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.
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