all day
10) It's my birthday in exactly three weeks
I'd say these are all good reasons to be happy. I would do the counter-list: "reasons why I am unhappy right now", but to be honest, that constitutes most of my entries and I'm sure you could all do without reading all of that again. So yes. Just happiness today. Only slight social awkwardness to report. Doing good, cowgirl!
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
A positive thought
It was pointed out to me last night that there are two very different versions of events:
1) in my head
2) what everyone else sees
I find this very reassuring.
1) in my head
2) what everyone else sees
I find this very reassuring.
Fuck THAT shit, blates!!
Turns out one of my uncles died and my mum and brother went to Ireland to the funeral. And no one told me! I would have liked a brief sojourn to the emerald isle. Certainly more than I like being at work, even if it did mean hanging out with all my crazy extended family and having small children trying to throttle me. However, the trip sounds pretty funny, what with my completely loopy aunt getting my brother shit faced. I actually wish I’d been there. Although said loopy aunt last time gave me so much food that I thought I would be sick. She has a frying pan the size of my kitchen table.
I am trying to think of an adjective to describe last night. However, I am really very inarticulate these days. My knowledge of the English language is going downhill very fast. Yesterday I said that I had court hair, as more and more I mix up French and English. It’s like the older I get, the more retarded I get.
I have a bit of a dilemma. I think my friend is an alcoholic. And when I say “friend”, I do actually mean that, it’s not a euphemism for myself. She promised me she wouldn’t drink last night- and said that even if she wanted to, she couldn’t, as she doesn’t get paid until Friday, and has approximately 5p until then. Then late last night I get a text from her saying that she went round to her neighbours’ house and drank their wine (with their permission, obviously). I am worried. I don’t know what to do. It’s not like she will listen to me as I’m a proper kid (she’s much older than me). I suppose I will just have to be supportive and wait until she wants to sort it out. It’s more than a bit tricky.
Back to yesterdays events… I got home, intending to just have a shower and leave, but I was slightly distracted by something on the kitchen table. The gas bill. A £400 gas bill. Yep. How on earth have we got through £400 worth of gas in three months? I went straight to the thermostat and turned it down to 18 degrees. That’s plenty warm enough. Then I went to the living room and asked #2 what the bloody hell was going on. I told her that the heating was going off as of now. On a nicer note, I saw #1 for the first time in ages. We had a huge hug and ate salad together, which was lovely on both counts.
Went into town on the tube thanks to some fuck up on Brixton Hill, despite being too poor to really take the tube. Where on earth am I going to find £100 to pay my share of the gas bill? What’s most annoying is that there are five of us in the house, and the bill will be split into four. I don’t have a spare £100. I probably don’t have a spare tenner for god’s sake. Being poor is absolutely rubbish. I could rant on and on about this. Back to the story…
Went into town, wandered around for fucking ages being lost, as I had been stupid and not written down the address of the place or looked at a map or anything. Retard. The inside was filled with alternately really lovely people and wankers. There was a great deal of pretentiousness. I sat in the same place all night as I was- surprise, surprise- a bit shy. It was all a bit odd. I had a long chat with A, who I’ve only met once before, but get on with really well. She’s so cool. The bands playing were cool. One of the singers looked like a foetus and had a funny voice. It was fun. N was there. A girl from my sixth form was there, which was surreal and I felt really self-conscious. I am a social retard.
At about half twelve me and S decided to leave and we ended up walking back to hers, though not before being accosted by two of the sleaziest men ever to walk the earth. We talked a lot. I told her the big bad secret I had never told anyone before. How we laughed. Well, I laughed. She thought it was shocking that people like this existed. Because I’m so used to it, I’d forgotten how absurd it is. But really, it’s completely insane. We drank tea and ate shortcake and talked about boys and discussed PMS (Pakistani Man Syndrome, a peculiar phenomenon found among British Pakistani males). We tried to think of rational solutions to the situations we have got ourselves into but failed pretty miserably. I well love talking to S, she makes me laugh and makes me happy.
In the end I turned down the offer of sharing her single bed and set out to make the trek home. Some arsehole on the bus sat down next to me and asked me how my night had been. What is it with people on night buses? Why do they think that I would be in any way interested in talking to them? Jeez. I hardly talk to people at the best of times. I’m not going to start talking to some pissed wanker who can’t even hold his head up straight. I looked pointedly out of the window until he pissed off and I got a crick in my neck. Still, London at night is pretty. I was weighing up the pros and cons of the city being lit up at night. It looks cool but think of all the wasted electricity. I did lots of thinking on the bus and decided that I overuse the words “really” and “very” and decided to improve my vernacular. Got home about three, sent some texts (cos I’m a 21st century girl and therefore glued to my phone) and then lay in bed for a while, thinking about things. I finally fell asleep about an hour later and woke up pissed off that I hadn’t taken my make up off as my pillowcase is now officially fucked.
Work today is well boring and I just had a ninety-minute interview. I yawned about fifty times. It was being videoed. Argh.
I am trying to think of an adjective to describe last night. However, I am really very inarticulate these days. My knowledge of the English language is going downhill very fast. Yesterday I said that I had court hair, as more and more I mix up French and English. It’s like the older I get, the more retarded I get.
I have a bit of a dilemma. I think my friend is an alcoholic. And when I say “friend”, I do actually mean that, it’s not a euphemism for myself. She promised me she wouldn’t drink last night- and said that even if she wanted to, she couldn’t, as she doesn’t get paid until Friday, and has approximately 5p until then. Then late last night I get a text from her saying that she went round to her neighbours’ house and drank their wine (with their permission, obviously). I am worried. I don’t know what to do. It’s not like she will listen to me as I’m a proper kid (she’s much older than me). I suppose I will just have to be supportive and wait until she wants to sort it out. It’s more than a bit tricky.
Back to yesterdays events… I got home, intending to just have a shower and leave, but I was slightly distracted by something on the kitchen table. The gas bill. A £400 gas bill. Yep. How on earth have we got through £400 worth of gas in three months? I went straight to the thermostat and turned it down to 18 degrees. That’s plenty warm enough. Then I went to the living room and asked #2 what the bloody hell was going on. I told her that the heating was going off as of now. On a nicer note, I saw #1 for the first time in ages. We had a huge hug and ate salad together, which was lovely on both counts.
Went into town on the tube thanks to some fuck up on Brixton Hill, despite being too poor to really take the tube. Where on earth am I going to find £100 to pay my share of the gas bill? What’s most annoying is that there are five of us in the house, and the bill will be split into four. I don’t have a spare £100. I probably don’t have a spare tenner for god’s sake. Being poor is absolutely rubbish. I could rant on and on about this. Back to the story…
Went into town, wandered around for fucking ages being lost, as I had been stupid and not written down the address of the place or looked at a map or anything. Retard. The inside was filled with alternately really lovely people and wankers. There was a great deal of pretentiousness. I sat in the same place all night as I was- surprise, surprise- a bit shy. It was all a bit odd. I had a long chat with A, who I’ve only met once before, but get on with really well. She’s so cool. The bands playing were cool. One of the singers looked like a foetus and had a funny voice. It was fun. N was there. A girl from my sixth form was there, which was surreal and I felt really self-conscious. I am a social retard.
At about half twelve me and S decided to leave and we ended up walking back to hers, though not before being accosted by two of the sleaziest men ever to walk the earth. We talked a lot. I told her the big bad secret I had never told anyone before. How we laughed. Well, I laughed. She thought it was shocking that people like this existed. Because I’m so used to it, I’d forgotten how absurd it is. But really, it’s completely insane. We drank tea and ate shortcake and talked about boys and discussed PMS (Pakistani Man Syndrome, a peculiar phenomenon found among British Pakistani males). We tried to think of rational solutions to the situations we have got ourselves into but failed pretty miserably. I well love talking to S, she makes me laugh and makes me happy.
In the end I turned down the offer of sharing her single bed and set out to make the trek home. Some arsehole on the bus sat down next to me and asked me how my night had been. What is it with people on night buses? Why do they think that I would be in any way interested in talking to them? Jeez. I hardly talk to people at the best of times. I’m not going to start talking to some pissed wanker who can’t even hold his head up straight. I looked pointedly out of the window until he pissed off and I got a crick in my neck. Still, London at night is pretty. I was weighing up the pros and cons of the city being lit up at night. It looks cool but think of all the wasted electricity. I did lots of thinking on the bus and decided that I overuse the words “really” and “very” and decided to improve my vernacular. Got home about three, sent some texts (cos I’m a 21st century girl and therefore glued to my phone) and then lay in bed for a while, thinking about things. I finally fell asleep about an hour later and woke up pissed off that I hadn’t taken my make up off as my pillowcase is now officially fucked.
Work today is well boring and I just had a ninety-minute interview. I yawned about fifty times. It was being videoed. Argh.
Monday, March 27, 2006
I am turning into Mark Corrigan from Peep Show = bad
Anyway, so… I’m feeling decidedly odd this morning. I had really disturbed dreams thanks to Railtrack (or more likely, some PPP) doing the noisiest possible maintenance on the railway track all night. They had a floodlight as well, just in case the noise wasn’t enough to get to me. Fuckers. If I didn’t already take the bus, I would boycott the train. As it is, I just shook my fist at the window. Then I managed to sleep in and had to run around like a headless chicken before being half an hour late for work. Rubbishness.
Apparently this instalment has been eagerly awaited. Well, I hate to disappoint, I really do, but I am not sure why anyone would want to read this drivel. Not that that will stop me writing it. The alternative (doing my work/sending endless emails arranging what time to have cigarette breaks/wasting time on myspace/facebook stalking) is not going to fill up the day sufficiently.
I am procrastinating. I don’t think I have a huge desire to write about how shit and Hollyoaks-esque my life is at the moment. It was pointed out to me that however complicated things seem, they will always get more complicated. Well, that certainly seems to be about right.
Some statements to start off with.
Firstly, it has been made abundantly clear to me that I am a poor excuse for a human being. I’m not saying that because I’m all emo and everything. I have facts. I like facts (I was a historian. Of course I like facts). I am not a great person. Though I would like to point out that I’m not as bad as some people believe. I will get to all of that.
Secondly, I know that I have completely exhausted some people’s patience. I’m really sorry. I need to give myself a stern talking to.
Okay, so Friday at work passed almost solely on myspace talking to S. Somehow I managed to get things done. Not a huge amount of work, but then again there isn’t a huge amount on at the moment. I have perfected the art of talking on the phone while writing emails. Admittedly I didn’t do a very good job of hiding it, and R walked in and laughed at me for being such a lazy slacker.
After work I walked over to the city, and had a bit of a moment on London Bridge. I used to be terrified of water, or, more specifically, rivers, and the thought of drowning in rivers. London Bridge is different, though. It would be hard to be scared of London Bridge. It’s so solid and practical (unlike Tower Bridge, which I’m not a big fan of). One of my favourite things is to walk across the bridge at sunset, walking the opposite way to all the commuters. Now, on Friday, it wasn’t sunset, but it was still fucking cool. It made me want to skip a little bit.
I got to Tottenham Court Road and fought my way through the hoards of morons who insisted on taking up the whole bloody pavement. Some fuckwits were shouting in megaphones. I bought some wine, which was reduced from £7.40 to £3.70 as a treat for me and S as I think we have had enough of drinking nasty cheap wine. We had a big old chat about everything and were a bit maudlin but I told her she was my number one best friend. D came down too and she seemed really sad. I don’t really know her all that well but I think she’s lovely, and I don’t like to see anyone I know feeling miserable. We drank all the wine (except for the stuff that got spilt all over a chair) and talked about how silly things had become, and I wondered whether things hadn’t always been silly. I told them what had happened the week before with N, as it kind of demonstrated just how weird everything was. I was not expecting the answer: “Yeah, I know”
To me, that seemed like there’d been some “lad” style bragging going on. Which they may or may not have been. I probably shouldn’t have assumed that there had been. But I just felt hurt that I had only told S and D (S being my best friend, D being a lovely person I’d like to know better), yet they already knew. I was a bit pissed off they hadn’t said anything before hand, though that passed pretty quickly. It was just upsetting that people had been talking about me and probably passing judgement on me. I don’t like people talking about me. I may complain about it, but I am fairly happy with my status as semi-invisible. And because I am a pretty weak person, I get super upset if I think people don’t like me. Constantly seeking validation through other people is not one of my best traits.
Anyhow, we convinced D to come to the pub with us and took a cab. By this point I was pretty pissed, which meant that not only was I talking a load of shit, but I wanted to drink even more and make even more of an arse of myself. Which I managed, quite successfully. We went to another pub and I started to get really shy because there were so many people that I didn’t know. I hate being shy. It’s rubbish. People don’t believe me that I am one of the most horribly timid people in the world ever, because I normally put on this act that I am really OKAY and not scared at all. And that’s how I go through life- pretending that I am not petrified of walking into a room full of people I don’t know. It’s so lame. But sometimes I can’t keep it up and I fall into this black pit, which I just can’t get out of. I honestly don’t know why anyone would want to talk to me a lot of the time. As I said at the beginning of this entry, I am a poor excuse for a human being.
I would really give anything to not be such a cripple in social situations.
Things kind of got all fucked up. Everyone was angry with everyone. N shouted at his friend. Mainly thanks to me. I sat in the corner and shouted at M, who looked at me with a look of abject terror in his eyes. A was lovely and told me I was fabulous. D went home. I felt generally very out of sorts. Eventually we left and N apologised to me for making me feel bad, what with the whole me thinking he’d been telling people left right and centre about what happened.
What I should have done is GO HOME (or even better, not go out in the first place). What I did instead was go to Peckham with N, his friend E and A. And then drank even more. I got a pretty distressed text from S. I realised that I shouldn’t have been in Peckham and that I should have been with my friends. Even if meant sleeping in the hallway. Because I wasn’t around so many people, I could talk more. That made me quite angry with myself. I am so socially retarded that I ruin people’s nights and then afterwards, when all is calm, I seem like a normal person. It’s no wonder I haemorrhage friends. I was pretty sure that N would never want to speak to me again. He invites me out. I act like a social cripple. I refuse to talk to people and generally make even myself feel sick at the thought of spending a minute with. This self-loathing is not healthy. So then when E held my hand, I thought that a) maybe I wasn’t such an awful human being, if someone wants to hold my hand, and b) what the fuck is there to lose anyway? N went to bed and A fell asleep and I kissed E. I know how this makes me look. It makes me look like a fucking bitch. I know. I know. We didn’t have sex, but does that really make it any better? I was ultimately selfish, because I can’t make myself believe that I’m an okay person, and I need someone to constantly affirm to me that I do deserve some place on this planet.
And if it’s any consolation, the first thing I thought in the morning was this: I am a really bad person. Then I woke A up to tell him this. I think A has the patience of a saint. I remember once he held a party and he spent most of his own bloody party looking after me because I couldn’t stop crying. I truly am a bad person.
I digress, but only because writing this is hard.
I went to talk to N, to tell him that I was sorry. He was sad. I felt awful. If I ever see him that sad again, I don’t know what I will do. Especially if I am the cause of his sadness. I would really rather gouge my own eyes out than make him unhappy ever again. We talked for ages. I cried a lot. He hugged me. I felt more at home than I had in a while. I stayed.
I don’t want to write any more about that because it’s my memory and I want it to myself.
On Sunday morning, we had tea and brioche and I felt sad that soon I would have to leave. I was sure that when I left, he would never see me again. That hurt.
I wrote a poem on the bus on the way home but even that is too lame to put on here. I got home and made some tea (still in a saucepan). I put some laundry on. Then I went to my room and called S and sobbed down the phone to her. She told me to come round. I honestly didn’t think that I would be able to as I didn’t know if I would be able to organise myself sufficiently without wanting to crawl under the floorboards and stay there. But I did. I even called my mum (who said she was too busy to talk to me) and had a lovely conversation with my blogging friend, who knows me so much better than someone who has never met me should. He was lovely and gave me lots of damn good advice.
Anyway, I went to S’s and we drank tea and talked at length and she stroked my hair while we watched TV and generally made me feel lots better. She’s been having some pretty mental escapades lately and I wanted to hear about these. I offered some advice, though I did warn her that my advice should probably be ignored. We shared some valuable insights into the way of the world, or more specifically, peoples minds. We laughed at some people on the internet. I met someone who also has family who live in Navan (where my family are from in Ireland). I didn’t think anyone lived there apart from my family and the nuns. That’s what my mum has always lead me to believe. I didn’t want to go home. It’s funny. I used to live in that same building on that same floor, and I had a fucking miserable time. Now, I hang out there loads. I felt distinctly more cheery by the time I did leave, though I had a knot in my stomach the size of a fist and I knew that if I thought about things rationally for more than two seconds, I would be sick. Thankfully, I was somewhat distracted by taking the wrong bus and ending up in Brixton, and I managed to successfully not-think until I got home and got into bed.
This has taken me bloody ages to write. If only I didn’t have to keep doing stuff (like answer calls and emails and smoke) I would have been able to do it much quicker. The internet is apparently working at Camp Mansions now, so I’ll be able to do all of this at home. Which begs the question: what on earth will I do at work??
I'd just like to point out that I am really good at keeping secrets. This would have been the perfect opportunity- or indeed, any time over the weekend- but no, I'm good. I amaze myself.
Please be assured that that was heavily ironic.
Tonight I am going to N’s house for dinner, which I know is contrary to advice I have been given. But I can’t NOT go. I really want to see him.
For those that have actually read all the way through this, I apologise for my emo outpourings.
Apparently this instalment has been eagerly awaited. Well, I hate to disappoint, I really do, but I am not sure why anyone would want to read this drivel. Not that that will stop me writing it. The alternative (doing my work/sending endless emails arranging what time to have cigarette breaks/wasting time on myspace/facebook stalking) is not going to fill up the day sufficiently.
I am procrastinating. I don’t think I have a huge desire to write about how shit and Hollyoaks-esque my life is at the moment. It was pointed out to me that however complicated things seem, they will always get more complicated. Well, that certainly seems to be about right.
Some statements to start off with.
Firstly, it has been made abundantly clear to me that I am a poor excuse for a human being. I’m not saying that because I’m all emo and everything. I have facts. I like facts (I was a historian. Of course I like facts). I am not a great person. Though I would like to point out that I’m not as bad as some people believe. I will get to all of that.
Secondly, I know that I have completely exhausted some people’s patience. I’m really sorry. I need to give myself a stern talking to.
Okay, so Friday at work passed almost solely on myspace talking to S. Somehow I managed to get things done. Not a huge amount of work, but then again there isn’t a huge amount on at the moment. I have perfected the art of talking on the phone while writing emails. Admittedly I didn’t do a very good job of hiding it, and R walked in and laughed at me for being such a lazy slacker.
After work I walked over to the city, and had a bit of a moment on London Bridge. I used to be terrified of water, or, more specifically, rivers, and the thought of drowning in rivers. London Bridge is different, though. It would be hard to be scared of London Bridge. It’s so solid and practical (unlike Tower Bridge, which I’m not a big fan of). One of my favourite things is to walk across the bridge at sunset, walking the opposite way to all the commuters. Now, on Friday, it wasn’t sunset, but it was still fucking cool. It made me want to skip a little bit.
I got to Tottenham Court Road and fought my way through the hoards of morons who insisted on taking up the whole bloody pavement. Some fuckwits were shouting in megaphones. I bought some wine, which was reduced from £7.40 to £3.70 as a treat for me and S as I think we have had enough of drinking nasty cheap wine. We had a big old chat about everything and were a bit maudlin but I told her she was my number one best friend. D came down too and she seemed really sad. I don’t really know her all that well but I think she’s lovely, and I don’t like to see anyone I know feeling miserable. We drank all the wine (except for the stuff that got spilt all over a chair) and talked about how silly things had become, and I wondered whether things hadn’t always been silly. I told them what had happened the week before with N, as it kind of demonstrated just how weird everything was. I was not expecting the answer: “Yeah, I know”
To me, that seemed like there’d been some “lad” style bragging going on. Which they may or may not have been. I probably shouldn’t have assumed that there had been. But I just felt hurt that I had only told S and D (S being my best friend, D being a lovely person I’d like to know better), yet they already knew. I was a bit pissed off they hadn’t said anything before hand, though that passed pretty quickly. It was just upsetting that people had been talking about me and probably passing judgement on me. I don’t like people talking about me. I may complain about it, but I am fairly happy with my status as semi-invisible. And because I am a pretty weak person, I get super upset if I think people don’t like me. Constantly seeking validation through other people is not one of my best traits.
Anyhow, we convinced D to come to the pub with us and took a cab. By this point I was pretty pissed, which meant that not only was I talking a load of shit, but I wanted to drink even more and make even more of an arse of myself. Which I managed, quite successfully. We went to another pub and I started to get really shy because there were so many people that I didn’t know. I hate being shy. It’s rubbish. People don’t believe me that I am one of the most horribly timid people in the world ever, because I normally put on this act that I am really OKAY and not scared at all. And that’s how I go through life- pretending that I am not petrified of walking into a room full of people I don’t know. It’s so lame. But sometimes I can’t keep it up and I fall into this black pit, which I just can’t get out of. I honestly don’t know why anyone would want to talk to me a lot of the time. As I said at the beginning of this entry, I am a poor excuse for a human being.
I would really give anything to not be such a cripple in social situations.
Things kind of got all fucked up. Everyone was angry with everyone. N shouted at his friend. Mainly thanks to me. I sat in the corner and shouted at M, who looked at me with a look of abject terror in his eyes. A was lovely and told me I was fabulous. D went home. I felt generally very out of sorts. Eventually we left and N apologised to me for making me feel bad, what with the whole me thinking he’d been telling people left right and centre about what happened.
What I should have done is GO HOME (or even better, not go out in the first place). What I did instead was go to Peckham with N, his friend E and A. And then drank even more. I got a pretty distressed text from S. I realised that I shouldn’t have been in Peckham and that I should have been with my friends. Even if meant sleeping in the hallway. Because I wasn’t around so many people, I could talk more. That made me quite angry with myself. I am so socially retarded that I ruin people’s nights and then afterwards, when all is calm, I seem like a normal person. It’s no wonder I haemorrhage friends. I was pretty sure that N would never want to speak to me again. He invites me out. I act like a social cripple. I refuse to talk to people and generally make even myself feel sick at the thought of spending a minute with. This self-loathing is not healthy. So then when E held my hand, I thought that a) maybe I wasn’t such an awful human being, if someone wants to hold my hand, and b) what the fuck is there to lose anyway? N went to bed and A fell asleep and I kissed E. I know how this makes me look. It makes me look like a fucking bitch. I know. I know. We didn’t have sex, but does that really make it any better? I was ultimately selfish, because I can’t make myself believe that I’m an okay person, and I need someone to constantly affirm to me that I do deserve some place on this planet.
And if it’s any consolation, the first thing I thought in the morning was this: I am a really bad person. Then I woke A up to tell him this. I think A has the patience of a saint. I remember once he held a party and he spent most of his own bloody party looking after me because I couldn’t stop crying. I truly am a bad person.
I digress, but only because writing this is hard.
I went to talk to N, to tell him that I was sorry. He was sad. I felt awful. If I ever see him that sad again, I don’t know what I will do. Especially if I am the cause of his sadness. I would really rather gouge my own eyes out than make him unhappy ever again. We talked for ages. I cried a lot. He hugged me. I felt more at home than I had in a while. I stayed.
I don’t want to write any more about that because it’s my memory and I want it to myself.
On Sunday morning, we had tea and brioche and I felt sad that soon I would have to leave. I was sure that when I left, he would never see me again. That hurt.
I wrote a poem on the bus on the way home but even that is too lame to put on here. I got home and made some tea (still in a saucepan). I put some laundry on. Then I went to my room and called S and sobbed down the phone to her. She told me to come round. I honestly didn’t think that I would be able to as I didn’t know if I would be able to organise myself sufficiently without wanting to crawl under the floorboards and stay there. But I did. I even called my mum (who said she was too busy to talk to me) and had a lovely conversation with my blogging friend, who knows me so much better than someone who has never met me should. He was lovely and gave me lots of damn good advice.
Anyway, I went to S’s and we drank tea and talked at length and she stroked my hair while we watched TV and generally made me feel lots better. She’s been having some pretty mental escapades lately and I wanted to hear about these. I offered some advice, though I did warn her that my advice should probably be ignored. We shared some valuable insights into the way of the world, or more specifically, peoples minds. We laughed at some people on the internet. I met someone who also has family who live in Navan (where my family are from in Ireland). I didn’t think anyone lived there apart from my family and the nuns. That’s what my mum has always lead me to believe. I didn’t want to go home. It’s funny. I used to live in that same building on that same floor, and I had a fucking miserable time. Now, I hang out there loads. I felt distinctly more cheery by the time I did leave, though I had a knot in my stomach the size of a fist and I knew that if I thought about things rationally for more than two seconds, I would be sick. Thankfully, I was somewhat distracted by taking the wrong bus and ending up in Brixton, and I managed to successfully not-think until I got home and got into bed.
This has taken me bloody ages to write. If only I didn’t have to keep doing stuff (like answer calls and emails and smoke) I would have been able to do it much quicker. The internet is apparently working at Camp Mansions now, so I’ll be able to do all of this at home. Which begs the question: what on earth will I do at work??
I'd just like to point out that I am really good at keeping secrets. This would have been the perfect opportunity- or indeed, any time over the weekend- but no, I'm good. I amaze myself.
Please be assured that that was heavily ironic.
Tonight I am going to N’s house for dinner, which I know is contrary to advice I have been given. But I can’t NOT go. I really want to see him.
For those that have actually read all the way through this, I apologise for my emo outpourings.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Fuck this shit!! What's happened to me??
Twice today I have thought "what the fuck? who are you??" about myself.
1) Having lunch, I could hear myself talking and I suddenly just thought, "my god, you sound like a right cunt. What on earth are you talking about, you fucking loser?" That was a bit worrying and I was a bit sad going back to the office.
2) I have gone completely hyperactive and I can't sit still or talk coherently. My palms are sweating and I keep doing silly things like throw myself off the chair, just for a laugh, or gibber on to my friend about god knows what. In this state, I am being asked for advice. I laughed. I'm like 8 years younger than you and possibly criminally insane and you want ME to give advice? Well sure, nae problem. Don't expect me to make any sense and please, for the love of god, don't follow my advice. Unless you want to be like me, that is. And I doubt it's top of many peoples wish lists: "oooh, mummy, I want to be like that girl with stupid hair who's crying on the bus and has holes in her gloves and looks (apparently) really ethnic." Anti-semites.
All grasp of grammar has gone out the window.
Hopefully tomorrow I will have calmed down a bit, as it's the inaugural work fashion show. Not really, I just invented that. R is going on a date though and I have to help her choose what to wear, so I suppose I'm not far off the mark. I'm going to make a concerted effort to wear my clothes properly tomorrow as well. Twice this week I have looked a little stupid in press meetings thanks to stupid clothes. I will also try and wear shoes when walking around, especially as the builders are around and I have no strong desire to get a nail in my foot.
I'm going to piss myself off really soon. Pah.
1) Having lunch, I could hear myself talking and I suddenly just thought, "my god, you sound like a right cunt. What on earth are you talking about, you fucking loser?" That was a bit worrying and I was a bit sad going back to the office.
2) I have gone completely hyperactive and I can't sit still or talk coherently. My palms are sweating and I keep doing silly things like throw myself off the chair, just for a laugh, or gibber on to my friend about god knows what. In this state, I am being asked for advice. I laughed. I'm like 8 years younger than you and possibly criminally insane and you want ME to give advice? Well sure, nae problem. Don't expect me to make any sense and please, for the love of god, don't follow my advice. Unless you want to be like me, that is. And I doubt it's top of many peoples wish lists: "oooh, mummy, I want to be like that girl with stupid hair who's crying on the bus and has holes in her gloves and looks (apparently) really ethnic." Anti-semites.
All grasp of grammar has gone out the window.
Hopefully tomorrow I will have calmed down a bit, as it's the inaugural work fashion show. Not really, I just invented that. R is going on a date though and I have to help her choose what to wear, so I suppose I'm not far off the mark. I'm going to make a concerted effort to wear my clothes properly tomorrow as well. Twice this week I have looked a little stupid in press meetings thanks to stupid clothes. I will also try and wear shoes when walking around, especially as the builders are around and I have no strong desire to get a nail in my foot.
I'm going to piss myself off really soon. Pah.
Lots of silliness cos I'm silly like
I’m in a really silly mood. I really shouldn’t be. I had funny dreams (which I only remembered walking to work- a bit odd really) and then I had to go to the bank. On the way to the bank, I got a text from Wolf saying that we can’t come over this weekend. So that’s the Bournemouth excursion out the window. So I’m going to be in London this weekend, if anyone has any fun plans. I need entertaining. I was really looking forward to walking the dog and being really sedentary. I want to go on an adventure. Like REALLY BADLY.
I do feel like laughing a lot today. I have decided that I will be super nice to everyone who is nice to me, and a bitch to everyone who isn’t. Being alternately malevolent and sycophantic makes my colleagues laugh. Today the most productive thing we have managed is to break the stapler and I saw the boy I dream about sometimes and I pulled a silly face. I got a funny text from N last night and a lovely text this morning. S is now my sister, official like. I am going to go on a picnic with A. Things like this make me happy and I feel like laughing.
I am going to chuckle all day. I got an email this morning that made me laugh so hard even though it wasn’t intended that way. Haha, I forwarded it to my friends at work and laughed some more. Don’t be mean to me or I will fuck you up. Kinda.
Someone just called up and I answered, “No comment.” I get such a huge satisfaction out of that. I don’t know why. It’s a “ha! I know the answer and I’m not telling you, sucker!” kind of thing.
I feel like singing today. I was singing the Kaiser Chiefs on the bus this morning. It was fun.
I just agreed to go to the cinema with someone’s mum.
I do feel like laughing a lot today. I have decided that I will be super nice to everyone who is nice to me, and a bitch to everyone who isn’t. Being alternately malevolent and sycophantic makes my colleagues laugh. Today the most productive thing we have managed is to break the stapler and I saw the boy I dream about sometimes and I pulled a silly face. I got a funny text from N last night and a lovely text this morning. S is now my sister, official like. I am going to go on a picnic with A. Things like this make me happy and I feel like laughing.
I am going to chuckle all day. I got an email this morning that made me laugh so hard even though it wasn’t intended that way. Haha, I forwarded it to my friends at work and laughed some more. Don’t be mean to me or I will fuck you up. Kinda.
Someone just called up and I answered, “No comment.” I get such a huge satisfaction out of that. I don’t know why. It’s a “ha! I know the answer and I’m not telling you, sucker!” kind of thing.
I feel like singing today. I was singing the Kaiser Chiefs on the bus this morning. It was fun.
I just agreed to go to the cinema with someone’s mum.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Public announcement
My blog seems to have turned into some sort of portal where everyone can ask me to say that I love them and then I write an entry where I say how fabulous they are. S just said: "So. Like. Yeah, I think you ought to mention what an amazing human being I am in your blog"
I've told her before- it's all about you!! Silly girl. It really is. I am half tempted to go through the whole damn thing and find every entry about her and copy and paste to a great big S love fest. I did just scroll through and see what I should put in, but I think that would be a bad idea because 1) I would look like a stalker and 2) there's some things I don't want to re-post as we just laugh about that now.
Anyway. S. I met her last year in the library, which doesn't sound like a promising place to meet lovely people, but in this case it was. I was trying to write my dissertation. She was writing assessment essays. We spent about fifteen hours a day in the library and smoked lots of cigarettes together outside every night and told each other our life stories. She was so good to me when I was convinced I was going to fail (like, every 5 minutes) and when I went a bit loopy through not sleeping, and I hope I was nice to her too. I must have been alright because she still wants to be my friend. She's fantastic, but just as silly as me. Maybe that's why we're friends? She's far cooler than me though.
I think S deserves to have everything in the world that she's ever wanted, and I would do anything for her. I think everyone should love her, and if someone was mean to her I would kick them in the shins. Or be really mean to them. Which I've done before (not the kicking in the shins).
Big hugs to S.... I am going to stop now as I sound like ingratiatingly awful. I don't mean to sound like that. I just have a whole lot of love for S xxxx
I've told her before- it's all about you!! Silly girl. It really is. I am half tempted to go through the whole damn thing and find every entry about her and copy and paste to a great big S love fest. I did just scroll through and see what I should put in, but I think that would be a bad idea because 1) I would look like a stalker and 2) there's some things I don't want to re-post as we just laugh about that now.
Anyway. S. I met her last year in the library, which doesn't sound like a promising place to meet lovely people, but in this case it was. I was trying to write my dissertation. She was writing assessment essays. We spent about fifteen hours a day in the library and smoked lots of cigarettes together outside every night and told each other our life stories. She was so good to me when I was convinced I was going to fail (like, every 5 minutes) and when I went a bit loopy through not sleeping, and I hope I was nice to her too. I must have been alright because she still wants to be my friend. She's fantastic, but just as silly as me. Maybe that's why we're friends? She's far cooler than me though.
I think S deserves to have everything in the world that she's ever wanted, and I would do anything for her. I think everyone should love her, and if someone was mean to her I would kick them in the shins. Or be really mean to them. Which I've done before (not the kicking in the shins).
Big hugs to S.... I am going to stop now as I sound like ingratiatingly awful. I don't mean to sound like that. I just have a whole lot of love for S xxxx
Yay for northern cities!
Yet more weird dreams woke me up this morning. Still, they weren’t about anyone I work with, or indeed, anyone I am likely ever to see again. I hadn’t even had any cheese. This morning I saw the boy I’d dreamt about but he- like everyone at work- is keeping away from me because I sound like I have tuberculosis. The other day I was sneezing lots. Well, I was trying to sneeze and it would get right to that bit where you’re JUST about to sneeze and then… nothing. The pressure kept building up behind my eyeball and it was really uncomfortable. Now, I’m coughing like a bloody coal miner. I swear I have the poorest immune system in the world. I have had a cold for like five weeks now. It’s boring. When HN51 hits the country, I’m going to be the first to die, quite clearly. I’m probably entitled to a flue vaccination, like the old people. That’s how sickly I am nowadays.
I never used to get this sick. My ex was the one who got sick and I had to look after him. I remember once I was looking after him and he got really angry with me because I’d bought the wrong lucozade (he firmly belived that lucozade was as good as medicine, another crackpot idea he’d got from his family) so he threw it across the room. To make up we did some art on the walls (read: drew on the walls in black felt tip). When we moved out of that house we had to spend three days painting the walls to try and cover it up. We’d also made a huge hole in the wall (Shawshank-style) which we made a really poor job of sorting out. I will never live in Wood Green again.
Anyway, the main exciting news is that we are going to go to Manchester, or more specifically, Crewe. This will be great. I have never been to Crewe. I’ve only been to Manchester once and that was when I went to see my friend at Nottingham Uni and we got taken to Manchester to raise money for sick children/old people/poor folk/other worthwhile causes. I was in a very strange mood as I hadn’t really slept for two weeks except when I passed out while getting a massage. So I think going to Manchester again would be good. And this time I know there are trams, so I won’t be almost run over like ten times in one day. Yay for going places.
I went to the cinema last night with the irish guy. As always, I was late. We were meant to be seeing Syriana at the Ritzy, but there was a problem with the sound there, so we decided to see Capote instead, at the Clapham Picturehouse. I met him at the Ritzy, and he was proper fuming. I thought it was because I was late, but he said that there were too many cunts in the café. We had a nice discussion about how everyone is always one degree of cunt. I take such pleasure in saying that word, mainly because my mum slaps me round the head when I say it… how teenage, I know. Anyway, we went to Clapham and got some food and he told me about his plan to instigate a war between Clapham and Brixton. Herne Hill would be like the Switzerland of World War 2 and would just rake in the money. He suggested the best way to cripple Clapham would be to cut off its supply of organic vegetables, but I pointed out that they’d pull a Berlin Airlift style stunt. Anyway, it was fun, and I kept laughing in the cinema because he asked me stupid things like if he could sit on my knee.
The film itself was very good. I was hooked. The only thing that spoilt it a bit for me- or at least distracted me a hell of a lot- was that Capote sounded like Eric Cartman. And I kept expecting him to say, “well dude, we just don’t know”, thanks to my obsessive watching of The Big Lewbowski. Other than that… it was fucking good, and afterwards we sat in the dark staring at the screen. What an absolutely awful man, but in such a sad way, as he was clearly so deluded. The small amount of compassion he showed was too little, too late, not to mention only serving an ulterior motive. Philip Seymour Hoffman definitely deserved his Oscar. I’d totally recommend the film, and I’m really glad I went.
OH MY GOD!! Completely surreal experience just happened! The girl on the switchboard just said to me, “oh, I just got a call from G, the guy who used to work across the corridor from here”. I was like, “What? The beautiful boy?” She laughed at me and said that he was calling from Australia. I can’t believe she didn’t put him through to me. That sucks. Still, at least I know he’s okay and didn’t die of malaria or anything.
I never used to get this sick. My ex was the one who got sick and I had to look after him. I remember once I was looking after him and he got really angry with me because I’d bought the wrong lucozade (he firmly belived that lucozade was as good as medicine, another crackpot idea he’d got from his family) so he threw it across the room. To make up we did some art on the walls (read: drew on the walls in black felt tip). When we moved out of that house we had to spend three days painting the walls to try and cover it up. We’d also made a huge hole in the wall (Shawshank-style) which we made a really poor job of sorting out. I will never live in Wood Green again.
Anyway, the main exciting news is that we are going to go to Manchester, or more specifically, Crewe. This will be great. I have never been to Crewe. I’ve only been to Manchester once and that was when I went to see my friend at Nottingham Uni and we got taken to Manchester to raise money for sick children/old people/poor folk/other worthwhile causes. I was in a very strange mood as I hadn’t really slept for two weeks except when I passed out while getting a massage. So I think going to Manchester again would be good. And this time I know there are trams, so I won’t be almost run over like ten times in one day. Yay for going places.
I went to the cinema last night with the irish guy. As always, I was late. We were meant to be seeing Syriana at the Ritzy, but there was a problem with the sound there, so we decided to see Capote instead, at the Clapham Picturehouse. I met him at the Ritzy, and he was proper fuming. I thought it was because I was late, but he said that there were too many cunts in the café. We had a nice discussion about how everyone is always one degree of cunt. I take such pleasure in saying that word, mainly because my mum slaps me round the head when I say it… how teenage, I know. Anyway, we went to Clapham and got some food and he told me about his plan to instigate a war between Clapham and Brixton. Herne Hill would be like the Switzerland of World War 2 and would just rake in the money. He suggested the best way to cripple Clapham would be to cut off its supply of organic vegetables, but I pointed out that they’d pull a Berlin Airlift style stunt. Anyway, it was fun, and I kept laughing in the cinema because he asked me stupid things like if he could sit on my knee.
The film itself was very good. I was hooked. The only thing that spoilt it a bit for me- or at least distracted me a hell of a lot- was that Capote sounded like Eric Cartman. And I kept expecting him to say, “well dude, we just don’t know”, thanks to my obsessive watching of The Big Lewbowski. Other than that… it was fucking good, and afterwards we sat in the dark staring at the screen. What an absolutely awful man, but in such a sad way, as he was clearly so deluded. The small amount of compassion he showed was too little, too late, not to mention only serving an ulterior motive. Philip Seymour Hoffman definitely deserved his Oscar. I’d totally recommend the film, and I’m really glad I went.
OH MY GOD!! Completely surreal experience just happened! The girl on the switchboard just said to me, “oh, I just got a call from G, the guy who used to work across the corridor from here”. I was like, “What? The beautiful boy?” She laughed at me and said that he was calling from Australia. I can’t believe she didn’t put him through to me. That sucks. Still, at least I know he’s okay and didn’t die of malaria or anything.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Peer pressure = a good thing
I had been sitting at my desk thinking that maybe I wouldn't go to the chemist and get my prozac, but then I was told that all the cool kids take anti-depressants, and if I wanted to be in their gang, I would have to take mine.
Added to the fact that crying all the time is rubbish. And that I know people who should really be taking theirs and don't and act a bit stupid. I don't want to be like that.
Oh, and I'm re-evaluating my idea of drinking alone. It is, on reflection, probably not a good idea.
Yay for lovely friends. I am smiling. This is nice. Now I'm off to the cinema.
Added to the fact that crying all the time is rubbish. And that I know people who should really be taking theirs and don't and act a bit stupid. I don't want to be like that.
Oh, and I'm re-evaluating my idea of drinking alone. It is, on reflection, probably not a good idea.
Yay for lovely friends. I am smiling. This is nice. Now I'm off to the cinema.
I love things like this
I ran into my friend D, who works in my office, when I left work last night. It was quite odd really as I'd just been thinking about him.
Me: Hello darling, how are you?
D: I went to GAY on Saturday and I was there for six hours and no one talked to me!
Me: Oh pet, that's not nice!
D: Clearly I have a face like a bag of smashed crabs.
Me: Hmmm, that's also not nice.
D: Oh well. One day we'll find our Prince Charmings.
Me: I wouldn't be too sure about that. I don't think he goes south of the river.
D: Where do you live?
Me: Brixton (sometimes I lie about this to make myself sound more ghetto).
D: We're fucked then, aren't we?
He's so cute. And he doesn't have a face like a bag of smashed crabs.
Me: Hello darling, how are you?
D: I went to GAY on Saturday and I was there for six hours and no one talked to me!
Me: Oh pet, that's not nice!
D: Clearly I have a face like a bag of smashed crabs.
Me: Hmmm, that's also not nice.
D: Oh well. One day we'll find our Prince Charmings.
Me: I wouldn't be too sure about that. I don't think he goes south of the river.
D: Where do you live?
Me: Brixton (sometimes I lie about this to make myself sound more ghetto).
D: We're fucked then, aren't we?
He's so cute. And he doesn't have a face like a bag of smashed crabs.
Is it really six months?
Anyway so this morning I went to the doctors and admitted defeat and now I’m taking prozac. I didn’t tell the doctor that I was hallucinating because it was freaking the hell out of me. That’s all I want to say about that for now.
I had really odd dreams all last night. This was probably partly due to the fact that I knew it was the last day of not taking any medication, but more due to the fact that I fell asleep reading a book about Mao, whilst still wearing my clothes. I had a dream about this guy I work with, though thankfully he’s not in today. I’ve dreamt about him before, and then the next day I had to see him and it was super embarrassing.
When I got into work this morning I switched on my computer and had a look to see what emails had come in overnight. It was all mainly blah blah blah except for an email from my old boss. He’s only like a year older than me and we got on really well. We used to call each other all the time and email each other and stuff. Then he asked me out… but I thought it was as friends… but it wasn’t. anyway, then he never spoke to me ever again until I saw him at LSE a month or two ago and we had possibly THE MOST awkward conversation ever. So an email from him was unexpected, to say the least. However, reading it, I have no idea if he’s still annoyed with me. Oh fuck it. I don’t really give a toss.
There was proper drama yesterday, anyway. #1 had to be taken to hospital in a stretcher! She’s okay, it was a pulled muscle, but with her history of leg problems, everyone at her work decided she should go to hospital, though not before the receptionist had had a fight with one of the editors. She was really pissed off, because she knew she didn’t have to go to hospital. Pretty funny really. She said it was a bit sore last night, but this morning when I very briefly saw her it seemed fine.
Even more drama ensued this morning when I realised our kettle was broken. Now, we drink a lot of tea, so not having a kettle is a really big deal. I am going to have to get a new one asap, as boiling it in a pan is a pain in the arse. Me and my ex had to do that for a week when we moved into our house in Bethnal Green. When we got there, it didn’t have a lock on the door and we had to invent all these ways of getting the door to shut at night. I really liked that house, but we got burgled and decided to move.
I worked out it’s been just over six months since me and my ex split up.
I had really odd dreams all last night. This was probably partly due to the fact that I knew it was the last day of not taking any medication, but more due to the fact that I fell asleep reading a book about Mao, whilst still wearing my clothes. I had a dream about this guy I work with, though thankfully he’s not in today. I’ve dreamt about him before, and then the next day I had to see him and it was super embarrassing.
When I got into work this morning I switched on my computer and had a look to see what emails had come in overnight. It was all mainly blah blah blah except for an email from my old boss. He’s only like a year older than me and we got on really well. We used to call each other all the time and email each other and stuff. Then he asked me out… but I thought it was as friends… but it wasn’t. anyway, then he never spoke to me ever again until I saw him at LSE a month or two ago and we had possibly THE MOST awkward conversation ever. So an email from him was unexpected, to say the least. However, reading it, I have no idea if he’s still annoyed with me. Oh fuck it. I don’t really give a toss.
There was proper drama yesterday, anyway. #1 had to be taken to hospital in a stretcher! She’s okay, it was a pulled muscle, but with her history of leg problems, everyone at her work decided she should go to hospital, though not before the receptionist had had a fight with one of the editors. She was really pissed off, because she knew she didn’t have to go to hospital. Pretty funny really. She said it was a bit sore last night, but this morning when I very briefly saw her it seemed fine.
Even more drama ensued this morning when I realised our kettle was broken. Now, we drink a lot of tea, so not having a kettle is a really big deal. I am going to have to get a new one asap, as boiling it in a pan is a pain in the arse. Me and my ex had to do that for a week when we moved into our house in Bethnal Green. When we got there, it didn’t have a lock on the door and we had to invent all these ways of getting the door to shut at night. I really liked that house, but we got burgled and decided to move.
I worked out it’s been just over six months since me and my ex split up.
Monday, March 20, 2006
As an apology...
I love Mike. Mike is fabulous. I have lovely pictures of Mike on my facebook and when I am bored at work I like to look at them.
I owe Mike twenty quid but I haven't forgotten about it. Mike owes me my sanity back after I found out about him and Frank. But I love him anyway.
I owe Mike twenty quid but I haven't forgotten about it. Mike owes me my sanity back after I found out about him and Frank. But I love him anyway.
stupid stupidness
Good god, I have no idea where to start with this one.
I have just typed seven different sentences and deleted them all. I have still not managed to do any work. I haven’t even loaded up half the stuff I need to do my work. HR have, however, given me a new contract which I am contemplating throwing in the bin.
I have come to some decisions. Firstly, I am going to stop talking about how I feel to people and I am going to try and make an effort to come across as normal and sane etc. Secondly, I am not going to drink in front of other people. This means I won’t get drunk and be an arsehole, which would be a good thing. I am obviously still going to drink as I need to somehow fill the vacuum inside me. I’ll just have to drink by myself. Thirdly, I am going to go to the doctor tomorrow because it is NOT A GOOD THING to feel like this all the time. And lastly, I am now celibate, although that’s pretty much up for negotiation.
As a result of having made these decision, I feel a little bit more on top of things. I have only cried twice so far today (once because I woke up and felt so empty it hurt, and once because the radio played REM and it reminded me of my ex). So that’s progress anyway.
Yesterday I went out to the shops to get some milk and the papers, and I was wearing my normal it’s-Sunday-and-I’m-mooching-around-the-house outfit (tracksuit bottoms and the ‘LSE Graduate 2005’ tshirt my mum insisted I buy) with some flip flops. The sun was out for the first time in ages and it reminded me so much of Stoke Newington that I wanted to tear my skin off and scream and scream and scream. I had to stop and take deep breaths just so I could carry on. Pretty fucking stupid. The shop is like 100 metres from my flat.
I went to the Southwark Tavern on Friday night with K, B and T. We drank lots of wine and had lots of Bridget Jones-style moments and took the piss out of some people we work with. Afterwards T and I went to get some food and then we walked down to the Elephant, with me talking pretty much non stop. I got the bus home and passed out on my bed, having managed to take most of my clothes off and put at least part of my pyjamas on.
On Saturday I woke up feeling like crap as I hadn’t drunk any water and I’d slept through qualifying. It wasn’t very late, however. I got up and had some tea and decided to clean my room. Amazingly I didn’t stop halfway through (which is a bit of a trait at the moment) and I vacuumed, polished and shined until my room looked less like a pigsty. Of course I managed to completely mis-time everything and I ended up being late to meet N for lunch.
I don’t really want to write about lunch, or what happened later. Or what happened that night or the next morning. I will just say that we had a lovely time until I fucked everything up. And it was cool to hang out with #1 and A, who came along and got pissed and then had sex.
Anyway, N left at about midday on Sunday, and I drank half a bottle of wine but pretended to my housemates that I hadn’t. I wanted to hang out with #1 all day but she was going out. However, despite the difficulties in actually getting to the shop, I bought the newspaper, and sat in the living room reading the whole thing, snuggled under my blanket. I watched the re-run of the Malaysian grand prix, which was pretty boring, apart from the pre-race interviews with Nico Rosberg, who is officially beautiful. The race itself was rubbish, mainly because Kimi Raikkonen was out on the first lap and Nico followed not long after. But also because it was just dull. No real overtaking or anything like that.
I had a couple of interesting phone calls. Firstly, from someone I’d never spoken to before but I know lots about, thanks to the big bad world of the internet. It was odd. He sounded nothing like I thought he would. I liked talking to him but it freaked me out a little bit, mainly because I am socially inept and can’t deal with new situations and so on. The Irish guy (him of the couple of odd dates who called me opinionated, while on the bloody date) also called me and asked if I was okay. He’d called the night before and I said something like, “fuck off” or something equally nice, but for some reason he still wants to be my friend and he said he’d kick anyone who was mean to me. We’re going to the cinema tomorrow because now he is rich, and he said he wanted to spend his money on me because I’m poor. I can’t really complain. Though I did warn him that if he tries to touch me I will probably hit him. Lastly, I spoke to my mum for two hours or something, which was good. I’d been thinking about going to stay with her for a bit, but I think she is too busy to have me to stay. It was good to talk to her, and she said nice things, like that she thought I was doing really well and that I shouldn’t think that I was wasting my life, post-uni and all. Which I can’t help but think. I told her that I miss my old life.
It’s funny, because I don’t know that I was really happy in my old life. I miss it a lot. I miss my house and my cat and the routine of it all and the words that no one else understood in our stupid made up language I had with my ex, that I still try and use but can’t. I don’t know what I miss the most. I think I even miss my old job. Thinking about this hurts a lot.
I have just typed seven different sentences and deleted them all. I have still not managed to do any work. I haven’t even loaded up half the stuff I need to do my work. HR have, however, given me a new contract which I am contemplating throwing in the bin.
I have come to some decisions. Firstly, I am going to stop talking about how I feel to people and I am going to try and make an effort to come across as normal and sane etc. Secondly, I am not going to drink in front of other people. This means I won’t get drunk and be an arsehole, which would be a good thing. I am obviously still going to drink as I need to somehow fill the vacuum inside me. I’ll just have to drink by myself. Thirdly, I am going to go to the doctor tomorrow because it is NOT A GOOD THING to feel like this all the time. And lastly, I am now celibate, although that’s pretty much up for negotiation.
As a result of having made these decision, I feel a little bit more on top of things. I have only cried twice so far today (once because I woke up and felt so empty it hurt, and once because the radio played REM and it reminded me of my ex). So that’s progress anyway.
Yesterday I went out to the shops to get some milk and the papers, and I was wearing my normal it’s-Sunday-and-I’m-mooching-around-the-house outfit (tracksuit bottoms and the ‘LSE Graduate 2005’ tshirt my mum insisted I buy) with some flip flops. The sun was out for the first time in ages and it reminded me so much of Stoke Newington that I wanted to tear my skin off and scream and scream and scream. I had to stop and take deep breaths just so I could carry on. Pretty fucking stupid. The shop is like 100 metres from my flat.
I went to the Southwark Tavern on Friday night with K, B and T. We drank lots of wine and had lots of Bridget Jones-style moments and took the piss out of some people we work with. Afterwards T and I went to get some food and then we walked down to the Elephant, with me talking pretty much non stop. I got the bus home and passed out on my bed, having managed to take most of my clothes off and put at least part of my pyjamas on.
On Saturday I woke up feeling like crap as I hadn’t drunk any water and I’d slept through qualifying. It wasn’t very late, however. I got up and had some tea and decided to clean my room. Amazingly I didn’t stop halfway through (which is a bit of a trait at the moment) and I vacuumed, polished and shined until my room looked less like a pigsty. Of course I managed to completely mis-time everything and I ended up being late to meet N for lunch.
I don’t really want to write about lunch, or what happened later. Or what happened that night or the next morning. I will just say that we had a lovely time until I fucked everything up. And it was cool to hang out with #1 and A, who came along and got pissed and then had sex.
Anyway, N left at about midday on Sunday, and I drank half a bottle of wine but pretended to my housemates that I hadn’t. I wanted to hang out with #1 all day but she was going out. However, despite the difficulties in actually getting to the shop, I bought the newspaper, and sat in the living room reading the whole thing, snuggled under my blanket. I watched the re-run of the Malaysian grand prix, which was pretty boring, apart from the pre-race interviews with Nico Rosberg, who is officially beautiful. The race itself was rubbish, mainly because Kimi Raikkonen was out on the first lap and Nico followed not long after. But also because it was just dull. No real overtaking or anything like that.
I had a couple of interesting phone calls. Firstly, from someone I’d never spoken to before but I know lots about, thanks to the big bad world of the internet. It was odd. He sounded nothing like I thought he would. I liked talking to him but it freaked me out a little bit, mainly because I am socially inept and can’t deal with new situations and so on. The Irish guy (him of the couple of odd dates who called me opinionated, while on the bloody date) also called me and asked if I was okay. He’d called the night before and I said something like, “fuck off” or something equally nice, but for some reason he still wants to be my friend and he said he’d kick anyone who was mean to me. We’re going to the cinema tomorrow because now he is rich, and he said he wanted to spend his money on me because I’m poor. I can’t really complain. Though I did warn him that if he tries to touch me I will probably hit him. Lastly, I spoke to my mum for two hours or something, which was good. I’d been thinking about going to stay with her for a bit, but I think she is too busy to have me to stay. It was good to talk to her, and she said nice things, like that she thought I was doing really well and that I shouldn’t think that I was wasting my life, post-uni and all. Which I can’t help but think. I told her that I miss my old life.
It’s funny, because I don’t know that I was really happy in my old life. I miss it a lot. I miss my house and my cat and the routine of it all and the words that no one else understood in our stupid made up language I had with my ex, that I still try and use but can’t. I don’t know what I miss the most. I think I even miss my old job. Thinking about this hurts a lot.
Friday, March 17, 2006
And breathe...
You will be pleased to learn that I have now calmed down a little. Thank god the prospect of the pub isn't far away, that's all I can say.
Stupid fucking Royal Mail
I just called up SOAS to ask how my application was coming along, and was told that they hadn't recieved it. What the fuck?? I sent it, first fucking class, from central fucking London. What do you mean, you haven't fucking recieved it? But no. Thanks to fucking Royal cunting Mail, it has been lost and now I need to send off another fucking application and no doubt there'll be no fucking places left on the bastard course and I will have to fucking stay working in mind numbing jobs until I'm a hundred fucking years old.
I am so angry. I am actually livid. If I'd known they were just going to lose the fucking letter I would have thrown it in the bin myself and saved myself the price of a fucking stamp. Fucking incompetent arsehole fuckwits.
Fuck shit bollocks. Wankers.
I am so angry. I am actually livid. If I'd known they were just going to lose the fucking letter I would have thrown it in the bin myself and saved myself the price of a fucking stamp. Fucking incompetent arsehole fuckwits.
Fuck shit bollocks. Wankers.
thank the fucking lord it's friday, that's all I can say
I just got really excited for no reason at all. #1, who’s a journalist, called me up to ask if I wanted to go on an undercover mission with her. We were going to go to take photos of illegal arms sales on Sunday, all undercover like. But now we’re not going as the newspaper for some reason has decided it doesn’t want pictures of guns and is doing something else instead. And I was really excited!
Last night I one of those really lame girlie bonding moments that I seem to excel at. I was walking to Clapham Junction after ballet (in the fucking snow, once again- what the hell is going on) with a girl from my class. We were discussing the important issues in life… you know- cheese, wine, garden furniture…and she was saying that she didn’t have many friends because she didn’t like many people. I asked if she liked me, and she said yes. Then I asked her if she would like to be my friend, and she again said yes. So we stopped in the middle of the road and had a hug.
I am so lame.
When I got home, the house was empty (turns out it wasn’t, as #2 was hiding in her room so she didn’t have to talk to us) and I got a bit worried as it’s normally me who isn’t there, not the others. I pottered around, contemplating calling #1, but then thought that would seem quite pathetic. Eventually she turned up- she’d been in the pub with #3’s boyfriend, who lives with us most of the time. We drank lots of tea and complained about #2 and her selfishness. Earlier she’d been trying to change her lightbulb, and asked #1 how she would be able to tell if the current was on or off. #1 pointed out that the light bulb lighting up would probably be a good indication. She then started worrying that she would get electrocuted. #1 told her, “It’s a lightbulb. You’re not sticking your hand in the socket while dripping wet. You’ll be fine.” She actually seemed surprised. How do people get to the age of 24 and not know these things? She does come out with proper stupid comments (“is Milan in Spain?” “do vegetarians eat duck?”). I don’t like being mean. I’m not a mean person (although, paradoxically, I do thrive on conflict of whatever type). But she is winding us up a little.
I also had a bit of an odd conversation…
(phone rings)
Me: Hello?
G: Hey, it’s me… how are you?
Me: Good thanks, how are you? Why is there a time delay on your phone?
G: I don’t know. So what are you up to?
Me: Just on my way home from ballet.
G: Oh, are you not ill anymore?
Me: Well, I was ill, and then I got a bit better, and then I got ill again, and then I got a bit better, and then I got conjunctivitis.
G: Conjunctivitis? Do you look like a freak?
Me: Wow, I can see why you never became a nurse or anything.
G: Do you look like a zombie?
Me: I guess. My eyelids kept getting stuck together.
G: Cool.
Me: Not really, it hurt.
G: So anyway, I’m going to Cambridge next week, so I’ll be passing through London. Do you want to meet up on Wednesday or Thursday?
Me: I have ballet, sorry…
G: Both days?
Me: Yeah… I’m a bit keen.
G: Okay, well maybe we can meet up when I’m going back, at the weekend.
Me: Mmmm, I can only do Friday though.
G: Why?
Me: Because I’m busy. I’m going to Bournemouth.
G: Why?
Me: To see Wolf.
G: Who’s he?
Me: You know, used to live next door to me, one of my best friends, bald, misogynist, really lecherous, pretty fat and hairy?
G: Oh yes, him. You’re going to Bournemouth to see him, but you never come to Brighton to see me?
Me: You never invited me.
G: So what are you going to do there then?
Me: I don’t know. Drive around in his new car, drink a lot, hang out with some of the SAS, watch lots of porn, walk the dog…
G: Are you serious?
Me: Yes.
G: Okay, well, shall I call you when I’m back and we’ll sort out something?
Me: Yeah, that’d be good. It’d be good to see you. Hang on! What do you mean, ‘when you are back’? Where are you?
G: I’m in Barbados.
Me: Why are you calling me from Barbados?
G: For a chat.
Me: Are you okay?
G: What do you mean?
Me: Nothing. How is Barbados?
G: Great. Hot. Lots of beautiful half-naked women.
Me: Sounds alright to me. It’s snowing here.
G: That makes me feel good. Okay, well, I better go, but I’ll call you when I’m back.
Me: Alright, speak to you then.
G: Have a good weekend.
Me: You too. Take care.
Does anyone else think this is a really weird conversation? Since when do ex boyfriends call you up from Barbados?
Anyway, I am going to go and eat my lunch and generally be overexcited about the prospect of getting absolutely hammered tonight and then getting up early to watch the qualifying, before going out for lunch with lovely N (who incidentally got told to leave the moment he walked into work this morning because he smelt of booze and fags, and told to go and buy a shirt and some deoderant before coming back to work- thank god the public sector isn’t like that… here it’s perfectly acceptable to be ‘principal lawyer’ and throw up in your bin).
Oh, and the water drinking is going well. I had 2 litres yesterday and I’m up to 1.5 litres today already.
Last night I one of those really lame girlie bonding moments that I seem to excel at. I was walking to Clapham Junction after ballet (in the fucking snow, once again- what the hell is going on) with a girl from my class. We were discussing the important issues in life… you know- cheese, wine, garden furniture…and she was saying that she didn’t have many friends because she didn’t like many people. I asked if she liked me, and she said yes. Then I asked her if she would like to be my friend, and she again said yes. So we stopped in the middle of the road and had a hug.
I am so lame.
When I got home, the house was empty (turns out it wasn’t, as #2 was hiding in her room so she didn’t have to talk to us) and I got a bit worried as it’s normally me who isn’t there, not the others. I pottered around, contemplating calling #1, but then thought that would seem quite pathetic. Eventually she turned up- she’d been in the pub with #3’s boyfriend, who lives with us most of the time. We drank lots of tea and complained about #2 and her selfishness. Earlier she’d been trying to change her lightbulb, and asked #1 how she would be able to tell if the current was on or off. #1 pointed out that the light bulb lighting up would probably be a good indication. She then started worrying that she would get electrocuted. #1 told her, “It’s a lightbulb. You’re not sticking your hand in the socket while dripping wet. You’ll be fine.” She actually seemed surprised. How do people get to the age of 24 and not know these things? She does come out with proper stupid comments (“is Milan in Spain?” “do vegetarians eat duck?”). I don’t like being mean. I’m not a mean person (although, paradoxically, I do thrive on conflict of whatever type). But she is winding us up a little.
I also had a bit of an odd conversation…
(phone rings)
Me: Hello?
G: Hey, it’s me… how are you?
Me: Good thanks, how are you? Why is there a time delay on your phone?
G: I don’t know. So what are you up to?
Me: Just on my way home from ballet.
G: Oh, are you not ill anymore?
Me: Well, I was ill, and then I got a bit better, and then I got ill again, and then I got a bit better, and then I got conjunctivitis.
G: Conjunctivitis? Do you look like a freak?
Me: Wow, I can see why you never became a nurse or anything.
G: Do you look like a zombie?
Me: I guess. My eyelids kept getting stuck together.
G: Cool.
Me: Not really, it hurt.
G: So anyway, I’m going to Cambridge next week, so I’ll be passing through London. Do you want to meet up on Wednesday or Thursday?
Me: I have ballet, sorry…
G: Both days?
Me: Yeah… I’m a bit keen.
G: Okay, well maybe we can meet up when I’m going back, at the weekend.
Me: Mmmm, I can only do Friday though.
G: Why?
Me: Because I’m busy. I’m going to Bournemouth.
G: Why?
Me: To see Wolf.
G: Who’s he?
Me: You know, used to live next door to me, one of my best friends, bald, misogynist, really lecherous, pretty fat and hairy?
G: Oh yes, him. You’re going to Bournemouth to see him, but you never come to Brighton to see me?
Me: You never invited me.
G: So what are you going to do there then?
Me: I don’t know. Drive around in his new car, drink a lot, hang out with some of the SAS, watch lots of porn, walk the dog…
G: Are you serious?
Me: Yes.
G: Okay, well, shall I call you when I’m back and we’ll sort out something?
Me: Yeah, that’d be good. It’d be good to see you. Hang on! What do you mean, ‘when you are back’? Where are you?
G: I’m in Barbados.
Me: Why are you calling me from Barbados?
G: For a chat.
Me: Are you okay?
G: What do you mean?
Me: Nothing. How is Barbados?
G: Great. Hot. Lots of beautiful half-naked women.
Me: Sounds alright to me. It’s snowing here.
G: That makes me feel good. Okay, well, I better go, but I’ll call you when I’m back.
Me: Alright, speak to you then.
G: Have a good weekend.
Me: You too. Take care.
Does anyone else think this is a really weird conversation? Since when do ex boyfriends call you up from Barbados?
Anyway, I am going to go and eat my lunch and generally be overexcited about the prospect of getting absolutely hammered tonight and then getting up early to watch the qualifying, before going out for lunch with lovely N (who incidentally got told to leave the moment he walked into work this morning because he smelt of booze and fags, and told to go and buy a shirt and some deoderant before coming back to work- thank god the public sector isn’t like that… here it’s perfectly acceptable to be ‘principal lawyer’ and throw up in your bin).
Oh, and the water drinking is going well. I had 2 litres yesterday and I’m up to 1.5 litres today already.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
water water everywhere...
This is from the BBC website:
“The British Dietetic Association advises that the average adult should consume 2.5 litres of water per day. Of this, 1.8 litres - the equivalent of six to seven glasses of water per day - must be obtained directly from beverages. This should be increased during periods of hot weather or during and after periods of physical activity.”
This week (well, Tuesday onwards) I have been trying to reach this level. I have managed 1.5 litres while at work, and three cups of tea at home. As well as, on Tuesday, four glasses of wine. And whatever you get from food (though considering what I’ve been eating lately, I think I will discount the amount I get from food as it is probably negligible). Is this enough? It is certainly making me need the loo a lot. Does anyone REALLY drink this every day? I will be intrigued to see if I can feel any benefits after a week of doing this.
In the meantime I am going to have to go to the loo AGAIN.
“The British Dietetic Association advises that the average adult should consume 2.5 litres of water per day. Of this, 1.8 litres - the equivalent of six to seven glasses of water per day - must be obtained directly from beverages. This should be increased during periods of hot weather or during and after periods of physical activity.”
This week (well, Tuesday onwards) I have been trying to reach this level. I have managed 1.5 litres while at work, and three cups of tea at home. As well as, on Tuesday, four glasses of wine. And whatever you get from food (though considering what I’ve been eating lately, I think I will discount the amount I get from food as it is probably negligible). Is this enough? It is certainly making me need the loo a lot. Does anyone REALLY drink this every day? I will be intrigued to see if I can feel any benefits after a week of doing this.
In the meantime I am going to have to go to the loo AGAIN.
ramble ramble fucking ramble
I just bumped into K in the corridor and she took one look at me and knew something is wrong, and we’re going to go and hide in her office later on.
I am so very grateful for everyone I know.
Last night was a catastrophe. I got to ballet and immediately wished I wasn’t there. I don’t really know why. I just knew that I would be rubbish. While I was getting changed I overheard some of the people who are in the class before mine having a conversation. Here it is:
Woman 1: Wasn’t it marvellous earlier, with the sun out?
Woman 2: Oh yes, it was splendid. I went for a run at lunchtime. You know, I just find myself so much more invigorated when the sun is out.
Woman 1: Oh I quite agree. I do find myself getting rather miserable when it’s grey every day.
Woman 2: Of course, now the sun is out, it really makes you start thinking about where to go in the summer.
Woman 1: Yes, well, that is quite a dilemma. Have you any idea where you’d like to go yet?
Woman 2: I was thinking the Caribbean…
Woman 1: Mmm, it is lovely there.
Woman 2: What about you?
Woman 1: Oh, I think we’re just going to rent a villa in Tuscany before spending a few weeks on a trek in the Andes.
Woman 2: Oh how super. I did one of those once. It was fabulous!
I felt like shouting at them. How come some people can swan around in the Caribbean and rent Tuscan villas, while I stare in horror at the prices of the Eurostar? I’m going to France twice in the next few months but it looks like I’ll have to bloody swim.
Anyhow, I went into the class and muddled through, trying to avoid looking in the mirror as I have decided that I need to go on a diet. I managed to fuck up most of the exercises so I mainly hid at the back of the class. One of the people in the class told me that she felt like she couldn’t do anything, so I said, “don’t be daft”. She looked at me for a couple of seconds and gave me a hug. Three different people asked me if I was okay and told me that I looked very sad, which was a bit disheartening as I was making a big effort to be happy and smiley. Clearly I am no good at hiding these things in real life.
On the way home, S texted to ask if I wanted her to come round. By this point I was crying a bit on the bus, so I decided it wouldn’t be the best idea, as all I wanted to do was have a cup of tea and a cigarette out of my window. However, when I got home, there was a whole host of drama… basically, the washer on one of the taps had gone, but #3 had just left it all day, and had left the boiler on (so the tap had been running hot water all day), and then wondered why the radiators weren’t working. Only #1 was there and we took the panels off the bath to see if there was a separate stopcock for the bath (the normal one didn’t seem to have any effect on the bath). There wasn’t, so other than switching the boiler off, there was nothing we could do as it was after 10pm. I asked her where #2 was, as it’s not like her to go out, but she didn’t know.
We went to sit in the kitchen and drank some wine, and wondered how we had managed to end up living with the most inept people on the planet. I mean, surely it’s common sense to think about switching the boiler off if the hot tap won’t switch off… no? We heard the front door shut, and the bad situation got worse:
#1: Hey, we’re in the kitchen- can you come in here a sec, as we need to have a chat?
#2: I’m thinking of going to bed.
#1: Yes, but we need to have a chat.
#2: (stroppily) Alright, alright.
(comes into the kitchen)
#1: So basically the washer on the bath is broken, and the tap is stuck on, so we’ve switched the boiler off so that we’re not pouring hot water away and costing ourselves loads of money.
#2: I thought we’d have to do that.
Me: What?
#2: Yeah, #3 called me and told me about it.
#1: Did she say why she hadn’t switched the boiler off?
#2: No. So when is the man coming?
Me: What man?
#2: She said there was a man coming to fix it.
#1: Er, well she didn’t call us to tell us about it. Did you not think to let us know?
#2: No.
#1: Okay… well, in the morning we’ll switch the boiler on again so we can have showers…
#2: Oh I won’t need a shower in the morning. I just went to my brothers house and had a bath there.
#1: Right.
#2: Okay, good night!
Now is it just me, or is she a selfish little madam? I am getting sick of the way she treats everyone. Like the internet thing- she won’t sort it out, and keeps putting the (shared) modem in her bedroom. Plus she is a bigoted homophobe. And a Christian. It’s not that I don’t like religious people, or Christians specifically. I do dislike being told that science is wrong (“how can you prove we’re descended from apes?”) and that the Bible is right. OBVIOUSLY there is far more proof for creationism than evolution. I mean, like, duh… She is boycotting EastEnders at the moment because- oh my days- some girls kissed! To her, not watching EastEnders is a big fucking deal as she doesn’t do anything else other than watch tv in the living room (meaning no one else can watch tv in there, unless they fancy watching mindless drivel too). You’re not allowed to make noise in the flat after 10pm- which means I can’t use my own living room after 10- because she goes to bed early and wakes up early. But she has no problem with making a godawful (and I use that word deliberately) racket every morning, with no consideration for the fact that some of us DON’T have to get up that early.
Am I being childish? I don’t know. But I’m finding her intensely irritating. I don’t like selfish people, especially if I have to live with them. I would go out of my way to help other people, and while I know not everyone is like that, I don’t understand how civil human beings can live their lives in the polar opposite way. And still have their conscience intact. I would do anything for the people I care about, and it irritates me that some people would shit on their grandmother’s head rather than help someone.
For fuck’s sake.
On the plus side of all of this, the drama and ensuing pissed-off-ness that this has caused has prevented me from thinking too much about anything else, which, in my present state, is a very good thing. My head is still buried firmly in the sand, and I hope to emerge sometime around 2050.
I am so very grateful for everyone I know.
Last night was a catastrophe. I got to ballet and immediately wished I wasn’t there. I don’t really know why. I just knew that I would be rubbish. While I was getting changed I overheard some of the people who are in the class before mine having a conversation. Here it is:
Woman 1: Wasn’t it marvellous earlier, with the sun out?
Woman 2: Oh yes, it was splendid. I went for a run at lunchtime. You know, I just find myself so much more invigorated when the sun is out.
Woman 1: Oh I quite agree. I do find myself getting rather miserable when it’s grey every day.
Woman 2: Of course, now the sun is out, it really makes you start thinking about where to go in the summer.
Woman 1: Yes, well, that is quite a dilemma. Have you any idea where you’d like to go yet?
Woman 2: I was thinking the Caribbean…
Woman 1: Mmm, it is lovely there.
Woman 2: What about you?
Woman 1: Oh, I think we’re just going to rent a villa in Tuscany before spending a few weeks on a trek in the Andes.
Woman 2: Oh how super. I did one of those once. It was fabulous!
I felt like shouting at them. How come some people can swan around in the Caribbean and rent Tuscan villas, while I stare in horror at the prices of the Eurostar? I’m going to France twice in the next few months but it looks like I’ll have to bloody swim.
Anyhow, I went into the class and muddled through, trying to avoid looking in the mirror as I have decided that I need to go on a diet. I managed to fuck up most of the exercises so I mainly hid at the back of the class. One of the people in the class told me that she felt like she couldn’t do anything, so I said, “don’t be daft”. She looked at me for a couple of seconds and gave me a hug. Three different people asked me if I was okay and told me that I looked very sad, which was a bit disheartening as I was making a big effort to be happy and smiley. Clearly I am no good at hiding these things in real life.
On the way home, S texted to ask if I wanted her to come round. By this point I was crying a bit on the bus, so I decided it wouldn’t be the best idea, as all I wanted to do was have a cup of tea and a cigarette out of my window. However, when I got home, there was a whole host of drama… basically, the washer on one of the taps had gone, but #3 had just left it all day, and had left the boiler on (so the tap had been running hot water all day), and then wondered why the radiators weren’t working. Only #1 was there and we took the panels off the bath to see if there was a separate stopcock for the bath (the normal one didn’t seem to have any effect on the bath). There wasn’t, so other than switching the boiler off, there was nothing we could do as it was after 10pm. I asked her where #2 was, as it’s not like her to go out, but she didn’t know.
We went to sit in the kitchen and drank some wine, and wondered how we had managed to end up living with the most inept people on the planet. I mean, surely it’s common sense to think about switching the boiler off if the hot tap won’t switch off… no? We heard the front door shut, and the bad situation got worse:
#1: Hey, we’re in the kitchen- can you come in here a sec, as we need to have a chat?
#2: I’m thinking of going to bed.
#1: Yes, but we need to have a chat.
#2: (stroppily) Alright, alright.
(comes into the kitchen)
#1: So basically the washer on the bath is broken, and the tap is stuck on, so we’ve switched the boiler off so that we’re not pouring hot water away and costing ourselves loads of money.
#2: I thought we’d have to do that.
Me: What?
#2: Yeah, #3 called me and told me about it.
#1: Did she say why she hadn’t switched the boiler off?
#2: No. So when is the man coming?
Me: What man?
#2: She said there was a man coming to fix it.
#1: Er, well she didn’t call us to tell us about it. Did you not think to let us know?
#2: No.
#1: Okay… well, in the morning we’ll switch the boiler on again so we can have showers…
#2: Oh I won’t need a shower in the morning. I just went to my brothers house and had a bath there.
#1: Right.
#2: Okay, good night!
Now is it just me, or is she a selfish little madam? I am getting sick of the way she treats everyone. Like the internet thing- she won’t sort it out, and keeps putting the (shared) modem in her bedroom. Plus she is a bigoted homophobe. And a Christian. It’s not that I don’t like religious people, or Christians specifically. I do dislike being told that science is wrong (“how can you prove we’re descended from apes?”) and that the Bible is right. OBVIOUSLY there is far more proof for creationism than evolution. I mean, like, duh… She is boycotting EastEnders at the moment because- oh my days- some girls kissed! To her, not watching EastEnders is a big fucking deal as she doesn’t do anything else other than watch tv in the living room (meaning no one else can watch tv in there, unless they fancy watching mindless drivel too). You’re not allowed to make noise in the flat after 10pm- which means I can’t use my own living room after 10- because she goes to bed early and wakes up early. But she has no problem with making a godawful (and I use that word deliberately) racket every morning, with no consideration for the fact that some of us DON’T have to get up that early.
Am I being childish? I don’t know. But I’m finding her intensely irritating. I don’t like selfish people, especially if I have to live with them. I would go out of my way to help other people, and while I know not everyone is like that, I don’t understand how civil human beings can live their lives in the polar opposite way. And still have their conscience intact. I would do anything for the people I care about, and it irritates me that some people would shit on their grandmother’s head rather than help someone.
For fuck’s sake.
On the plus side of all of this, the drama and ensuing pissed-off-ness that this has caused has prevented me from thinking too much about anything else, which, in my present state, is a very good thing. My head is still buried firmly in the sand, and I hope to emerge sometime around 2050.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
failures and photos and thoughts on life in general
Today I feel a lot better. I really am very lucky to have such lovely people around me, whether in person or by email or text or whatever. Over multiple cigarettes at work yesterday I was told to stop being so damn silly and to believe in myself more. I didn’t realise that it was so obvious to people how I am, and how I feel about myself. But I suppose, these are my friends and if anyone knows how I am, then it’s them. So I am making a concerted effort to believe in myself more and to take control of my life, rather than letting things happen to me- though, of course, without forcing other peoples wills or anything.
However, in typical “me” style, I am burying my head in the sand and not thinking about the situation with N. I will think about that another time, and in the meantime I will try to think about other things. Of course, I am secretly thinking about it a lot, and amazingly, I think I actually have coherent thoughts on it… whether I will be able to articulate these at any point, I don’t know.
Thankfully, my task of thinking about other things was made a hell of a lot easier yesterday. We had a meeting that dragged on for one and three quarter hours, which was incredibly dull. I drank nearly two litres of water just for something to do. The rest of the time I looked at my colleagues and was filled with warmth towards them, which was a fairly shocking revelation. More shocking still is that they all care about me. I guess maybe people do like me after all. Anyway, the meeting was all blah blah blah until the director asked us how we were doing in our little department.
Me: Errr, yeah, fine.
Colleague: Couple of outstanding issues but otherwise fine, yeah.
Director: What outstanding issues?
Colleague: Well, we’re still waiting for the press office to give us the statement on sharia law.
Press office: Yeah, well, we’re still waiting for the policy officers to give it to us.
Director (to me and my colleague): So you haven’t replied to the people who’ve asked about sharia law?
Me: No. We’re waiting for the press office.
Director: How long have these people been waiting?
Colleague: Ten days… two weeks… something like that.
Director (going slightly nuts): That’s not acceptable. You have failed. You’re letting the organisation down.
Ah piss off. You do it, if you’re so worried about it. Anyway, after work C and I headed over to the National Theatre to see a photography exhibition about gypsies and travellers. We were trying to choose some pictures for the report we’re putting out, and saw a couple that we quite liked, with the whole settled community vs travelling world contrast going on. I have no idea how much they’ll cost, but seeing as we only need two at most, I don’t think it’ll be much. Plus, great publicity for the photographer, who was by far the most dressed up person there. There was free wine, so we drank a glass or four and chatted on the side for a bit about monkeys and social psychology. Some guy was there who works on the project as well. C said that he would be perfect boyfriend material (this is working on the advice of her mum, who said that men only reach the desired level of maturity aged 50- and that’s only the more advanced ones). My response was, “But C, he lives in a hostel!”
Which is true.
Anyway, we hung around outside the NT smoking cigarettes and commenting that it’s trés jolie, le béton en style de bois. Then we took the bus up to Camberwell. On the way we called her boyfriend, who was at home and therefore available to cook, and I decided to go round. Which was cool as I got to see her new flat, had some food and looked at the amazing views from the roof terrace. Unfortunately, her brother was also there and we had a conversation that went like this:
Me: Salut, ça va?
Him: Bien… toi?
Me: Pas mal…. errrrr… l’apartement est trés jolie.
Him: C’est C qui a faire.
Me: Tu manges pas avec nous?
Him: J’ai pas faim.
Me: Okay… je cherche C.
Him: Cool… ciao.
Hmm, a nice bit of social awkwardness. I wanted to ask him for my book about cannibalism back, but I don’t think that would have gone down tremendously well. Things between us are a little bit odd since I had that dinner party where I drank three bottles of wine, fell of a box (we didn’t have enough chairs, and I, as host, offered to sit on a box instead) and kissed C’s brother. And then never returned his calls or texts or anything ever again. In my defence, that was during the days when I got pretty shit faced fairly regularly and I was a bit of a bitch to everyone, mainly because I was an emotional ruin (following end of relationship, new life, blah blah blah). The dinner party was actually a bit mental. K was meant to be there but we’d gone to a Halloween party the night before and had gone home with some guy we all thought was gay. I ended up in Brixton drinking sherry, for god’s sake, and having the first of my encounters with the Irish guy. In the morning I staggered home, last nights makeup still on and attempted to make a risotto and got horrendously drunk. My god, I was a mess back then.
I got back to mine and sent some texts to various people and had a nice cup of tea, before realising that I was going to have to find something to do QUICKLY if I wasn’t going to fall into the trap of thinking too much and thus getting miserable. So I did what usually does the trick to make me happy: I got out my photo albums and went through, laughing my head off. The best ones are from when I was in sixth form. They brought back so many memories- like the Leaver’s ball, going to the pub for an English breakfast and a pint with Tom every free period, being really emo in the smoking hut, coming to London at the weekends and dancing like fools. I only wish I had taken a photo of when one of my friends painted his armpit hair with UV paint on the train. Just thinking about it makes me laugh. He was sitting next to this woman who gave us the most disgusted look ever and moved carriages. Not just seats- a different carriage. G always told me I was stupid for taking so many pictures, but he was pleased when he came round last and we went through them and laughed at everything, even though he looks like a woman in some of them.
For some reason I carried on looking at the photos and looked at the ones of my ex. Recently I’ve been feeling a bit funny about him, possibly because he’s left the country. I mean, yes, he’s a cunt and he treated me really badly. But then again- and please bear in mind that I don’t have the vocabulary to describe this- we were inseparable and had that special thing, whatever that is. I realised that, given what I know now, with all my regrets and everything, I would still do it all again. Which I suppose makes me either completely naïve or a total masochist, and also makes me very different to N. But that’s how I am. Actually, I wouldn’t do the whole thing again. I would have got out a lot sooner, before it went shit. Though when that was, I don’t know. Even after we split up, we still lived together and when we weren’t arguing or ignoring each other, we were hugging on the sofa, making the most stupid jokes and generally being silly. I suppose we were like magnets. And eventually magnets lose their force and finally they repel each other.
That’s the more poetic way of looking at it, anyway. The alternatives would be to either beat myself up about it and try to analyse everything I did wrong, or to blame him for everything. Either option are, admittedly, easy to do, and I do still maintain that he had no right to treat me the way he did (which I won’t go into right now).
I prefer the poetic explanation as I am a hopeless romantic, and can’t really do it any other way.
However, in typical “me” style, I am burying my head in the sand and not thinking about the situation with N. I will think about that another time, and in the meantime I will try to think about other things. Of course, I am secretly thinking about it a lot, and amazingly, I think I actually have coherent thoughts on it… whether I will be able to articulate these at any point, I don’t know.
Thankfully, my task of thinking about other things was made a hell of a lot easier yesterday. We had a meeting that dragged on for one and three quarter hours, which was incredibly dull. I drank nearly two litres of water just for something to do. The rest of the time I looked at my colleagues and was filled with warmth towards them, which was a fairly shocking revelation. More shocking still is that they all care about me. I guess maybe people do like me after all. Anyway, the meeting was all blah blah blah until the director asked us how we were doing in our little department.
Me: Errr, yeah, fine.
Colleague: Couple of outstanding issues but otherwise fine, yeah.
Director: What outstanding issues?
Colleague: Well, we’re still waiting for the press office to give us the statement on sharia law.
Press office: Yeah, well, we’re still waiting for the policy officers to give it to us.
Director (to me and my colleague): So you haven’t replied to the people who’ve asked about sharia law?
Me: No. We’re waiting for the press office.
Director: How long have these people been waiting?
Colleague: Ten days… two weeks… something like that.
Director (going slightly nuts): That’s not acceptable. You have failed. You’re letting the organisation down.
Ah piss off. You do it, if you’re so worried about it. Anyway, after work C and I headed over to the National Theatre to see a photography exhibition about gypsies and travellers. We were trying to choose some pictures for the report we’re putting out, and saw a couple that we quite liked, with the whole settled community vs travelling world contrast going on. I have no idea how much they’ll cost, but seeing as we only need two at most, I don’t think it’ll be much. Plus, great publicity for the photographer, who was by far the most dressed up person there. There was free wine, so we drank a glass or four and chatted on the side for a bit about monkeys and social psychology. Some guy was there who works on the project as well. C said that he would be perfect boyfriend material (this is working on the advice of her mum, who said that men only reach the desired level of maturity aged 50- and that’s only the more advanced ones). My response was, “But C, he lives in a hostel!”
Which is true.
Anyway, we hung around outside the NT smoking cigarettes and commenting that it’s trés jolie, le béton en style de bois. Then we took the bus up to Camberwell. On the way we called her boyfriend, who was at home and therefore available to cook, and I decided to go round. Which was cool as I got to see her new flat, had some food and looked at the amazing views from the roof terrace. Unfortunately, her brother was also there and we had a conversation that went like this:
Me: Salut, ça va?
Him: Bien… toi?
Me: Pas mal…. errrrr… l’apartement est trés jolie.
Him: C’est C qui a faire.
Me: Tu manges pas avec nous?
Him: J’ai pas faim.
Me: Okay… je cherche C.
Him: Cool… ciao.
Hmm, a nice bit of social awkwardness. I wanted to ask him for my book about cannibalism back, but I don’t think that would have gone down tremendously well. Things between us are a little bit odd since I had that dinner party where I drank three bottles of wine, fell of a box (we didn’t have enough chairs, and I, as host, offered to sit on a box instead) and kissed C’s brother. And then never returned his calls or texts or anything ever again. In my defence, that was during the days when I got pretty shit faced fairly regularly and I was a bit of a bitch to everyone, mainly because I was an emotional ruin (following end of relationship, new life, blah blah blah). The dinner party was actually a bit mental. K was meant to be there but we’d gone to a Halloween party the night before and had gone home with some guy we all thought was gay. I ended up in Brixton drinking sherry, for god’s sake, and having the first of my encounters with the Irish guy. In the morning I staggered home, last nights makeup still on and attempted to make a risotto and got horrendously drunk. My god, I was a mess back then.
I got back to mine and sent some texts to various people and had a nice cup of tea, before realising that I was going to have to find something to do QUICKLY if I wasn’t going to fall into the trap of thinking too much and thus getting miserable. So I did what usually does the trick to make me happy: I got out my photo albums and went through, laughing my head off. The best ones are from when I was in sixth form. They brought back so many memories- like the Leaver’s ball, going to the pub for an English breakfast and a pint with Tom every free period, being really emo in the smoking hut, coming to London at the weekends and dancing like fools. I only wish I had taken a photo of when one of my friends painted his armpit hair with UV paint on the train. Just thinking about it makes me laugh. He was sitting next to this woman who gave us the most disgusted look ever and moved carriages. Not just seats- a different carriage. G always told me I was stupid for taking so many pictures, but he was pleased when he came round last and we went through them and laughed at everything, even though he looks like a woman in some of them.
For some reason I carried on looking at the photos and looked at the ones of my ex. Recently I’ve been feeling a bit funny about him, possibly because he’s left the country. I mean, yes, he’s a cunt and he treated me really badly. But then again- and please bear in mind that I don’t have the vocabulary to describe this- we were inseparable and had that special thing, whatever that is. I realised that, given what I know now, with all my regrets and everything, I would still do it all again. Which I suppose makes me either completely naïve or a total masochist, and also makes me very different to N. But that’s how I am. Actually, I wouldn’t do the whole thing again. I would have got out a lot sooner, before it went shit. Though when that was, I don’t know. Even after we split up, we still lived together and when we weren’t arguing or ignoring each other, we were hugging on the sofa, making the most stupid jokes and generally being silly. I suppose we were like magnets. And eventually magnets lose their force and finally they repel each other.
That’s the more poetic way of looking at it, anyway. The alternatives would be to either beat myself up about it and try to analyse everything I did wrong, or to blame him for everything. Either option are, admittedly, easy to do, and I do still maintain that he had no right to treat me the way he did (which I won’t go into right now).
I prefer the poetic explanation as I am a hopeless romantic, and can’t really do it any other way.
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Officially stupid
I suppose there are a couple of good things about conjunctivitis. Because my eyes are already red, no one could tell that I’d been sobbing all the way to work.
I am officially stupid.
It turns out Lou was right after all and that men will just hurt us. She was also right about being there with tea and a hug.
I told him not to worry that he’d hurt me and that I was strong, but I feel like I’ve broken into a million pieces.
I am officially stupid.
It turns out Lou was right after all and that men will just hurt us. She was also right about being there with tea and a hug.
I told him not to worry that he’d hurt me and that I was strong, but I feel like I’ve broken into a million pieces.
Monday, March 13, 2006
RIP Funkmobile
Wolf has crashed his car so it's goodbye to the Funkmobile. Though, as he points out, every cloud has a silver lining as he'll be able to buy a man's car now, with air bags that work and everything.
Lucky, lucky us
We have a new carpet at work.
It looks like Dali has been sick on the floor. I hope I am never hungover at work.
It looks like Dali has been sick on the floor. I hope I am never hungover at work.
"They'd get their arseholes pierced if they could only fit them in the machine!"
Oh, I am one pissed off little lamb today. I have conjunctivitis. I am seriously annoyed. My eyes really REALLY hurt and they won’t stop watering, so I keep getting asked if I’m okay. I look like I’ve been crying for days, which I suppose I have, though not because I want to- my eyes have taken on a life of their own, and so I have constant tears streaming down my face. Not to mention the gunk that keeps filling my eyes. Oh god, this is disgusting. I am clearly being punished for something.
To add insult to injury (or if not injury as such, illness), I am having to wear my glasses to work. Now, I hate my glasses. I look like a moron. I really look terrible. I avoid wearing my glasses if I possibly can. The only people who’ve ever seen me with them on, since I got contact lenses seven years ago, are the people that I’ve lived with (ie. family, housemates and old housemates). I don’t think even G has ever seen them and I went out with him for a year. And now… I’m wearing them at work. My colleague told me I look intellectual but I swear if anyone laughs at me I will hide under my desk the rest of the day. Thankfully I got in late and missed the press meeting. I’ve emailed R and C and asked them not to laugh at me. R said she’d try not to do it in front of me.
Oh grump grump grump.
Other than having an acute pain in my eyes, I’ve had a good weekend. And even right now, despite the impending laughter and the constant discomfort, I’m in a good mood really. So I suppose I’m not so much a pissed off lamb as a half-blind-but-still-seeing-the-funny-side-of-it-kinda lamb.
The weekend got off to a good start, with a surprisingly hilarious trip to Elephant and Castle with C, and some raucous conversation on the train. Sometimes we are like children, but that’s quite fun. I had a lovely conversation with the lovely N, which made me feel very good.
After eating and attempting to wash my hair, I went over to S’s, where we (or mainly me, thinking back on it) drank nasty nasty cheap white wine and pretended that we weren’t smoking, thanks to the draconian no smoking rule in the bar (yeah, that’s LSE, always ahead of the fucking times). Then went to Camden, where we drank (in hindsight) too many shots. S insisted we drank sambuca because it’s named after her. It’s not. She’s blatantly named after the drink, not the other way round. I was a bit shy because there were new people and I secretly contemplated going home, but then I drank more and stopped being shy and they said they liked me anyway. We headed off to the Barfly where we did more shots and drank too much vodka and danced like idiots. There was a band playing upstairs who were absolutely rubbish. The crowd had formed a semi circle around the stage, so we stood in this space and I pointed out (quite loudly it seemed) that the singer’s jeans were far too tight and that he looked ridiculous. All the trendy Camden bastards looked at me with pity in their eyes, but I didn’t really care because I was busy trying not to fall over. We went back downstairs and to celebrate the fact that I’m going to stay in London, I had some more shots and talked to the two girls I’d been a bit scared of. I’m always a bit scared of new people, especially if I’ve heard lots about them and they seem really cool. There was no need to worry so much (not that I can help worrying, of course) as it was all good.
Eventually we left and walked down to the station where S and I decided we wanted falafel, but managed to lose everyone. SH came and found us in the falafel shop and gave us a look that said “oh god, you’re such fucking pissheads” or something along those lines. Quite right, to be honest, as we were. Everyone else went (though we didn’t realise this til the morning) and we walked back, laughing so hard I nearly fell in the road. S is so much fun, she just makes me laugh so much. Back at hers, I sent a drunken text to N and then passed out on S’s bed, fully clothed. S sent an email to someone she shouldn’t have and then hit me, because if I’d been awake I would have stopped her, or something like that. I have no recollection of this.
In the morning I woke up to find S laughing at me for still wearing my clothes. I opened one eye and then went back to sleep. S decided that sharing a single bed with someone who rolled over (and pushed her out of bed… oops… sorry!) was not the best plan and went to eat brunch. I slept a bit more and woke up in a panic because I didn’t know where she was and I felt really bad for YET AGAIN stealing her bed. I felt like death, but a text from N cheered me up a lot. After a cup of coffee and some laughing at myspace pictures (especially those of girls who look like eight year old boys with wigs), I headed home, where I cooked some food and lay on my bed for a while.
#1 and I decided to go to the cinema. I hadn’t been in ages. #2 was going to some Christian party, and invited us, but I would rather stick pins in my eyes than hang out with a bunch of bigoted arseholes getting drunk on a small white wine. We headed over to Clapham and bought tickets to ‘Good Night and Good Luck’ for an extortionate eight quid a shot. We nipped into a bar across the road for a glass of wine and found ourselves sitting next to Will Self. I tried to come across as really intellectual but I felt quite spaced out to be honest and not very clever at all. The film itself was good, though I think it missed a couple of punches. For example, some of the characters were underdeveloped, which didn’t lend much credibility to the story (although, obviously, I knew the story was true). Plus, it seemed a lot like it was preaching to the converted. It was quite interesting in the way it was similar to modern American society, but I don’t think my heart was really in it. We went home. I drank tea and cleaned the kitchen. Then I lay in bed, completely unable to sleep.
On Sunday morning I jumped out of bed, but not before checking my phone to see if N had sent me a text. He hadn’t, but I didn’t have any time to lose. It was 10:30, which meant the grand prix coverage was starting. I went to the kitchen and knocked back a cup of tea, while talking to the television. I would have watched it in the living room but I couldn’t, as #2 and her friend were in there. They decided to come into the kitchen and I had to move. I won’t go into the whole spiel about our house issues now… that can be saved for another day. Anyway, the grand prix was excellent. I brought a blanket into the living room and drank coffee with tears falling down my face. It was bloody marvellous though. Little Nico Rosberg, who’s only 20 and was in his first GP, came 7th, which was very impressive. I shouted a lot when Fernando overtook Schumacher. I wish that boring bastard would retire. I laughed when Massa, the fat Ferrari child, spun his car. He’s so rubbish.
The rest of Sunday was passed by mooching around and chatting to #1 and crying in her room. She was actually crying, whereas I was crying by default. Her stupid boyfriend is moving to LA and didn’t get round to telling her. What a bastard. I kept repeating, “Why would anyone do that?” I don’t understand how people can be so awful. She told me that all men were stupid and that all they ever do is mess you about. She’s older and wiser than me so I suppose I should listen but I think N is different. I told her so, and she said that he wouldn’t be and that I was deluding myself. I don’t think I am, but I suppose that’s the thing with delusion, isn’t it? I hope he’s not like that. I think he’s special. She told me that she was glad I feel like that but that I would get hurt- but that she would be there to make me cups of tea when that happened.
I went to my room and felt really shit for a while. I thought about never going out again. I tried to decide if I was a bad person, and came to the conclusion that I probably wasn’t but that I hadn’t always done the most sensible things. For example, the bender I went on after I split up with my ex was not one of my wisest moves. Thankfully I’m over that now. But just because I’m over all of that, is it particularly wise to think that N won’t hurt me? Probably not. #1 thinks I should be more wary. I decided I would try to be a better person and sat in my room with the lights off for a bit.
Eventually we decided that we should stop moping and go to the pub, which we did. That made things a bit better. On the way home, N called me, as he’d just got home from Paris, and we talked for a while, which left a big smile on my face for the rest of the evening. Fuck being wary. I really like him. What’s the point of not doing things in case you get hurt? At the risk of sounding like I’m talking out of my arse, I do think he’s really special and different and I don’t think he’ll hurt me- or not intentionally anyway. And I can’t be wary about someone who makes me smile every time I think of them.
So, in conclusion, I may have conjunctivitis and a rubbish job and no money and no cat and immense paranoia, but I can’t stop smiling because I have lovely friends and a beautiful home (yes, a home!) and it’s almost sunny and N makes me happy. This is good.
To add insult to injury (or if not injury as such, illness), I am having to wear my glasses to work. Now, I hate my glasses. I look like a moron. I really look terrible. I avoid wearing my glasses if I possibly can. The only people who’ve ever seen me with them on, since I got contact lenses seven years ago, are the people that I’ve lived with (ie. family, housemates and old housemates). I don’t think even G has ever seen them and I went out with him for a year. And now… I’m wearing them at work. My colleague told me I look intellectual but I swear if anyone laughs at me I will hide under my desk the rest of the day. Thankfully I got in late and missed the press meeting. I’ve emailed R and C and asked them not to laugh at me. R said she’d try not to do it in front of me.
Oh grump grump grump.
Other than having an acute pain in my eyes, I’ve had a good weekend. And even right now, despite the impending laughter and the constant discomfort, I’m in a good mood really. So I suppose I’m not so much a pissed off lamb as a half-blind-but-still-seeing-the-funny-side-of-it-kinda lamb.
The weekend got off to a good start, with a surprisingly hilarious trip to Elephant and Castle with C, and some raucous conversation on the train. Sometimes we are like children, but that’s quite fun. I had a lovely conversation with the lovely N, which made me feel very good.
After eating and attempting to wash my hair, I went over to S’s, where we (or mainly me, thinking back on it) drank nasty nasty cheap white wine and pretended that we weren’t smoking, thanks to the draconian no smoking rule in the bar (yeah, that’s LSE, always ahead of the fucking times). Then went to Camden, where we drank (in hindsight) too many shots. S insisted we drank sambuca because it’s named after her. It’s not. She’s blatantly named after the drink, not the other way round. I was a bit shy because there were new people and I secretly contemplated going home, but then I drank more and stopped being shy and they said they liked me anyway. We headed off to the Barfly where we did more shots and drank too much vodka and danced like idiots. There was a band playing upstairs who were absolutely rubbish. The crowd had formed a semi circle around the stage, so we stood in this space and I pointed out (quite loudly it seemed) that the singer’s jeans were far too tight and that he looked ridiculous. All the trendy Camden bastards looked at me with pity in their eyes, but I didn’t really care because I was busy trying not to fall over. We went back downstairs and to celebrate the fact that I’m going to stay in London, I had some more shots and talked to the two girls I’d been a bit scared of. I’m always a bit scared of new people, especially if I’ve heard lots about them and they seem really cool. There was no need to worry so much (not that I can help worrying, of course) as it was all good.
Eventually we left and walked down to the station where S and I decided we wanted falafel, but managed to lose everyone. SH came and found us in the falafel shop and gave us a look that said “oh god, you’re such fucking pissheads” or something along those lines. Quite right, to be honest, as we were. Everyone else went (though we didn’t realise this til the morning) and we walked back, laughing so hard I nearly fell in the road. S is so much fun, she just makes me laugh so much. Back at hers, I sent a drunken text to N and then passed out on S’s bed, fully clothed. S sent an email to someone she shouldn’t have and then hit me, because if I’d been awake I would have stopped her, or something like that. I have no recollection of this.
In the morning I woke up to find S laughing at me for still wearing my clothes. I opened one eye and then went back to sleep. S decided that sharing a single bed with someone who rolled over (and pushed her out of bed… oops… sorry!) was not the best plan and went to eat brunch. I slept a bit more and woke up in a panic because I didn’t know where she was and I felt really bad for YET AGAIN stealing her bed. I felt like death, but a text from N cheered me up a lot. After a cup of coffee and some laughing at myspace pictures (especially those of girls who look like eight year old boys with wigs), I headed home, where I cooked some food and lay on my bed for a while.
#1 and I decided to go to the cinema. I hadn’t been in ages. #2 was going to some Christian party, and invited us, but I would rather stick pins in my eyes than hang out with a bunch of bigoted arseholes getting drunk on a small white wine. We headed over to Clapham and bought tickets to ‘Good Night and Good Luck’ for an extortionate eight quid a shot. We nipped into a bar across the road for a glass of wine and found ourselves sitting next to Will Self. I tried to come across as really intellectual but I felt quite spaced out to be honest and not very clever at all. The film itself was good, though I think it missed a couple of punches. For example, some of the characters were underdeveloped, which didn’t lend much credibility to the story (although, obviously, I knew the story was true). Plus, it seemed a lot like it was preaching to the converted. It was quite interesting in the way it was similar to modern American society, but I don’t think my heart was really in it. We went home. I drank tea and cleaned the kitchen. Then I lay in bed, completely unable to sleep.
On Sunday morning I jumped out of bed, but not before checking my phone to see if N had sent me a text. He hadn’t, but I didn’t have any time to lose. It was 10:30, which meant the grand prix coverage was starting. I went to the kitchen and knocked back a cup of tea, while talking to the television. I would have watched it in the living room but I couldn’t, as #2 and her friend were in there. They decided to come into the kitchen and I had to move. I won’t go into the whole spiel about our house issues now… that can be saved for another day. Anyway, the grand prix was excellent. I brought a blanket into the living room and drank coffee with tears falling down my face. It was bloody marvellous though. Little Nico Rosberg, who’s only 20 and was in his first GP, came 7th, which was very impressive. I shouted a lot when Fernando overtook Schumacher. I wish that boring bastard would retire. I laughed when Massa, the fat Ferrari child, spun his car. He’s so rubbish.
The rest of Sunday was passed by mooching around and chatting to #1 and crying in her room. She was actually crying, whereas I was crying by default. Her stupid boyfriend is moving to LA and didn’t get round to telling her. What a bastard. I kept repeating, “Why would anyone do that?” I don’t understand how people can be so awful. She told me that all men were stupid and that all they ever do is mess you about. She’s older and wiser than me so I suppose I should listen but I think N is different. I told her so, and she said that he wouldn’t be and that I was deluding myself. I don’t think I am, but I suppose that’s the thing with delusion, isn’t it? I hope he’s not like that. I think he’s special. She told me that she was glad I feel like that but that I would get hurt- but that she would be there to make me cups of tea when that happened.
I went to my room and felt really shit for a while. I thought about never going out again. I tried to decide if I was a bad person, and came to the conclusion that I probably wasn’t but that I hadn’t always done the most sensible things. For example, the bender I went on after I split up with my ex was not one of my wisest moves. Thankfully I’m over that now. But just because I’m over all of that, is it particularly wise to think that N won’t hurt me? Probably not. #1 thinks I should be more wary. I decided I would try to be a better person and sat in my room with the lights off for a bit.
Eventually we decided that we should stop moping and go to the pub, which we did. That made things a bit better. On the way home, N called me, as he’d just got home from Paris, and we talked for a while, which left a big smile on my face for the rest of the evening. Fuck being wary. I really like him. What’s the point of not doing things in case you get hurt? At the risk of sounding like I’m talking out of my arse, I do think he’s really special and different and I don’t think he’ll hurt me- or not intentionally anyway. And I can’t be wary about someone who makes me smile every time I think of them.
So, in conclusion, I may have conjunctivitis and a rubbish job and no money and no cat and immense paranoia, but I can’t stop smiling because I have lovely friends and a beautiful home (yes, a home!) and it’s almost sunny and N makes me happy. This is good.
Friday, March 10, 2006
As a follow up
The man called another 20-odd times. He was horrible and shouted at all of us and he's going to call up on Monday and every day after that as well. I am miserable, even though we are singing silly songs to try and cheer ourselves up. And I am paranoid and worried and want to go home and hide under my duvet and think about how paranoid and silly I am. Only an hour til I can leave.
Oh this is no fun.
Oh this is no fun.
What I think about my work and other stuff
Well, thank fuck it’s Friday today. Obviously after my strenuous week, working my fingers to the bone, I really need this weekend. Or something. Even though I have done literally nothing except daydream and send pointless emails to all and sundry, I’m looking forward to the weekend. I don’t have a vast amount to do. Well, I suppose I do. I have a million job applications to fill in, there’s a grand prix on and I also have fuck all money, so I think it might be quite a quiet weekend.
I say quiet, but I’m probably going to go out tonight and tomorrow, and Sainsbury’s is selling eight beers for a fiver, just in case I don’t go out.
However, I’m going to make a concerted effort not to fall over this weekend. I’m also going to cook some nice food and really try to get the internet working. If I do get the internet working then I can download music to my hearts content and can stop listening to the same (admittedly cool) cd over and over again.
I have just realised that our office really smells. Not only does it never get cleaned, we have all been eaten oranges and bananas. And now, C just got back from France and brought me a beautiful goats cheese. I’m really looking forward to eating it, but it is smelling a bit strongly.
Today I am in a silly mood at work. I’m wrapped up in my blanket as it’s a bit nippy, which always ends up being used as a costume. So far today I’ve been the woman from the Scottish Widows adverts, E.T., some Star Wars character, a nun, a pilgrim at Hajj… basically anything that involves putting a blanket over your head. I am trying desperately to cope with my overflowing inbox but I don’t have the legal knowledge to do this at all. So instead of doing the work- or not being able to, and getting stressed and upset about it- I am messing around. Yesterday I was doing impressions from films and TV. I thought I did quite a good one of Jesus (in The Big Lebowski), but no one else had seen it so I just looked stupid. The Thunderbirds impressions went down a little better. Last week R and I got really bored and we blew up condoms and let them all off in the smoking room. It was gross. They stuck to the wall.
I’m not sure what’s brought on this funny (as in, not ha ha funny, more peculiar funny) mood. I was pretty awful at waking up this morning, but that’s because N stayed round and it’s too hard to get up when you have such a beautiful boy there with you. Now I’m feeling a little bit weird though, cos my insides feel all messed up and odd. I am such a bundle of paranoia. Why do I worry so much about everything? Surely there is nothing to worry about… yet I do it anyway.
Oh fuck fuck fuck. Whatever semblance of a good mood has just been completely screwed by some fucking arsehole racist who thought it would be a good idea to shout at me and tell me that I was wrong wrong wrong when I wasn’t. Apparently my people will be dying in the street and it will be ALL MY FAULT. Aaaaargh, this job is so undermining and soul destroying. I wasn’t wrong. I was trying to help the bastard. Whatever I do, people get annoyed- “oh, but WHY can’t you help?” “I think you’re a waste of tax payers money” “I know you can’t decide on the legality of cases but can’t you tell me whether it’s criminal or not?” NO NO NO NO NO FUCK OFF!!
I feel a lot better now.
N asked me what I do when people are rude to me at work. Which made me think: what do I do? Apart from asking them to stop swearing at me/being abusive/shouting over me, there isn’t a lot I can do other than the way I end a lot of these calls: “I’m very sorry, but I don’t think your behaviour allows this conversation to be taken any further. Goodbye.” How lame. It makes me feel so impotent.
AAAAAAARGHHHHHHHH!! He called again! I have now spent half an hour of my day being shouted and I had to hang up in the end. I want to scream. Now he’s rung again and my colleague has taken the call and all he’s doing is shouting and screaming down the phone saying “where’s that fucking stupid girl? What the fuck is she doing hanging up on me? Fucking bitch!” and generally shouting and ranting.
I am trying so hard to stay calm but he has now shouted at everyone in my office and we’re all pretty pissed off about it. Don’t fucking shout at us. We are actually here to help you. We’re not perfect but please give us a fucking break. We’re paid pretty much fuck all and have to put up with abuse.
And he’s just called again. Somebody shoot me. I need a drink.
I say quiet, but I’m probably going to go out tonight and tomorrow, and Sainsbury’s is selling eight beers for a fiver, just in case I don’t go out.
However, I’m going to make a concerted effort not to fall over this weekend. I’m also going to cook some nice food and really try to get the internet working. If I do get the internet working then I can download music to my hearts content and can stop listening to the same (admittedly cool) cd over and over again.
I have just realised that our office really smells. Not only does it never get cleaned, we have all been eaten oranges and bananas. And now, C just got back from France and brought me a beautiful goats cheese. I’m really looking forward to eating it, but it is smelling a bit strongly.
Today I am in a silly mood at work. I’m wrapped up in my blanket as it’s a bit nippy, which always ends up being used as a costume. So far today I’ve been the woman from the Scottish Widows adverts, E.T., some Star Wars character, a nun, a pilgrim at Hajj… basically anything that involves putting a blanket over your head. I am trying desperately to cope with my overflowing inbox but I don’t have the legal knowledge to do this at all. So instead of doing the work- or not being able to, and getting stressed and upset about it- I am messing around. Yesterday I was doing impressions from films and TV. I thought I did quite a good one of Jesus (in The Big Lebowski), but no one else had seen it so I just looked stupid. The Thunderbirds impressions went down a little better. Last week R and I got really bored and we blew up condoms and let them all off in the smoking room. It was gross. They stuck to the wall.
I’m not sure what’s brought on this funny (as in, not ha ha funny, more peculiar funny) mood. I was pretty awful at waking up this morning, but that’s because N stayed round and it’s too hard to get up when you have such a beautiful boy there with you. Now I’m feeling a little bit weird though, cos my insides feel all messed up and odd. I am such a bundle of paranoia. Why do I worry so much about everything? Surely there is nothing to worry about… yet I do it anyway.
Oh fuck fuck fuck. Whatever semblance of a good mood has just been completely screwed by some fucking arsehole racist who thought it would be a good idea to shout at me and tell me that I was wrong wrong wrong when I wasn’t. Apparently my people will be dying in the street and it will be ALL MY FAULT. Aaaaargh, this job is so undermining and soul destroying. I wasn’t wrong. I was trying to help the bastard. Whatever I do, people get annoyed- “oh, but WHY can’t you help?” “I think you’re a waste of tax payers money” “I know you can’t decide on the legality of cases but can’t you tell me whether it’s criminal or not?” NO NO NO NO NO FUCK OFF!!
I feel a lot better now.
N asked me what I do when people are rude to me at work. Which made me think: what do I do? Apart from asking them to stop swearing at me/being abusive/shouting over me, there isn’t a lot I can do other than the way I end a lot of these calls: “I’m very sorry, but I don’t think your behaviour allows this conversation to be taken any further. Goodbye.” How lame. It makes me feel so impotent.
AAAAAAARGHHHHHHHH!! He called again! I have now spent half an hour of my day being shouted and I had to hang up in the end. I want to scream. Now he’s rung again and my colleague has taken the call and all he’s doing is shouting and screaming down the phone saying “where’s that fucking stupid girl? What the fuck is she doing hanging up on me? Fucking bitch!” and generally shouting and ranting.
I am trying so hard to stay calm but he has now shouted at everyone in my office and we’re all pretty pissed off about it. Don’t fucking shout at us. We are actually here to help you. We’re not perfect but please give us a fucking break. We’re paid pretty much fuck all and have to put up with abuse.
And he’s just called again. Somebody shoot me. I need a drink.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
some dilemmas
Should I stop smoking? On the one hand, I really don’t want to as I actually really enjoy it (NOTE TO BROTHER: please don’t tell mum that). What would I do when having a pint if I wasn’t smoking? And all those moments of social awkwardness- how would they be filled? Not forgetting, of course, that smoking DOES make you cool and that all the cool kids smoke. On the other hand, C announced today that she is cutting down with a view to giving up, and R periodically tells me she wants to quit which would mean I would be the only one of us left in the smoking room. Not such a huge problem really, as there are plenty of other smokers… but it’s not the same as R and C. In some ways I would like to go back to how it was when I first started here and it was summer and I didn’t know anyone and I could go to the park every lunchtime and lie around in the grass and give myself a rash (being allergic to grass and all).
But that’s antisocial and I’m trying not to be antisocial anymore.
That hasn’t really answered the question though, has it? But it doesn’t really need an answer, other than DON’T BE DAFT! Of course I’m not going to give up smoking. I’m fucking hardcore!! I might even start smoking Davidoffs (the cigarettes for people who WANT to smoke, as compared to Marlboro Lights, for those who have to smoke). Though I will most likely stick with rollies as I am skint.
Yesterday I mentioned stalking and said I wasn’t going to elaborate on it. But now I’ve realised everyone does it and it’s cool. Reading about people you know (and people you barely know) is perfectly acceptable. Everyone does it. It’s sooooo legitimate. Reading about 20 year old gay emo boys in Louisiana is fine. Reading about people you went to school with is fine, especially if they’ve screwed up their lives, cos then you get to laugh at them and feel all superior. And if people put photos up on the internet then how do they expect me not to look?
Having said all of that, I need to stop with the e-stalking and daydreaming about someone really awesome (which is pretty much all I’ve done today) and either do some work or start properly looking for another job. Where should I look? So far I’m just looking on the Guardian website, but to be honest, I think they’re all a bit above me. I just want a nice easy job where I don’t have to do very much and I can spend the day on the internet.
I reckon I should be a policy officer. I’ve seen what they do. It’s not impressive, which is exactly what I’m looking for.
But that’s antisocial and I’m trying not to be antisocial anymore.
That hasn’t really answered the question though, has it? But it doesn’t really need an answer, other than DON’T BE DAFT! Of course I’m not going to give up smoking. I’m fucking hardcore!! I might even start smoking Davidoffs (the cigarettes for people who WANT to smoke, as compared to Marlboro Lights, for those who have to smoke). Though I will most likely stick with rollies as I am skint.
Yesterday I mentioned stalking and said I wasn’t going to elaborate on it. But now I’ve realised everyone does it and it’s cool. Reading about people you know (and people you barely know) is perfectly acceptable. Everyone does it. It’s sooooo legitimate. Reading about 20 year old gay emo boys in Louisiana is fine. Reading about people you went to school with is fine, especially if they’ve screwed up their lives, cos then you get to laugh at them and feel all superior. And if people put photos up on the internet then how do they expect me not to look?
Having said all of that, I need to stop with the e-stalking and daydreaming about someone really awesome (which is pretty much all I’ve done today) and either do some work or start properly looking for another job. Where should I look? So far I’m just looking on the Guardian website, but to be honest, I think they’re all a bit above me. I just want a nice easy job where I don’t have to do very much and I can spend the day on the internet.
I reckon I should be a policy officer. I’ve seen what they do. It’s not impressive, which is exactly what I’m looking for.
Very important message!
I completely forgot that I had a message to give out:
Daisy is really cool. Daisy is very funny. Daisy is really clever but she is very good at hiding it.
Happy?
Daisy is really cool. Daisy is very funny. Daisy is really clever but she is very good at hiding it.
Happy?
The rest of my ramble
Well, I hope you all enjoyed the cliffhanger. I honestly don’t know how any of you slept. Actually, if I’m really being truthful, I don’t know why anyone reads this at all. Especially people who read it while sitting next to you, despite the fact that they were with me most of the weekend. Still, there’s nothing like instant feedback, so I’m quite pleased really. Apparently I’m funny. I’d tend to disagree. I’m actually really un-funny, I just have occasional flashes of wittiness that only serve to make me realise how lame I am the rest of the time… I was going to put an example there but I can’t think of the last time I genuinely made people laugh, and not by doing something stupid (laughing out of pity doesn’t count).
My god, I’m going to have to make more a conscious effort not to sound completely emo. Cos that ain’t cool.
Not sounding too emo shouldn’t be too hard today though. Despite being at work for the first time in nearly a week, I’m in a very good mood. Even the letter from the Student Loans Company telling me I have to start giving them money hasn’t ruined my mood (though I’m sure that will happen later when I start vomiting from stress AGAIN). And the reason for my good mood? Well, a very beautiful boy who makes me feel all warm inside.
Anyway, before I start making myself feel sick with my “awww, he’s so lovely” non-stop babbling, I will go back to what I was saying yesterday…
So yes, NOIZE. What a load of shit. Really really awful. If it hadn’t been so damn far from home, and I’d made such a bloody effort to get there (well, taken two buses), I would have just gone home. Instead I was chain smoking other peoples cigarettes outside with S and N. I was in the same year as N at uni but we only spoke once, and that was after graduation. It makes me realise how antisocial I was- which I suppose was partly my fault but also probably largely attributable to the fact that my ex was over domineering and didn’t approve of me talking to anyone. Anyway, the one time N had spoken to me, he told me he liked my dress. I had to think really hard about what dress it was and even what night it was, but that’s because I am an alcoholic with the memory of a goldfish.
We decided that we couldn’t take anymore of the god-awful din and went to the pub instead, where they had non-organic lager and normal music and seats. It was like heaven. Afterwards we walked back to S’s. I knew the way (it’s down one road = not hard) but S wanted to take a taxi. According to M, she always wants to take taxis and sometimes he has to trick her into walking by saying that they’ll get a taxi in 100 metres. I’m not fussed about walking but S and N complained all the way home and N inadvertently called my grandpa an imperialist, which I thought was a bit funny. Despite it being a Sunday night and quite late, we decided that it would be fine to carry on drinking. I’ve been quite good about this recently, so I’m not too worried about my, admittedly, terribly cavalier attitude towards work. Or so I say. I’m really rambling all over the place today, which is probably why I haven’t managed to get much done today.
Anyway, vodka was procured from 24-hour shop, despite policeman being in the shop and we drank and were generally merry. I talked a lot and tried to forget my paranoia and even managed to temporarily convince myself that I wasn’t talking rubbish. My brother emailed me and I emailed back a drunken response that didn’t really explain what the hell I was talking about. N kissed me in the kitchen, which wasn’t the most romantic setting or anything, but it was so lovely because he’s so lovely. We both had to be awake for work in the morning, so S said we could sleep in her room and she would sleep on the white water raft airbed in M’s room. Of course we didn’t really sleep and we had to call in sick in the morning. I felt a bit bad for commandeering S’s bed. I’ve never done that to anyone before, though I have had someone shag in my bed before. That was after the random night in Walthamstow I very obliquely mentioned in an entry the other day (basically, after spending a night in one of the nastiest bars ever, I said people could come back to mine. My friend and some guy she’d met on the internet ended up shagging in my bed, while I drank bottle after bottle of wine with some random school teacher I’d never met before… then the next day I had to meet my mum and she told me she’d never seen me look so rough, which I thought, while honest, wasn’t entirely necessary). Anyway, I felt bad but S says she doesn’t mind, which means that she is lovely.
S and I made some tea and went to get some food while N slept, and then we read the papers and I got jittery from nerves and coffee, though I like to think I kept a lid on it rather nicely… ha ha ha. When we went upstairs to wake up N, he said he was worried when he woke up and I wasn’t there because he thought he’d dreamt me. Which I thought was odd because that’s sort of how I felt too. There’s nothing like sitting in the common room to make you wonder whether you actually just created a huge fantasy in your head and that you’re basically just screwed now because you’ve started being happy about something only to realise that YOU MADE IT UP! Oooh, look, there’s another emo outpouring.
After being laughed at by everyone (some of whom were apparently listening at the door!!), I decided I felt like shit and should go home before I got really grumpy and crap. N walked me to Euston, even though I was the worst possible company and thought I was going to pass out at the bus stop. So lovely. Then I got the bus home and kind of fell asleep, but one of those sleeps where you suddenly come to and realise that you’ve been staring at your magazine so long that you’ve memorised what Nico Rosberg’s elbow looks like. I was going to go to sleep, but instead I tidied my room and did some washing and drank lots of tea. #1 called me from Gatwick airport and we decided to go to the pub. It was truly lovely to see her and I hadn’t realised how much I’d missed her. She’d brought back loads of lovely food from Milan so we cooked a huge meal, but not before she accidentally stabbed me with her keys. Then I drank a double espresso and fell asleep.
Tuesday… had the day off and got my hair cut. Not many people have noticed it, to be honest. About half the people in the office- and not the ones I would have thought of. I think it looks quite cool, though I’m sure in a week or so it will have pissed me off immensely and I’ll be thinking about shaving it again. Afterwards, I went to give blood, and managed not to be sick. The feeling of the tube with your blood in resting against your arm is really odd, you can feel it pumping… urgh. Halfway through, my blood stopped pumping, which prompted all the nurses to come over and prod my arm. My arm was already feeling a bit sore because of all the prodding to actually find a vein (I’d be such a terrible junkie). I asked if it meant that I was dead, but they said no.
Yesterday, as I said, I called in sick and went to LSE and hung out with S. over our disgusting lunch (the one that inspired bulimia), we discussed N and I tried to figure out if he liked me. This was the point that S said I was paranoia personified. I then said the lamest thing in the whole world. LITERALLY. I said: “Things are good at the moment. Maybe I shouldn’t see him ever again, so then I can’t fuck it up and it can’t go wrong, and things will always be great in my head” Quite rightly, she laughed at me and called me emo.
And then last night, despite being full of nervous energy (I couldn’t sit still and kept pestering S with questions about whether I looked stupid), N came round and it was lovely lovely LOVELY. So now I am a happy lamb.
I just found something really funny while doing a wikipedia search for “emo”… a link to this website: www.fourfa.com
My god, I don’t want to be like that. I hope I’m not like that… right?
Oh well, it’s not like it’s going to ruin my good mood. I think I might just swivel around on my chair for a while and think about kissing N.
My god, I’m going to have to make more a conscious effort not to sound completely emo. Cos that ain’t cool.
Not sounding too emo shouldn’t be too hard today though. Despite being at work for the first time in nearly a week, I’m in a very good mood. Even the letter from the Student Loans Company telling me I have to start giving them money hasn’t ruined my mood (though I’m sure that will happen later when I start vomiting from stress AGAIN). And the reason for my good mood? Well, a very beautiful boy who makes me feel all warm inside.
Anyway, before I start making myself feel sick with my “awww, he’s so lovely” non-stop babbling, I will go back to what I was saying yesterday…
So yes, NOIZE. What a load of shit. Really really awful. If it hadn’t been so damn far from home, and I’d made such a bloody effort to get there (well, taken two buses), I would have just gone home. Instead I was chain smoking other peoples cigarettes outside with S and N. I was in the same year as N at uni but we only spoke once, and that was after graduation. It makes me realise how antisocial I was- which I suppose was partly my fault but also probably largely attributable to the fact that my ex was over domineering and didn’t approve of me talking to anyone. Anyway, the one time N had spoken to me, he told me he liked my dress. I had to think really hard about what dress it was and even what night it was, but that’s because I am an alcoholic with the memory of a goldfish.
We decided that we couldn’t take anymore of the god-awful din and went to the pub instead, where they had non-organic lager and normal music and seats. It was like heaven. Afterwards we walked back to S’s. I knew the way (it’s down one road = not hard) but S wanted to take a taxi. According to M, she always wants to take taxis and sometimes he has to trick her into walking by saying that they’ll get a taxi in 100 metres. I’m not fussed about walking but S and N complained all the way home and N inadvertently called my grandpa an imperialist, which I thought was a bit funny. Despite it being a Sunday night and quite late, we decided that it would be fine to carry on drinking. I’ve been quite good about this recently, so I’m not too worried about my, admittedly, terribly cavalier attitude towards work. Or so I say. I’m really rambling all over the place today, which is probably why I haven’t managed to get much done today.
Anyway, vodka was procured from 24-hour shop, despite policeman being in the shop and we drank and were generally merry. I talked a lot and tried to forget my paranoia and even managed to temporarily convince myself that I wasn’t talking rubbish. My brother emailed me and I emailed back a drunken response that didn’t really explain what the hell I was talking about. N kissed me in the kitchen, which wasn’t the most romantic setting or anything, but it was so lovely because he’s so lovely. We both had to be awake for work in the morning, so S said we could sleep in her room and she would sleep on the white water raft airbed in M’s room. Of course we didn’t really sleep and we had to call in sick in the morning. I felt a bit bad for commandeering S’s bed. I’ve never done that to anyone before, though I have had someone shag in my bed before. That was after the random night in Walthamstow I very obliquely mentioned in an entry the other day (basically, after spending a night in one of the nastiest bars ever, I said people could come back to mine. My friend and some guy she’d met on the internet ended up shagging in my bed, while I drank bottle after bottle of wine with some random school teacher I’d never met before… then the next day I had to meet my mum and she told me she’d never seen me look so rough, which I thought, while honest, wasn’t entirely necessary). Anyway, I felt bad but S says she doesn’t mind, which means that she is lovely.
S and I made some tea and went to get some food while N slept, and then we read the papers and I got jittery from nerves and coffee, though I like to think I kept a lid on it rather nicely… ha ha ha. When we went upstairs to wake up N, he said he was worried when he woke up and I wasn’t there because he thought he’d dreamt me. Which I thought was odd because that’s sort of how I felt too. There’s nothing like sitting in the common room to make you wonder whether you actually just created a huge fantasy in your head and that you’re basically just screwed now because you’ve started being happy about something only to realise that YOU MADE IT UP! Oooh, look, there’s another emo outpouring.
After being laughed at by everyone (some of whom were apparently listening at the door!!), I decided I felt like shit and should go home before I got really grumpy and crap. N walked me to Euston, even though I was the worst possible company and thought I was going to pass out at the bus stop. So lovely. Then I got the bus home and kind of fell asleep, but one of those sleeps where you suddenly come to and realise that you’ve been staring at your magazine so long that you’ve memorised what Nico Rosberg’s elbow looks like. I was going to go to sleep, but instead I tidied my room and did some washing and drank lots of tea. #1 called me from Gatwick airport and we decided to go to the pub. It was truly lovely to see her and I hadn’t realised how much I’d missed her. She’d brought back loads of lovely food from Milan so we cooked a huge meal, but not before she accidentally stabbed me with her keys. Then I drank a double espresso and fell asleep.
Tuesday… had the day off and got my hair cut. Not many people have noticed it, to be honest. About half the people in the office- and not the ones I would have thought of. I think it looks quite cool, though I’m sure in a week or so it will have pissed me off immensely and I’ll be thinking about shaving it again. Afterwards, I went to give blood, and managed not to be sick. The feeling of the tube with your blood in resting against your arm is really odd, you can feel it pumping… urgh. Halfway through, my blood stopped pumping, which prompted all the nurses to come over and prod my arm. My arm was already feeling a bit sore because of all the prodding to actually find a vein (I’d be such a terrible junkie). I asked if it meant that I was dead, but they said no.
Yesterday, as I said, I called in sick and went to LSE and hung out with S. over our disgusting lunch (the one that inspired bulimia), we discussed N and I tried to figure out if he liked me. This was the point that S said I was paranoia personified. I then said the lamest thing in the whole world. LITERALLY. I said: “Things are good at the moment. Maybe I shouldn’t see him ever again, so then I can’t fuck it up and it can’t go wrong, and things will always be great in my head” Quite rightly, she laughed at me and called me emo.
And then last night, despite being full of nervous energy (I couldn’t sit still and kept pestering S with questions about whether I looked stupid), N came round and it was lovely lovely LOVELY. So now I am a happy lamb.
I just found something really funny while doing a wikipedia search for “emo”… a link to this website: www.fourfa.com
My god, I don’t want to be like that. I hope I’m not like that… right?
Oh well, it’s not like it’s going to ruin my good mood. I think I might just swivel around on my chair for a while and think about kissing N.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
proper mammoth entry
Bloody hell. I just checked, and I haven’t properly written this stupid thing since last Monday, and today is Wednesday. It’s not exactly been an uneventful week either. I’m at LSE writing this, as I’m once again on sick leave. Sometimes being a mentalist has its benefits- for example, being able to take days off. It does, of course, have drawbacks, such as waking up in a cold sweat almost every day and being physically sick when I get too worried. I’m a bit like Stan from South Park in that respect.
What I find the funniest (though not in a humorous way- more an ironic chuckle and a half hearted shrug kind of way) is that I spent the whole of my time at uni hating it beyond all belief. I mean seriously, I hated it more than I hate working. I was a complete and utter mess. People thought I’d moved out of halls at one point but I’d just locked myself in my room for a month. But now, not being at uni, I wish more than anything that I was back here. I should have deliberately failed a year and done repeats. I miss the life of getting up late and being intellectual and people not looking at you like you’re a silly child just because you don’t really give a toss about strategic planning. Which is what my experience of the working world seems to be like. Oh yeah, and being completely screwed over by the HR department and my apparently (well, according to everyone else) nice manager. I don’t honestly know why I’m still there. I get told “no, you can’t have a pay rise (despite doing loads and loads of extra work for them) because you DON’T DESERVE IT”. I was so angry I cried.
Speaking of crying, I said in a recent post that I hadn’t been crying all that much recently. I’ve now completely screwed that one. First of all, I cried for half of the ballet last Tuesday. It was so fucking beautiful that it was all I could do. In the interval I was practicing fouette pirouettes on the balcony and kicked myself in the leg. Serves me right for trying it wearing cowboy boots I suppose. Then I cried on the bus on the way home, because I’d finished my book and it really moved me. I’m such a moron, I always cry at books and films. But this time I was properly weeping. I think I was over emotional because of the ballet. On Wednesday I cried a little bit after talking to my manager. She could blatantly tell as well. No wonder they won’t promote me. On Saturday, while waiting for the bus home after going to pointless pointless afterskool, I cried a bit too. However, I haven’t cried since, so maybe I’m over it. I have been having insane mood swings though. One minute I’m sad. The next I’m bouncing along the road screaming “it’s snowing!” while one of the press officers drags me out of the way of oncoming buses. I dunno. Maybe I should start taking my medication again? Or cut down on the amount of sugar I eat as this would make me slightly more level headed and less hyper… right? Ah whatever, it builds character. As does my tasty sandwich I brought in with me today. I recently figured out (oh whatever, I can’t lie on here as you all fucking read it- S told me) that you can put pesto on bread. I seriously think that this is going to be one of the most important discoveries of 2006 for Miss Lamb. I’m obviously not counting whatever discoveries I make while travelling as I’m hoping to hell that Ulaan Bataar will provoke slightly deeper thoughts than food. Not necessarily of course, as I’m still pretty sure I have a tapeworm.
My god, I really do blame other people/things for everything… most people would just say “yeah, I’m a greedy bastard”. Me? No, I blame a tapeworm. How would I have even got a tapeworm? (if anyone leaves any oh-so-funny anonymous comments answering that one I will be, unsurprisingly, completely unimpressed by their maturity… so just don’t)
Enough pointless rambling and onto rambling with slightly more, well, point. On Friday it was announced that we were getting a new carpet in the office and everything had to go into boxes. Someone pilfered all the boxes and we were left with three for the four of us. I underestimated the task and only realised how impossible it would be once the others had gone home and it was just me climbing across tables and trying to put the printer in a box. All the time talking to myself, which is my normal state when in the office alone. Otherwise I get super freaked out. After I’d thrown lots of files on top of the cupboard (out of sight out of mind), I headed over to the Roebuck with K. I haven’t seen her properly in fucking ages, which is stupid as she works on the floor below me. She’s so cool. We’ve decided to go to Marrakech together sometime soon. She was meant to be going to Thailand with T but he’s pretty useless and hasn’t done anything about it (he’s actually so useless that he almost forgot to tell his housemate he was moving out).
Just a slight interruption to say- someone sitting near me has just done the nastiest fart ever. C120 is officially hell. Is this why I didn’t like uni? No- the reasons for that were far more complex and won’t be gone into here- this is going to be enough of a super long entry as it is!
Anyhow, back to the story. K and I had some wine and chatted to the lovely barmaid who works there. I’d sent round a big email to everyone at work telling them to come to the pub but apart from us, only two others came- neither of them are particularly my friends. In fact, one is R’s manager, which is not necessarily a good thing. The other used to share an office with T and they have quite a strange incestuous relationship. Quite sweet though in a way. They always played cricket together on the 4th floor on Friday afternoons. Anyway, me and him had a moment of social awkwardness as he was asking me what suit he should wear when he gets married later in the year, seemingly forgetting that I don’t think he should be getting married at all. I mean, obviously it’s not for me to judge (although I will anyway) but I really don’t think that he cares about her enough to marry her.
I just had to interrupt that entry to go and eat with S. I feel utterly sick. It wasn’t very nice food, and we smothered it in Tabasco in an attempt to make it more edible, but it just ended being totally rank. We tried a little lunchtime bulimia (ie. being sick afterwards) but fucked it up royally by not actually being sick. It’s like our bodies were playing an evil, twisted joke on us- making us feel rubbish but not being able to vomit. We’d make rubbish bulimics. Anyway, despite that it was nice to hang out with S and have a proper girlie chat. She stills thinks I am paranoia personified, which I think is a much nicer way of saying what others might simply describe as “mental”. Now we’re sitting in the disabled peoples part of the library, trying to resist our fairly frequent urges to a) vomit, or b) do some internet stalking. Back to the story…
For some reason we started talking about Brussels sprouts, and one of the boys said that one day he would create a celebrity chef persona called Russell and have a book called “Russell’s Sprouts”. Everyone sort of groaned, except T, who looked really puzzled, before saying, “Oh!! It’s like the joke, isn’t it?” He looked far more amused than the lame play on words really allowed for, so eventually we asked him what joke he was thinking of. His answer to this was, “well, it’s what you call a spastic in a bag, isn’t it?” I have no idea how he got to that. However, it made me laugh so much that I nearly fell off the sofa and had tears running down my face (that doesn’t count as me crying though). A little later, someone mentioned something that happened in 1983 as if I should remember it. I pointed out that I wasn’t born until the following year, which prompted the usual: “you’re so young!!” I really hate being the youngest person at my work sometimes. People seem to use my age as a filler for gaps in the conversation. Highly tedious. We had a little debate about which was cooler: astronauts or cosmonauts (unanimous- cosmonauts), then I decided I wanted to go home as I was feeling antisocial and had drunk too much white wine (a drink I despise).
On the way home, I remembered that I had a copy of F1 Racing in my bag, so I had a little read. I know it’s ultimately sad, but I find it really amusing, in a super-geeky-formula-1-fan kind of way. I actually find telemetry, aerodynamics and chassis development interesting. Not that I really understand them or anything. I’m just an F1 geek really. Anyway, at one point I actually laughed out loud and all the people on the bus turned to look at me. When I got home I decided to try to get the modem working, but promptly fell over in the hallway, trying to attach cables. I hit my head. It hurt.
As I was lying on the ground, swearing quietly (or what I thought was quietly anyway), #3’s boyfriend came out of her room and asked me to sign something. I felt a bit bad for waking them up so I agreed. Only after signing it did I think to ask what it was. I was told I was now officially a witness on their mortgage. Does anyone know about these things? I asked R and she said I’d signed my life away but I think she was winding me up because she knew I was hungover. I don’t know why they’d want me as a witness anyway. I’m practically insolvent.
I woke up on Saturday morning to find a letter from the bank saying they’d turned me down for my loan and my credit card. Does anyone know how long CCJ’s last for? I won’t write too much about finances, as those who read this regularly will know that it’s prone to make me vomit… and right now is not when I want to be thinking about things like that. I went back to bed for a bit, but thankfully woke up in time to watch the F1 season preview on ITV. I still haven’t figured out what I’m going to do this weekend (as in, where I’m going to watch it). But watch it I most definitely shall. So sad… I got a bit of a weird message from J saying that he was having a breakdown (ie. had taken too much coke or something) and that he couldn’t see me. I wasn’t too fussed, I’d been expecting that. After the experience with my ex, I don’t really want anything to do with druggie boys with stupid issues. That’s my prerogative (not the boy bit, but the other bits). I had a bit of a chat with the Wolf, who told me about nearly getting it on with some girl who chopped her finger off and is now suing him for negligence. He was walking his dog while on the phone, and he kept letting the dog off the lead so that it would fight other dogs. He’s such a liability (though I love him all the same- when he’s not molesting me or my friends).
Eventually I made my way into town to meet S, and after having a drink in her halls, we got a cab to afterskool. I was being really gobby in the cab, so by the time I got to afterskool I was a bit grumpy and had used up all my energy and didn’t want to talk to anyone. I only really wanted to talk to M. In the end I just left and cried at the bus stop for a bit and tried to decide if I really was crazy and felt a bit scared. I’m not very good at looking after myself- though I’m very good at looking after other people. I’ve never been ill so often as living in camp mansions, mainly because I am totally incapable of doing anything by halves and I do silly things like sleep with the windows open when it’s snowing. I’m so not 21. Except, of course, I am, and I’ll be 22 soon. I was getting really paranoid about the way I look too. I don’t want another eating disorder. That’s so emo.
On Sunday, however, I was up pretty bright and early and did some washing and cleaned the kitchen, etc. I went to Tesco in Brixton wearing enormous pink sunglasses and felt like a superstar. There’s something about those sunglasses that makes me feel so cool. I know it’s sad. But it was really sunny and UV damage in your eyes in very serious etc etc, so that’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it. Then I went out for lunch with M and A and SH, which was very cool. We went to Bandidos despite there being a murder out the back the other day. I figured that as long as we didn’t go out the back we’d be fine. We tried to think of the best thing to graffiti on a dog, but although we agreed that dog graffiti was funny, we couldn’t think of anything. Banksy-esque we clearly are not. Afterwards we went for a walk in Brockwell Park. I can’t believe I hadn’t been there before, seeing as it’s right next to camp mansions. At the top of the hill (in the park) you can see for miles and miles- Canary Wharf, the city… it’s really cool. We walked in twos and I felt like I was in Pride and Prejudice, taking a turn after dinner. Now all I need is a suitably Jane Austen dress, instead of the fluorescent pink thing I’d chosen to wear. And Jane Austen heroines probably wouldn’t have laughed at the girl who fell over on her rollerblades, nor would they have laughed so much at jokes about paedophiles. I am a bad person.
Just as an aside, I just went to the loo in the LSE library. It freaks the hell out of me as it was scene of breakdown numero uno during the whole dissertation period. I don’t normally get negative associations with places (just as well really) but the library is pretty fucking awful. As well as going completely crazy trying to finish the stupid dissertation, I remember throwing a book at my ex in the 2nd year and trying to throw a chair at him when we were revising for our finals. Though I’ve got to say, for a library, I also have some good memories too- for example, meeting S.
Going back to where I left off- after they’d all gone I wandered around my room for a while and sat on my bed for an inordinately long amount of time instead of getting ready to go out. By the time I was ready and had got into town, everyone had already gone to Camden, so I went straight there, though thankfully M realised that I am a bit thick and wouldn’t find my way by myself so he met me at the tube station. We went to this bar or venue or whatever the fuck you call it, called Green Note, and heard the most diabolical racket you could ever imagine. Seriously. NOIZE or whatever wanky pretentious spelling. I still can’t get over how bad it sounded. SH pointed out that it sounded like the holocaust. Even worse, it was really packed and the beer was horrible and most of the people in the audience were stroking their chins and smoking their gauloises in the most sickening way. I stared at the ceiling for a while and tried to make my toes as flat as possible, to try and combat my fucked up feet. That didn’t take my mind off the godforsaken din so I resorted to thinking about smoking and how much I liked it.
And you know what?? Just as I get to the interesting part of the blog, I have run out of time… and I will have to write the rest tomorrow when I maybe maybe go back to work. I assure you that it is all very interesting though. Well, it is to me anyway, and that’s all that counts…right?? I can’t believe it’s taken me all day to write this bloody entry. I really should be a student. I don’t have time to have a job, what with all this blogging and stalking etc.
Oh yeah, and the stalking is not something that is going to be elaborated on. It’s something we all do but it’s probably best not talked about over the dinner table (a little like masturbation in a way- though that’s possibly slightly more accepatable… though intrinsically linked to stalking, really, if you think about it).
Much love from camp lamb
What I find the funniest (though not in a humorous way- more an ironic chuckle and a half hearted shrug kind of way) is that I spent the whole of my time at uni hating it beyond all belief. I mean seriously, I hated it more than I hate working. I was a complete and utter mess. People thought I’d moved out of halls at one point but I’d just locked myself in my room for a month. But now, not being at uni, I wish more than anything that I was back here. I should have deliberately failed a year and done repeats. I miss the life of getting up late and being intellectual and people not looking at you like you’re a silly child just because you don’t really give a toss about strategic planning. Which is what my experience of the working world seems to be like. Oh yeah, and being completely screwed over by the HR department and my apparently (well, according to everyone else) nice manager. I don’t honestly know why I’m still there. I get told “no, you can’t have a pay rise (despite doing loads and loads of extra work for them) because you DON’T DESERVE IT”. I was so angry I cried.
Speaking of crying, I said in a recent post that I hadn’t been crying all that much recently. I’ve now completely screwed that one. First of all, I cried for half of the ballet last Tuesday. It was so fucking beautiful that it was all I could do. In the interval I was practicing fouette pirouettes on the balcony and kicked myself in the leg. Serves me right for trying it wearing cowboy boots I suppose. Then I cried on the bus on the way home, because I’d finished my book and it really moved me. I’m such a moron, I always cry at books and films. But this time I was properly weeping. I think I was over emotional because of the ballet. On Wednesday I cried a little bit after talking to my manager. She could blatantly tell as well. No wonder they won’t promote me. On Saturday, while waiting for the bus home after going to pointless pointless afterskool, I cried a bit too. However, I haven’t cried since, so maybe I’m over it. I have been having insane mood swings though. One minute I’m sad. The next I’m bouncing along the road screaming “it’s snowing!” while one of the press officers drags me out of the way of oncoming buses. I dunno. Maybe I should start taking my medication again? Or cut down on the amount of sugar I eat as this would make me slightly more level headed and less hyper… right? Ah whatever, it builds character. As does my tasty sandwich I brought in with me today. I recently figured out (oh whatever, I can’t lie on here as you all fucking read it- S told me) that you can put pesto on bread. I seriously think that this is going to be one of the most important discoveries of 2006 for Miss Lamb. I’m obviously not counting whatever discoveries I make while travelling as I’m hoping to hell that Ulaan Bataar will provoke slightly deeper thoughts than food. Not necessarily of course, as I’m still pretty sure I have a tapeworm.
My god, I really do blame other people/things for everything… most people would just say “yeah, I’m a greedy bastard”. Me? No, I blame a tapeworm. How would I have even got a tapeworm? (if anyone leaves any oh-so-funny anonymous comments answering that one I will be, unsurprisingly, completely unimpressed by their maturity… so just don’t)
Enough pointless rambling and onto rambling with slightly more, well, point. On Friday it was announced that we were getting a new carpet in the office and everything had to go into boxes. Someone pilfered all the boxes and we were left with three for the four of us. I underestimated the task and only realised how impossible it would be once the others had gone home and it was just me climbing across tables and trying to put the printer in a box. All the time talking to myself, which is my normal state when in the office alone. Otherwise I get super freaked out. After I’d thrown lots of files on top of the cupboard (out of sight out of mind), I headed over to the Roebuck with K. I haven’t seen her properly in fucking ages, which is stupid as she works on the floor below me. She’s so cool. We’ve decided to go to Marrakech together sometime soon. She was meant to be going to Thailand with T but he’s pretty useless and hasn’t done anything about it (he’s actually so useless that he almost forgot to tell his housemate he was moving out).
Just a slight interruption to say- someone sitting near me has just done the nastiest fart ever. C120 is officially hell. Is this why I didn’t like uni? No- the reasons for that were far more complex and won’t be gone into here- this is going to be enough of a super long entry as it is!
Anyhow, back to the story. K and I had some wine and chatted to the lovely barmaid who works there. I’d sent round a big email to everyone at work telling them to come to the pub but apart from us, only two others came- neither of them are particularly my friends. In fact, one is R’s manager, which is not necessarily a good thing. The other used to share an office with T and they have quite a strange incestuous relationship. Quite sweet though in a way. They always played cricket together on the 4th floor on Friday afternoons. Anyway, me and him had a moment of social awkwardness as he was asking me what suit he should wear when he gets married later in the year, seemingly forgetting that I don’t think he should be getting married at all. I mean, obviously it’s not for me to judge (although I will anyway) but I really don’t think that he cares about her enough to marry her.
I just had to interrupt that entry to go and eat with S. I feel utterly sick. It wasn’t very nice food, and we smothered it in Tabasco in an attempt to make it more edible, but it just ended being totally rank. We tried a little lunchtime bulimia (ie. being sick afterwards) but fucked it up royally by not actually being sick. It’s like our bodies were playing an evil, twisted joke on us- making us feel rubbish but not being able to vomit. We’d make rubbish bulimics. Anyway, despite that it was nice to hang out with S and have a proper girlie chat. She stills thinks I am paranoia personified, which I think is a much nicer way of saying what others might simply describe as “mental”. Now we’re sitting in the disabled peoples part of the library, trying to resist our fairly frequent urges to a) vomit, or b) do some internet stalking. Back to the story…
For some reason we started talking about Brussels sprouts, and one of the boys said that one day he would create a celebrity chef persona called Russell and have a book called “Russell’s Sprouts”. Everyone sort of groaned, except T, who looked really puzzled, before saying, “Oh!! It’s like the joke, isn’t it?” He looked far more amused than the lame play on words really allowed for, so eventually we asked him what joke he was thinking of. His answer to this was, “well, it’s what you call a spastic in a bag, isn’t it?” I have no idea how he got to that. However, it made me laugh so much that I nearly fell off the sofa and had tears running down my face (that doesn’t count as me crying though). A little later, someone mentioned something that happened in 1983 as if I should remember it. I pointed out that I wasn’t born until the following year, which prompted the usual: “you’re so young!!” I really hate being the youngest person at my work sometimes. People seem to use my age as a filler for gaps in the conversation. Highly tedious. We had a little debate about which was cooler: astronauts or cosmonauts (unanimous- cosmonauts), then I decided I wanted to go home as I was feeling antisocial and had drunk too much white wine (a drink I despise).
On the way home, I remembered that I had a copy of F1 Racing in my bag, so I had a little read. I know it’s ultimately sad, but I find it really amusing, in a super-geeky-formula-1-fan kind of way. I actually find telemetry, aerodynamics and chassis development interesting. Not that I really understand them or anything. I’m just an F1 geek really. Anyway, at one point I actually laughed out loud and all the people on the bus turned to look at me. When I got home I decided to try to get the modem working, but promptly fell over in the hallway, trying to attach cables. I hit my head. It hurt.
As I was lying on the ground, swearing quietly (or what I thought was quietly anyway), #3’s boyfriend came out of her room and asked me to sign something. I felt a bit bad for waking them up so I agreed. Only after signing it did I think to ask what it was. I was told I was now officially a witness on their mortgage. Does anyone know about these things? I asked R and she said I’d signed my life away but I think she was winding me up because she knew I was hungover. I don’t know why they’d want me as a witness anyway. I’m practically insolvent.
I woke up on Saturday morning to find a letter from the bank saying they’d turned me down for my loan and my credit card. Does anyone know how long CCJ’s last for? I won’t write too much about finances, as those who read this regularly will know that it’s prone to make me vomit… and right now is not when I want to be thinking about things like that. I went back to bed for a bit, but thankfully woke up in time to watch the F1 season preview on ITV. I still haven’t figured out what I’m going to do this weekend (as in, where I’m going to watch it). But watch it I most definitely shall. So sad… I got a bit of a weird message from J saying that he was having a breakdown (ie. had taken too much coke or something) and that he couldn’t see me. I wasn’t too fussed, I’d been expecting that. After the experience with my ex, I don’t really want anything to do with druggie boys with stupid issues. That’s my prerogative (not the boy bit, but the other bits). I had a bit of a chat with the Wolf, who told me about nearly getting it on with some girl who chopped her finger off and is now suing him for negligence. He was walking his dog while on the phone, and he kept letting the dog off the lead so that it would fight other dogs. He’s such a liability (though I love him all the same- when he’s not molesting me or my friends).
Eventually I made my way into town to meet S, and after having a drink in her halls, we got a cab to afterskool. I was being really gobby in the cab, so by the time I got to afterskool I was a bit grumpy and had used up all my energy and didn’t want to talk to anyone. I only really wanted to talk to M. In the end I just left and cried at the bus stop for a bit and tried to decide if I really was crazy and felt a bit scared. I’m not very good at looking after myself- though I’m very good at looking after other people. I’ve never been ill so often as living in camp mansions, mainly because I am totally incapable of doing anything by halves and I do silly things like sleep with the windows open when it’s snowing. I’m so not 21. Except, of course, I am, and I’ll be 22 soon. I was getting really paranoid about the way I look too. I don’t want another eating disorder. That’s so emo.
On Sunday, however, I was up pretty bright and early and did some washing and cleaned the kitchen, etc. I went to Tesco in Brixton wearing enormous pink sunglasses and felt like a superstar. There’s something about those sunglasses that makes me feel so cool. I know it’s sad. But it was really sunny and UV damage in your eyes in very serious etc etc, so that’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it. Then I went out for lunch with M and A and SH, which was very cool. We went to Bandidos despite there being a murder out the back the other day. I figured that as long as we didn’t go out the back we’d be fine. We tried to think of the best thing to graffiti on a dog, but although we agreed that dog graffiti was funny, we couldn’t think of anything. Banksy-esque we clearly are not. Afterwards we went for a walk in Brockwell Park. I can’t believe I hadn’t been there before, seeing as it’s right next to camp mansions. At the top of the hill (in the park) you can see for miles and miles- Canary Wharf, the city… it’s really cool. We walked in twos and I felt like I was in Pride and Prejudice, taking a turn after dinner. Now all I need is a suitably Jane Austen dress, instead of the fluorescent pink thing I’d chosen to wear. And Jane Austen heroines probably wouldn’t have laughed at the girl who fell over on her rollerblades, nor would they have laughed so much at jokes about paedophiles. I am a bad person.
Just as an aside, I just went to the loo in the LSE library. It freaks the hell out of me as it was scene of breakdown numero uno during the whole dissertation period. I don’t normally get negative associations with places (just as well really) but the library is pretty fucking awful. As well as going completely crazy trying to finish the stupid dissertation, I remember throwing a book at my ex in the 2nd year and trying to throw a chair at him when we were revising for our finals. Though I’ve got to say, for a library, I also have some good memories too- for example, meeting S.
Going back to where I left off- after they’d all gone I wandered around my room for a while and sat on my bed for an inordinately long amount of time instead of getting ready to go out. By the time I was ready and had got into town, everyone had already gone to Camden, so I went straight there, though thankfully M realised that I am a bit thick and wouldn’t find my way by myself so he met me at the tube station. We went to this bar or venue or whatever the fuck you call it, called Green Note, and heard the most diabolical racket you could ever imagine. Seriously. NOIZE or whatever wanky pretentious spelling. I still can’t get over how bad it sounded. SH pointed out that it sounded like the holocaust. Even worse, it was really packed and the beer was horrible and most of the people in the audience were stroking their chins and smoking their gauloises in the most sickening way. I stared at the ceiling for a while and tried to make my toes as flat as possible, to try and combat my fucked up feet. That didn’t take my mind off the godforsaken din so I resorted to thinking about smoking and how much I liked it.
And you know what?? Just as I get to the interesting part of the blog, I have run out of time… and I will have to write the rest tomorrow when I maybe maybe go back to work. I assure you that it is all very interesting though. Well, it is to me anyway, and that’s all that counts…right?? I can’t believe it’s taken me all day to write this bloody entry. I really should be a student. I don’t have time to have a job, what with all this blogging and stalking etc.
Oh yeah, and the stalking is not something that is going to be elaborated on. It’s something we all do but it’s probably best not talked about over the dinner table (a little like masturbation in a way- though that’s possibly slightly more accepatable… though intrinsically linked to stalking, really, if you think about it).
Much love from camp lamb
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