The Last time I saw Dick

The last time I spoke to my husband was a year ago, he contacted me- first time since the separation hearing- because he got a letter informing him that he had to pay property tax on our flat, and it wasn’t fair. As I read his name, there was a flood of emotion. Not hatred, not hatred. Just the memory of when his name went with mine, when we were tied up together. His name, his name, the name I was forced to sign after my own on the act of sale when we bought the apartment, even though I didn’t take his stupid name because I didn’t want to, and I already had my own double barrelled name anyway. But they were all men around the table.

There was the ancient white haired notary, impeccable, ivory hands like a pope’s, latest in a long line of king’s lackeys, Oh the money that man skims off the top. The cream of my life’s earnings. Then my father, shaking hands and knocking his fist on the table, asking if it’s mahogany, one piece? What a table. One solid piece of wood. One of these for the office, eh? Waggling his eyebrows at me. So alien to us, the legal, the formal world. He’s a businessman, there’s a certain amount of respect for him even though he’s scruffy and unconventional with bitten cuticles and a battered leather briefcase. Me, dressed up nice, makeup, well groomed for an Irish woman but not quite up to Italian standards. I was just a little girl to them, playing house, peering over the shoulders of the men. And there we were, my dad, my Papi, who was getting more estranged from me every day, and my husband, and then the owner, a weasly man waving his hand sickly to indicate all the properties he owned, who regarded our odd little family with some disgust. Foreigners, and an Italian who didn’t drive or dress in the style he could clearly afford to. Those men, they just looked at me blankly as I said I didn’t want to sign his name after mine on all the documents.

Why should I?  I elected not to take his name when we married. Isn’t a signature something important, something expressive? How could I SIGN a name that isn’t mine? They just looked at me and said “that’s how we do things in Italy.” I said no, it’s not my name. There were so many pages in that document, each to be signed. Each page. And it wasn’t my name. But my dad said this isn’t Ireland, this is how it goes here. I bristled. The little notary added, trying to help, trying to move it all along, because his time was more money than I could imagine, he said “it’s so we know who you are, who the document is talking about.” Without my husband’s name at the end, presumably, I could have been anyone, anyone. I wonder if an unmarried couple buys a house, how the hell anyone knows whose name that is, with the female name, the name unattached to any man mentioned. Who is she, if not someone’s wife?

But this feminist blather, I couldn’t even begin to verbalise. I was outnumbered, and making too much of it, so I swallowed the bile and gracelessly signed around 80 times, 80 times, like I’d been a bad girl, 80 times to drill it into me, Abby Natascha Di Gianni Flicker in Garcia Ramirez, over and over as the men watched until I had hot tears stinging my eyes, and I fell into a place where the words had a beat, and it drummed through my fingers, Abby Natascha Di Gianni Flicker in Garcia Ramirez, again and again and again and my fingers cramped and seized up, it wasn’t fair, nothing was fair, I was buying a lousy little apartment that needed work, and I was the only one of us with any money at all, and I was putting my every penny into the notary fees, to pay the little man, and the estate agent fees, so Graziella could have her Jimmy Choos, the odious woman, almost deformed by her sense of style. Blue mascara and perma tan and frosted lips, and everything so bright and lifted, a sad caricature of youth.

All my money, my grandparents’ generous gift to me, into this apartment with this man, and I loved him still then, but then I know that I had learnt to love alongside hate, too. Stubbornly, because I didn’t want to let go of love wherever I found it, it was too intoxicating. And I sort of always hated him, from the beginning, when he was awful and cruel and used me. And made me feel stupid, or invalid, or like a silly woman, when I was so much cleverer than him. Perhaps that was why he did it.

So I handed over the money, all those thousands, I never saw money like that before or since, and the notary thanked me but it was nothing to him. It was just some kids playing house, plankton, and he had such big fish. But it was all the money I ever had. And then three years later, a year ago, maybe, he emails me, this man whose name I signed with mine, his name brings me back to that table made from one piece of mahogany and impregnated with the metallics of sweat and money. And after his name, after I let myself float off into venomous memory, it subsides, and I can read the message.

We haven’t spoken in so long, it’s surreal to converse with him. Scary, because for so long he’s inhabited a world that’s unchangeable, fixed- that is, the past, but now he’s writing to me and I remember how volatile and poisonous he became, so I’m very aware that this exchange now is not fixed, this is all being written as I write, as I choose my reply. Choose carefully. He holds some power still, to fuck with my life. So I read and reread, and think before I type. He says they’re asking him for property tax, but it’s not fair, because he doesn’t even live in the apartment, so why should he pay? Oh, fair. That word. What is fair? Who teaches us the word, even? What use does it have? The last time you could judge a thing to be fair, I believe it was a birthday party and somebody was cutting the cake with Pythagoras theorems and a spirit level. I point my index finger at the computer screen and its neighbours squeeze tight into a fist. It’s a strange gesture, I’ve never made it before. But I must be physical, or I’ll burst something in my head. My jaw is clenched too.

Oh you you you… Not fair. Not fair to leave me with the whole mortgage, and all those old bills, and never pay, knowing if you don’t I will, and if I don’t, my father has to, because he’s our guarantor. And all the money I put in, and all the money my dad put in, and then you say it’s not fair I get to live in the apartment.

When I told my lawyer, the bitch with the sexless frame stamped in Versace, when I told her he moved out, and never paid me another cent, she told me firmly, you’re a fool. she didn’t think much of my dad or I. She was polite to him, and talked to me like I hadn’t just got married too young, but more like I’d come over from Estonia and given my passport and money to a man in a van who claimed he was a modelling agent. She glared at me as I spoke, her jaw sharp enough to castrate, and I never knew if I was giving her too much information or too little, but she thought I was a damned fool for not trying to get anything from him when we split, and not just that, but to lose money too.

I asked her if I could sue him for the money he owed me, but she said no, there was no point, it would cost more to sue than I’d get back. And he could just skip the country anyway. That wasn’t fair. Debt is an awful thing, it hangs around your neck like a bag of rocks, and it hurts because it’s heavy but also you remember when you picked up those rocks, and you remember that you made that choice for yourself, back then, and you didn’t care it would hurt now because it was good then. It was hard to be stuck in Italy for a year on my own, with a separation, having lost my closest ally in the country, and custody of all our friends, and with my little sisters wanting to cheer me up but lacking the tools, because they were too young. And with that debt, but it was worse still because it wasn’t my debt, and I hadn’t picked up the rocks.

They were his, him, the man with the name, the name they slapped on me, and he left when he wanted, he moved on as soon as he was ready, he met a new girl, kept the visa from our marriage, met his new girl. An Italian. She’s older than me, less attractive, simpler looking. The kind of girl a man would go crazy to love, because she’d make him happy. Not me. I don’t make men happy. I drag them down, and up, and down again. I’m sweet sometimes but then maybe too sweet, and then I’m all claws and pathos and I need, need need. And I’m not sure of anything but I’m passionate about it all, passionately optimistic, but nihilistic, and obsessive and compulsive and impulsive and lazy and hopeless and full of scorn. A woman like that, all simplicity, grounded, real; god, I’ve looked down on that kind of wman but she could make a man happy.

I don’t feel jealous, no, he’s a stranger now, I look at his face and I don’t even know if I remember anything about him, anything I used to know, his secrets, his face, the lines… Oh yes, but there were lines under his eyes, in a sort of network, I remember looking at them, scrutinising his face and thinking he’s older than me, he’ll die first, and I’ll be so lonely without him. But that was another face, and another version of me. there isn’t a grain left of the girl who loved him or cared if he lived or died. I’m not jealous, not of that petty, greedy, mean bully. I’m not jealous. It just feels sad, sometimes, that the people who aren’t good enough for me, supposedly, well, they’re much more capable of finding happiness. Simplicity, and perhaps humility. I find it harder now,because I want so much, and I start to wonder if all my self satisfaction isn’t just self soothing, and maybe i don’t have anything to offer a man after all.

Maybe I’m just young, and men are attracted to me, and I’m intelligent, so I tell myself I’m this full package, this wonderful woman, too good for most I meet. But I’m lonely, now, sometimes. Not in my own thoughts. It’s the physical space, it starts to feel like time for me to move on, onto someone, try it again, more sensible this time, less of a fool, or a different kind of fool. I’m not jealous he moved on, I’m just sad that he’s better at it than I am, that I’m the one still recalling these moments with anger because he’s the last person to share my life, and I haven’t found someone to fill that space since, not really. And tonight, he wrote to me again, a year since we last exchanged some curt, emotionless words, and tonight he asks not for money, but for information. When are we getting divorced? When can we apply? Can we already? Are we good to go?

It occurs to me, he wants to marry his girlfriend. I tell him October. We’ll need a lawyer. A lady told me we could share one, if it’s amicable. I snorted.

Amicable, like our marriage. He never hit me.

He never hit me. But I took a fucking pummelling.

Tonight I tell him October, and I’m about to say we need a lawyer, but I choose not to. I don’t need to enter a discussion with him now. I can’t bear to let him back into my reality. He’s boxed up, fixed, sealed, he stays the same, in the past. If I engage with him now, I can’t… it’s all old. It’s all been pored over, I’ve woven all my own justifications around the past, processed everything, and now I’m firmly in the right, and I didn’t hurt him, no, he deserved it. And anyway I was hurt too.  And he got a visa, and I got his debt. So it’s all set in stone, and let it rest. Please.

But sooner or later i’ll have to not just engage, but speak face to face with him.

With husband. Dick.

The last time I saw Dick was Italy, two years ago, and I had lost weight and given up smoking and I felt so good and happy to be casting off the things that held me, that saddened me. I wore a blue dress I’d bought before our wedding, that I’d considered getting married in but it was a bit tight and then it got too tight altogether as I put on weight.

I had never worn it before, and he didn’t know it was nearly my wedding dress. But I knew, and it gave me a secret power. I wore it confidently, looking great, looking much better than I looked on my wedding day. I felt better. I felt free, or closer to it than ever. In the pit of my stomach was a little twisted piece of pleasure, because I was wearing a dress I couldn’t wear while we were together, and now I was better, a better version of myself without him. We met outside and walked in, the Palazzo di giustizia, big awful hideous eyesore, reminds me always of the Ministries in 1984. Minitru, Miniluv… We walked past staircase A, B, C… it’s a huge complex. A path runs all around, and it takes ages. Lawyers everywhere. The invisible strings of money and power whipping past as heels clicked neatly. Ball stomping heels.

We made small talk. Waited outside the courtroom, finally were ushered in. An old man, a beautiful old man with crinkled eyes and an appropriately gentle smile for us,  in a little room. He was the judge, apparently. I expected an amphitheatre of a court room. Of course it wouldn’t be that. It was a little office. We sat in rows facing the judge. Mari Angela, my lawyer. Dick. Me. I remembered our wedding day. The stony faced registrar asking do you, and Dick bellowed “ABSOLUTELY.” And I was embarrassed, a little, and annoyed that he did it and not I, and then I was going to be the boring one who said I do.

But the judge read our statement made nine months before when we had really split, and the terms of the separation, which I craned my neck to see because I remembered his tears falling on the page and a sick part of me wanted to see the smudged writing. We agreed and signed, and I signed my own name, and then the judge said you are now legally separated, and I wish you the best of luck. And his eyes were on mine as he said that, and I got a feeling of his wishing me well, specifically me, and his understanding, in those eyes, of what I had escaped from, the sad stifled life. I felt he must see so many couples do what we did, and he must catch these glimpses. But his eyes sought me out, and I thought he recognised me and understood. And I felt the whoosh of freedom, and my mouth stretched out into a grin, and I begged myself to stop grinning, to switch it off, go back to the sombre divorce face, it was so rude, so cruel to grin, god, no, and Dick there looking sad and lost. I couldn’t stop smiling so I smirked, but that was awful too, so I strained and strained and covered my face with a hand and scratched my nose, desperately. But the smile leaked out anyway and I was just grateful my body didn’t break out into a dance, or leap into the air, because it felt like it might have.

Oh, to be truly free. October, October. How long will it take and how much will it cost, to get there?

To finally leave him behind, Dick, his name, his face, his part in my life.

Sometimes it’s hard to be a woman, giving all your love to just one man (most of the time) and then also our internal organs are complicated.

I’m going a little bit crazy today.

Sent off the application for one course.

Have to hand write the other one. Oh dear sweet mother of left handed computer nerds, I can’t do it. I can’t hand write. My handwriting was frozen at age 12, it sits there forgotten and no one ever asks to see it, and then sometimes I have to leave a note and people see it and think how sweet, you got your baby sister to write the note. Such good spelling. But no, that’s me. I was a bad penwoman then, and 12 years of lightning fast delivery of Times New Roman’s inoffensive uniformity has done my illegible scrawl no favours.

I have the whole thing typed up and ready to go, I just can’t write straight, it looks like a joke,

like a small retarded child filled out my application. The spelling is of course impeccable but it may as well read

“Wen I groe up I wana bee a teachair”

I wish I could pay someone to write it out for me, but maybe they will then see my handwriting when I’m on the course and know i cheated… but then they can’t throw me out because of handwriting?

And while you’re sitting there thinking, oh, that’s today’s crisis, oh well at least it’s not about men or sex or something, this is a practically solvable existential connundrum.

NO

STOP.

I have another crisis too.

So today and yesterday I have woken up so goddamned, enviably skinny… why always when I’m home alone, why always when it’s raining too hard to get away with a bikini, why when there’s no man to admire me, when there isn’t even a dressing room mirror involved?

WHY am I getting a skinny day today? Everyone told me at my mother’s wedding, I looked so fucking skinny. Oh the figure on ye. Yeah but no, I did look skinny compared to my previous incarnations but I still had a big ole wine n food bump. A food baby, I joked. But today I’m like, I’d even look good in a tank top, which is I think a short top where your midriff shows underneath. In fact I walked around my apartment (all three metres of it) in hot pants and a short top, admiring myself regularly. I looked damn good.

But then, because I can’t be happy for too long… I remembered. Isn’t this meant to be my fat n bloated week? Amn’t I supposed to be crying into the fridge as I extract cheese because what’s the point anyway, what’s the point if I’m just gonna be fat all the time?

I’m supposed to be getting my period. I’m supposed to HAVE my fucking period. And I know, I know I took the morning after pill like a week ago so that can mess up your period and make you get it late but it doesn’t matter how much I KNOW that’s why I’m late…. I still feel the panic of oh fuck yeah, I’m not in control of my own body and what if the pill didn’t work? What if this is finally it, my first pregnancy? Obviously, obviously my answer would be abort, abort. Abort mission. No way is it sacrifice myself on the altar of motherhood time. But then I also know that pregnancy makes women go crazy too and oh god no it can’t happen to me, I don’t need this.

But of course I’m not pregnant it’s just the pill making me late.

But.

It’s impossible to rationalise this fear, because it’s a pretty fucking big fear.

And I would ordinarily take great pleasure in inflicting this on my current partner, or partner in crime at least. I like to freak them out too because why should I suffer alone? Also it’s worse for them because they can’t even know what I’d DO with the thing if I did get knocked up. Super panic. So I would love to WARP this boy’s mind with this one, really fuck with his head, serve him right for making me fall in love with him and then trying to turn us into the greatest Vulcan love story that never was. But he didn’t reply to my “hey!” yesterday, and I think he left for Greece today, I vaguely remember him talking about some holiday there in a few days after I left, I wasn’t paying attention really because I was extremely horny and it didn’t interest me as it was not regarding sex or a compliment. So I am very pissed off now because if he thinks he can swan around recessionsville in the sun with not a care in the world probably having just finished his dissertation, while I languish at home with a handwritten thingumy to write out in handwriting, and worry about maybe being pregnant because of HIS GODDAMN TASTY PENIS, then that is just bullshit.

I will not stand for this.

I have gone a little bit crazy.

Today I had a few little episodes, imaginary conversations between him and me when I tell him drammatically that I might be knocked up and he says

“no your period is just late because of the pill, I read the packaging”

and I respond, bellowing, furious, and gloriously naked, maybe with a daisy chain around my swollen belly (it’s not actually swollen, it’s very flat as I mentioned)

“Oh that’s RIGHT, Mr. FUCKING SPOCK, let’s LOGIC and REASON our way out of this one too! WHAT do you know, you piece of shit MAN! Am I not allowed to feel????? to FEEL? I AM A WOMAN. I must be witnessed!”

And I collapse on a chaise longue.

Or else I give a sort of solliloquoy about my rights to love someone in my own way, and how does he dare, and I never asked for his love, I never asked for anything! I never asked for fidelity, I never asked him to be my boyfriend, I never asked for A-NY-THING! And if even that’s too much for him, he can go, go and never look back! But mark my words, you will regret this! You’ll never meet a woman like me again, NEVERRRR! And you’ll never get another chance with me! MARK MY WORDS, AGAIN! NEVERRRR! This is it, I’m gone…

 

But then I think, shit, what if he does regret losing me and then he wants to beg for me back but he takes my “never again” seriously and doesn’t try to get me back? So no, I won’t say any of that. I wouldn’t want to make it seem difficult to get me back again. Sheesh.

Door’s always open, loverboy.

But I’m all over the place. One might hope it’s because I’m pre-menstrual, another might fear it’s that I’m another “pre” word. -gnant, I mean. Both those people are me. I am crazy woman, see and hear me roar.

And also maybe I’m flipping out over this because it’s a really legitimate procrastination tool, the old, what’s goin’ on in my uterus today? And is all that gear even functional? (Hey, I never got any complaints. Hee hee. Sorry)

Anyway. I just can’t write this thing in my handwriting. If only I could just type it out…

and also, how long is he going to be in Greece on his bachelor holiday while I slave over the ink stand and vellum, cradling my worryingly flat belly and telling it, don’t worry, I’ll make dada feel shitty and worried about this when he gets back, don’t worry…. Even if I HAVE got my period by then. He can fucking sweat a bit too.

I do realise that by playing the crazy maybe pregnant lady card, I will send this boy running farther than if I had said “hey, I like spending time with you, how about we see each other some time maybe?”

It’s so the wrong move to play with this one… but I’m reckless. That’s what I am. And he’s just too delicate, I can’t tiptoe around this shit any more, it’s stifling. I feel smothered by it. Sabotage time…

Or I don’t know, maybe I’ll play the long game. I’m just feeling very crazy today. Up is down, down is up, and I watched about 15 episodes of Seinfeld which hasn’t helped.

You know I had never seen the finale before? Weird, huh. I just didn’t have those episodes. I might watch some more now and go to bed, work in the morning… maybe just eat some cheese first and worry about pregnancy and look into French paternity laws… kidding. Kidding. I’m kidding.

He does have excellent bone structure though and blonde hair. And full lips.

Our babies would be so freaking hot. Or maybe they would go the route of Demi Moore and whatshisname’s kids. Bruce Willis. Inherit the worst of both.

They could have my thin lips, his eyes which aren’t bad at all but they aren’t as good as mine, my pale skin and freckles and nose, his giant vagina that he uses to make decisions about love.

No, please don’t let me be preggers with a half French Rumor Willis.

Please not that….

Also don’t let me be infertile either because thinking about it now, I do have some pretty sweet genes that could do with passing on. I just need to find a guy with a nice nose and we are GOLDEN.

And also, he needs to be a grown up. With money.

 

End of rant.

I’m off to do the purple rain dance.

(sorry)

On hunks, hotties, and… the pain of being incredibly shallow

Ok, it’s whim o’clock, and what is every fibre of my being telling me to do today?

Move to Sweden.

Ok- so you know not to take my whims too seriously. Like when I wanted to go back to college and become a physicist, despite having ditched higher level maths and science when I was 15. And when I was going to become a pizza chef despite not wanting to work weekends, nights, or for lousy pay. Or pretty much any time I have said I was going to do something other than lie in bed and watch tv.

So take with a pinch of salt…

BUT

Saying that…

Today I feel very strongly that I would enjoy Sweden.

Reasons to move to Sweden:

1. It’s one of the best places to live, in the world, apparently. Or the best. I don’t care, it sure beats Italy.

2. Promiscuous women are apparently not judged harshly. Neither is drinking too much.

3. Sexism in general is supposedly even lower than my self esteem, which again… beats the shit out of Italy.

4. People speak real good English there.

5. Ah shit, do I have to keep racking my brains to make it look like a sensible whim? I’ll start again.

Reasons to move to Sweden:

1. MEN WHO LOOK LIKE VIKINGS and are ACTUALLY descended from Vikings. For fucks sake, do I need any further reasons?

I don’t know is it just that I am having a particularly horny week, but that doesn’t really mean anything because I haven’t had a low sex drive week since I played with LEGO. And now that I think of it, I used to build little sex dungeons for my LEGO people and rub them up against each other even though they had no genitals. I would sit in my room on my own for hours, playing out these scenes where the pretty LEGO girl with the ponytail would lure the LEGO man with the aviator jacket (he was the hottest LEGO guy I had) back to her sex dungeon under false pretences and then having her genital-free way with them. She was a total slut, that ponytail girl. This is why you should not have just one child, you should have several, and then they won’t be left alone for so long and develop these kinds of mental problems.

So, back to the Swedes…

I mean I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with Danes or Finns or Nor…w…s? (?) I just picked Sweden because of the other reasons I can’t remember now because my entire brain is being used to think of this guy:

And that, paired with, it’s ok to get drunk and sleep with a lot of different guys, all of whom look kind of like this guy, in my mind, well… I actually started looking up jobs and stuff.

But then, I was thinking about my new life in Sweden and I remembered how a few weeks ago I had the same burst of motivation and surety about Canada, after seeing a picture of a hot Canadian, and fantasizing about all kinds of rugged manly men catching salmon with their bare hands out of freezing water and then lifting me with one arm and fucking my brains out up against a sleeping moose…

And I do this all the time, fixate on some nationality… Oh but you’re so hot, men of the world. Why are you so hot?

The really really hot men are just so unattainable. I keep looking for a short cut. Like, if I’m a foreigner maybe they will overlook the fact that probably all their ex girlfriends look like this: (fucking hard to align shit, lower right picture anyway..)

And they will see me as exotic and be all, “I’m so over that flawless skin and blonde hair and blue eyes and ability to get a tan as well as spend time outdoors and be all fit and healthy thing, I want me some pasty lazy uncultured Irish girl”

And bam! I get to score way out of my league.

Ugh If I was a man I’d probably be in Thailand flashing my cash around and scoring really beautiful but poor Thai women. (And in case you are wondering I would be fine with ladyboys too, I’m shallow dontcha know, it’s what’s on the outside that counts…)

So.

At this point my lazyness and desire to understand my surroundings has already got the better of my urges.

I won’t be moving to Sweden.

BUT…

I also think, it would be really fucking awesome. I just… to be honest, not speaking the language and all isn’t what bothers me… it’s that gorgeous blonde critter to the right. I don’t think I would be able to live somewhere people that attractive are just… roaming the streets. My ego probably couldn’t handle having the evidence for my mediocrity thrust so blatantly in its face all the time. One time a woman who looked like that came into my shop. She was dutch AND taller than me AND had a really nice laugh and I wanted to kill myself for three days after she left the shop. And her boyfriend wasn’t even hot… their presence made me feel both ugly and shallow.

I had a Dutch boyfriend once. Well half Dutch. But when we went to Amsterdam together, I met one of his friends and she was like Doutzen Kroes except in casual clothing. (Doutzen ispictured below)

So not only ridiculously hot, but also all cool and nice and down to earth.

It’s not just the massive good lookingness they have over me, it’s their wonderful attitudes and personalities.. and lack of fixation on silly things like appearance.

I’m the one who gives a shit about this… they don’t.

I’m like a really bad arm wrestler who makes a huge deal out of arm wrestling. And they are all nonchalant, like it doesn’t matter, let’s just take it easy… no need to arm wrestle. And I am like NO I WILL FUCKING TAKE YOU and then they knock me over with their pinkie finger and I’m like ah.

Shit.

But obviously this battle is in my imagination. We both just know the score. (It’s an unspoken thing between women, I think. I can never tell because they won’t admit it, friends always act like we are all entirely equal on the field of beauty but I am pretty damn sure that we are all fully aware of our and each others places on the hotness ladder. It makes me very uncomfortable, especially because I’m not 100% that this isn’t just some delusion of mine.)

The worst part is I can’t even hate them, because they are so cool and nice. BITCHES.

So no, I won’t be moving to Sweden. I’m already having a breakdown just thinking about Doutzen Kroes and WHERE DO YOU GET OFF, LOOKING LIKE THAT?

I wish I just didn’t care about this stuff, or there was some kind of cool tradeoff to not looking like that, to make it kinda worthwhile.

Like for example, if only really incredibly good looking women were ever raped or murdered, I would be able to deal with it, I’d be like, ok, well at least I can look forward to never being raped or murdered.

But unfortunately rapists and murderers don’t give a crap about how I come to terms with not being the most attractive person on the planet ever. They probably prefer beautiful supermodels but don’t find them wandering the streets drunk and confused and alone, so they would probably settle for me with very little qualms. (what IS a qualm?)

Doggammit, that picture is depressing the pants off me.

I guess I’ve found a tradeoff after all: No woman will ever hate me with such unwarranted passion as I hate the Doutzen Kroes(s) of this world.

… But then, that’s not putting me at ease at all because, since when do I care if women like me?

Ugh too miserable to keep writing..

I’m going to go to lie down so I can give my full attention to feeling bad about myself.

Talk to you soon.

 

ARK! I was lying down trying to stop hating my appearance long enough to fantasize, but I kept giving up and going WHAT is the point, AS IF my mental image of hunkdom would say that to me… Muhuhhuhuhuuuu….

…. when the doorbell rang. It was the building administrator’s lackey looking for the money for the last 2 years of heating and building administration bills… Basically the back of rocks and shit around my neck that husband landed me with when he left.

I have the money put away for a while now but it feels like my money, I don’t want to part with it and I’ve been waiting for them to send me a revised copy of the bills but that’s just an excuse really… so much money… really, jesus fuckballs, a lot of money. So he was giving me shit about when am I gonna pay and it’s quite a sum, eh, eh? And asking for me to pay off a quota of it now… and I’m like, you know what? HERE. And I gave him ALL THE MONEY.

And he wrote me a receipt that felt like a piece of crap kind of trophy for that kind of expenditure, but that’s it now it is PAID in full.

I have no more debts.

I am freeeeeee… ish.

All my fuck all monies are belong to me now.

Oh yeah…

Now resist urge to go shopping.

you know what happened the other day? I went into H&M and I needed a jumper, but then I tried on these ridiculous beige shorts and I was all, oooh they will look really nice if I wear them with this other top I bought recently that i shouldn’t have, and I was trying to muster some kind of imaginary situation they would be suitable for, and then I’m queueing to pay for them and thinking what is wrong with you, woman? You need money. you look awful in beige, and you don’t need any more clothes.

But I didn’t care.

And then the checkout girl is like, sorry the tills are suddenly broken, you can’t buy things unless you have exact change. And I didn’t have exact change because I wanted to impress hot barman with my exact coins, so I couldn’t buy the shorts.

And that, my friends, is how the universe gave me a gift of 20 euros. But deprived me of a pair of shorts my ass looked really good in.

I must not go back and buy them but I won’t lie to you it’s a possibility.

OH and then I bought boots (sorry, sorry… but that wasn’t a bad thing because I know good leather boots in the sales are an excellent investment for someone moving to London) and I went to put my headphones on as I was leaving the shop but  the shopping bag was in my hand and I poked myself in the eye with the bag corner and that really hurt.

Ok stop writing now I was just so fucking excited about finally being out of debt. It’s all good, I don’t even care if I’m not Doetzen Kroes any more. I bet she’s a real nice person too.

:)

Too busy to get busy? FUCK YOU, student.

Well, this is a disappointment.

I waited ALL DAY to hear from Fabio about what time he was gonna come on over to my place for the sexing and then he finally gets back to me after I lie to my family and tell them I am having dinner with my one friend so that I can keep the evening free to make myself and my apartment presentable, and then Fabio breezes into my inbox at 8pm and is all

“Yeah I have to do this, this and this tomorrow… If I didnt have to get up so early I would come over to your place”

EXCUSE ME?

I’m sorry, mr Studentface, you have to get up early?

Fuck you.

I had to get up off my ass and go and have hairs pulled out of my body, hairs that did not want to be pulled out.

I had to get up and leave my bed where I have cmputer games and movies to watch to clean up my messy house so that you and your stupid Italian upbringing would not suspect me of harbouring crabs or something because my apartment is like an extension of my being.

Or smoething.

And I wasted my whole day-admittedly you do not know this because I played it cool apart frm invitiing you over in the first place- I played it way cooler than you did, and yet here you are TURNING DOWN A CHANCE TO FORNICATE.

you live 15 minutes away from me.

You know this.

It was 8pm.

Fuck you.

My apartment is FULL of condoms and I put on makeup and even straightened my hair so it is long enough to cover my boobs adequately while I sit on your dick and DO ALL THE FUCKING WORK.

Oh I’m sorry, you got shit to do tomorrow.

Fuck you.

Do you have any idea how much of my day was spent in preparation for your visit? Of course not, so it’s not your fault.

But FUCK YOU ANYWAY.

then I have to tolerate a whole load more of this not going anywhere conversation before we leave it at “another time then”

You know at this point I have spent more time actually talking to you than I have fucking you. Or nearly, anyway.

This does not bode well.

I made my best ever banana bread because the smell of baking really works wonders at masking the stench of hermit woman who never leaves the house and spends a lot of time on the furniture naked.

And then I ate it all because you didn’t come over and my whole Sunday was wasted and I am very angry with myself for depending so much on some arbitrary man for my happiness and fulfillment.

I am worried now, you will continue talking to me and then when we do see each other next time you have a good stretch of sleepy time up ahead you student DICK, then I will already know how many brothers and sisters you have and a whole load of what you say will make sense to me.

I don’t want that.

I am very angry with you now.

I have decided that, as punishment, I will not wax ANYTHING until you give me a good fucking reason to.

You could have come over here today and I wuold have given you enthusiastic “I don’t know you” head and I would have been all kinds of eager but instead I am downloading some porn (quaint huh, I usually just watch online but I found this one video I used to have…  it was the first and only porn video I ever bought, also one of the dudes in it is hot which is nice.)

Anyway now that my Sunday has been reduced to drinking the rest of that wine alone eating too much banana bread (yum, though. I put almond flakes, dessicated coconut and chopped up papaya in it. REALLY FUCKEN GOOD SHIT YO) and watching porn then I really don’t see why I should make any fucking effort for you anyway.

Is it not the case that sex is the best thing? Doesn’t sex trump having got enough sleep?

I have given up a lot more than sleep for my craft in the past and hot dog I’d do it again.

Strike one was the dead granny.

Strike two is the having to get up in the morning.

I am all eager and desperate right now but let me tell you I lose interest quite quickly. My obsessions live fast die young and nobody ever finds a corpse.

So cop the fuck on and get over here fucking pronto.

My porn is downloaded so this rant is over now.

Later.

Seriously why do we have to write titles? I’m stumped.

Today I feel like a human person again, thank fuck.
I am..
well no, I was going to be all happy happy joy joy happy happy joy in this post 

but I’m not sure how long I can keep that up for. Oh right… that long. Moving on then…

I only had like 6 hours sleep again… and my hand hurts… although after the self-loathing of yesterday I have to say I only have a slight pain in my personality and think I’m a mildly despicable person.

So lack of sleep.. yeah sorry but you’re hearing about it…

It’s because as I was about to go to sleep like a good girl at 1.30am, I realised where I had left my stupid companion in the computer game, so I launched into that again and of course didn’t just pick up my companion but also went on a bit of a virtual thieving binge…
and then managed to drag myself out kicking and screaming (not really) and finally just as I was about to be cool and unplug for the night, a sneaky little thought…. why don’t I check facebook to see if any of my desperate attempts at engaging fellow humans in conversation had found a foothold?

And I found my…ahem… screensaver… online.
We had a little chat. I tried to keep the molten depression from my words but still, he probably only stayed talking because he thought I might kill myself or something. I tried to be cheery but it came out bitter… dang.

Anyway I tried to intersperse my “why meeeee”s with something that hinted strongly towards I want to sex you again when I’m back in Ireland but I couldn’t figure out a good sentence to write. He suggested doing something that made me sweat to get rid of the hangover blues, and I  was like hot damn that’s my in, that’s an opener right there… but then I didn’t go for it because as a woman, and not talking via webcam, the effect of me pulling off my top and leaping into an arousing rendition of peter andre’s mysterious girl “girl I wanna make you sweat, sweat until you can’t sweat no more” might not have been what I was looking for… and, if it had been, it probably would have freaked me out.

Anyway I let the “sweat” cue die and we talked pleasantries for a bit.
Then I finally admitted there was going to be no place in this hung over pitiful conversation for me to mention sex, and I wasn’t going to go for broke and mention masturbation (that might seem like a terrible desperate ploy to draw attention to the fact that I have genitals, at the cost of appearing like a normal person who can acquire sexual partners… and yes, yes it is. Usually resorted to when drunk.)

So I bid the last person to have seen me naked and sober good night…. and logged off sadly.
It was at least 3am. I tossed and turned and… in amongst all that tossing and turning, managed to pull some kind of muscle in my hand.
Fucks sake… I am still able to type and stuff but it hurts. I doubt I actually pulled a muscle, it’s probably repetitive strain injury or something. I don’t know, it’s surprising because I thought of all the weak nerdy little muscles in my pasty body, the ones in mah strong hand were pretty fucking developed.

Oh and weird… you know bumchum? Yeah you do. Gotta give him another name because it’s creeping me out calling him that, but then it’s probably the best name I can come up with. So bumchum..
The other day I woke up to this weird-ass message from him on facebook. It was sent at 5am so clearly… a drunk dial. Ugh.
He was like “your husband is a piece of shit, he’s an asshole he should be dead he’s a dick”
And then there was another message from like 10 minutes later where he’s like “he’s an asshole what a bastard” or something and I was more than a little freaked out… because my first thought was, husband has finally snapped and done something fucked up. I mean he has a temper:  One time he was like, well if you ever cheat on me I will drag you through the street by your hair. And I was like hey no fair, and he’s all, well don’t cheat on me then. And I couldn’t really argue with that because arguing for the right not to suffer humiliation and violence if I cheated would have been letting him know I had already cheated on him and planned on doing it again…
Anyway…. when I broke up with him he was like “what the fuck, I was nice to you… I NEVER HIT YOU!” like he deserved a fucking medal or something. are you serious? You want to be credited with never hitting me? I know I can be a manipulative bitch sometimes but hitting me wouldn’t have done you any favours, you tool. I have a zero tolerance policy on violence. Not on cheating though. Asshole. All the more reason to leave the bastard. Anyway I was foolish and naive. No more beating myself up about this, please. Ok.

So this message from bumchum freaked me out.
I was all “wtf happened” right back at him… and then hours later he was all “nothing, your ex was just being a dick, he got all angry… he’s got problems”
So then I unleashed my own brand of fury on him because it’s one thing to send a fucked up drunken message, and quite another to just pooh pooh it the next day. He would have been off the hook if he had been all apologetic, but he wasn’t, so I got all up in his grill…

I was like, “that has fucking nothing to do with me. I don’t want or need you to share his rage or your rage at him with me. I don’t want to wake up to fucked up angry messages that only freak me out. If you have something to tell me that affects me in some way, give me information. Don’t just send me some bullshit rage bomb. I understand that you were drunk when you sent it but I don’t deserve to have to listen to this shit from anyone. I broke off contact with 99% of my friends here just so I can avoid any potentially awkward or uncomfortable encounters with my ex… that should give you a fucking good idea of I don’t want to know any more. And if you keep saying you find him so annyoing and such a dick, then stop fucking hanging out with him. And if you’re trying to make me think he’s more of a dick, then don’t. I judge people based on how they act towards me, and based on how he acted to me I already cut him out of my life so there is no need for more vague accusations.
I may get drunk and mention him sometimes, but that is my prerogative because he was a huge part of my life. He’s nothing to you, so he shouldn’t be causing this reaction in you.
So that’s all, I don’t want to hear any more on the subject.
Regards (actually I said like saludos which is friendlier, but it was in spanish you see.)

MFO.”

So. I flew a little off the handle there but damn that guy freaked me out with his overreaction. Who the fuck does he think he is? I’m not meeting up with him again that’s for sure. Ugh he creeps me out… if only I hadn’t let him into my bed.. however the fuck he got in there is still a mystery. I have to stop getting so drunk I don’t remember shit.

Anyway. Then he replied being like “oh sorry I was just drunk and angry, I realise you don’t need that shit blah blah blah” but I’m like, yeah cool but secretly I am never going to hang out with this weirdo again.

So… Another freak. Am I the only sane person? That’s not good. I was talking to my friend yesterday and she agreed he was a freak, just as I was about to start thinking wait did I go overboard in my “schooling” him in why he shouldn’t drunk dial me angry ex-hatred?

I realised, I have to talk to my friends more often. Like, involve them in my decisions. Look at the shit I have decided without consulting my friends:

Going to south america with a boyfriend. Marriage (with a different guy I met in south america). Buying an apartment with a mortgage. Moving to Italy.

Look at what I have decided with a little help from my friends:

To leave my husband. To leave Italy.

Eh, why am I such a pigheaded moron that I always insist on doing things alone and only asking for advice when I know I’ll hear confirmation of what I want to hear? Anyway we made a pact to in future, be super honest to each other about our new boyfriends and remind each other of what we want from a man next time our heads are full of crappy love hormones and we can’t think properly.

I am so sick of being “the cool girl” in relationships. I bend over backwards to act totally chilled out and cool about everything and like I’m not high maintenance, and I don’t buy into the classic romance shit and the flowers and actually yeah screw flowers but still, anyone who knows me a small bit could buy me jewelry or a bottle of 12 year old whiskey, it’s not hard to be thoughtful. I let these men into my life, I let them sprawl all over my personal space and fart and talk to me when they are on the toilet and they see me without makeup and I believe them when they tell me it’s ok to be hairy one time, and then we both become these hideous fat slobs who just don’t give a shit, and eventually we lose the desire to fuck each other because seriously, look at us!

So next time… Imma be high maintenance. I bet I would be really good at high maintenance too, I’m already bossy and domineering, I’ve just never used it on men because I always want to impress them with how I’m just “one of the guys” except screw that, you don’t fantasize about fucking one of the guys do you? No more of that Avril Lavigne bullshit. I’m going to cultivate an air of mystery. How? I do not know… but I have plenty of time to reinvent myself before I move to Londinium…

As usual this is followed by a disclaimer… the intentions to do things / change self for the better/ become a better social creature / drink less expressed above are not binding and are only vaguely representative of good intentions. Do not be disappointed if I wind up living in a trailer with a meth dealer in 6 months. Well.. do be disappointed. But just don’t be entirely surprised.

In other news….

My hair has never looked this good. It is soft, shiny, and awesome. I don’t know why… it is either due to the puke or the fact that when I washed out the puke I didn’t have any conditioner left so I just used shampoo.
Now, I am going to test this out tonight (by washing it with just shampoo, not vomiting) but I would appreciate if any of you feel like joining my experiment for the sake of furthering science and my desire not to buy any more conditioner.
So what you can do to help is, if you are throwiing up any time soon, don’t hold your hair back! No! Work it into the follicles baby. Seriously my hair looks amazing and I got all the bits out anyway, even without conditioner to help with the brushing.
Otherwise, maybe try to wash your normally non vomity hair with just shampoo and report back to me.
But don’t do both like I did, because then we will still be no wiser as to why my hair is so silky smooth.

It’s amazing. Seriously… like you know when you see a small child’s hair and think what a waste, they have such beautiful smooth soft hair and they don’t even go out clubbing, well that’s what my hair is like now.
It hasn’t shone at the tips like this since some 6 week hairdressing course bitch convinced me to bleach my hair so I could dye it brown after all the black… and then cut my hair like an ugly middle aged person. Two weeks before my wedding. It was an ominous sign… for a superstitious person, which I’m not. Fuck signs. But I wasn’t happy about looking so shit on my wedding day.

Tip: when in Italy, always wear makeup to get your hair cut. If you don’t look nice going into the salon, they will treat you like an unattractive person and not bother trying to make the cut suit your face, presuming you just want to make your miserable, pathetic existence easier by removing “all that pesky weight” from your coiff so you can wash it with minimal effort seeing how there is no point in you bothering with your appearance anyway.

Paranoid? Cynical? Moi? No, it’s italy… it’s italy did this to me. That’s what Italy thinks, I don’t think that… it’s Italy’s fault.

Stupid country.

Anyway sorry but I am baffled by the stupidity this morning.
Yeah I’m blogging at work again… my dad is likely to arrive any moment but I am a damn fool and I can’t honestly abide being so bored so…
He caught me yesterday and I was pressing shift F4 instead of Alt F4 so he saw me facebook chatting to my friend and luckily didn’t see the content of the messages… but he wasn’t happy.

Anyway… this morning I had a mother-daughter customer unit enter the shop.
Actually it was mother-daughter-father. The father was placed at the entrance to the shop (annoyingly in my personal space so I couldn’t blog safely as he could look at what I was writing. Asshole.) and he was quickly decorated with various shopping bags and coats. I offered if he wanted to put the things down on the pouff we have for trying on shoes. he smiled weakly and cast a furtive, fearful glance at his wife and daughter before turn to me and sadly saying “no no.. I’ll carry everything.”
They made him stand there (and me, stand their presence) for at least 45 minutes. Seriously. He could have sat down, put the stuff down… he just stood there. What a sad sack.
Way to let a pair of she-harpies slip your balls into a noose. I have very little sympathy….

Anyway the mother flitted back and forth from the dressing room, passing her daughter trousers and tops and jackets to try on. The daughter… and this was weird, right? Was trying on trousers at first with just her bra on. She had a shirt but for some reason wanted to try the pants on without the top, and then she opened the curtain to show me if the pants fit. Like, it’s not weird she showed me her boobs, but like… her dad was right there. She was like 17 or something. I dunno… I grew up with a stepdad and didn’t see my dad more than twice or three times a year so maybe I am particularly prudish (as well as whatever other issues I got, yes yes, it all becomes clear now, sorry to be such a cliche people) about being topless around fathers… It just seems weird to me. Maybe it’s totally normal, maybe normal families with married parents have naked pillow fights after dinner… who the fuck knows. Not me anyway.
Anyway so she’s in her little bra and these horrendous mc hammer pants, and the mother is flustering around trying to find something the daughter likes while the dad surveys his kid and is like “hmm well if you like them, go ahead” and she hasn’t the least bit of desire to cover her boobies.
Anyway. Enough about this.

So the mother enlists my help… I begrudgingly join in this madcap hunt for a pair of trousers… it doesn’t matter, the dad was obstructing my computer usage anyway. Selfish bastard.
So I suggest a different pair of mc hammer pants that will probably look nicer on although still, what a horrible waste of a 17 year old slender body, bagging it like lumpy vegetables, in a hot air baloon where farts marinate and any kind of obesity could be festering underneath, no one knows…
The mother likes the trousers… but I only have them in black. The daughter tries them on. No other colours? Pesters the mother after I just fucking said there was only black.
No, just black.
They would be nicer in green… my daughter likes green.
I swerve my eyes away from the topless teen, and smile knowingly, as if to say, ah yes, younguns and their obsession with green? Like I’m a fellow mother or something… urgh.
I tell her no, just black, but then I root out another slightly different pair in green and she takes that to her daughter who is just standing there in the changing room and could easily put on her top and come out and look at the clothes herself.

I leave them to their own devices for a while as my jealousy over the girl’s perfect boobs is making me stare, and hate her a little bit, and feel like a little bit of a perve.
So I ignore the family and read the news online.
Then the mother comes out with an arm full of crumpled rejected clothing and hangers sticking out of her ample bosom… ha ha her daughter’s boobs won’t stay nice forever, just look what genetics have in store for her! Exactly why she shouldn’t be wasting her hot years wearing baggy hippie shit now. Stupid girl.
Anyway I enquire politely about how the pants were… did the green ones look nice?
The mother dumps her armload of clothes and pointy hangers on my small and less shelf-like chesticles.

“Sorry… no. Well… the green ones were nice, but they would have been better in black. She just can’t see when she would wear a pair of green pants.”

ARE YOU FUCKING SHITTING ME?

I look down at my knuckles… If I had a hero other than myself I could think What Would THEY Do? Instead I’m like WHAT WOULD I DO? And that’s pretty fucking useless as a moral compas.
But:
I did not sucker punch the woman in the face.
I did not ninja kick her daughter in the cleavage.

The father I had no real beef with, he was just a poor sap who should have been like ok you bitches go shopping, I’m gonna get me a quick lap dance.  Or he could have lied and said “I’m going to talk about sports with some other men” and gotten a lapdance without risking his wife’s wrath. That’s what I would have done, probably. I wouldn’t have married a spirit-crushing dominatrix like that anyway… or yeah, I kind of did. Boom.

But I just smiled at my non-customers and as they shuffled out of the shop on to waste the time of more hard working shop assistants, I hung up the bazillion items of clothing that the lazy bitch could have been hanging up while just standing there flashing her dad and waiting for her mum to pick out clothes for her to try on.

THEN I get another nut job..
A woman comes into the shop alone and asks “do you mind if we have a look around?”
I say of course not, go ahead… and wonder is there a dwarf behind her I can’t see? A small dog in her pocket? No.
She is alone.
Oh… maybe she has crabs and she was referring to herself and her parasites when asking if they could come in. I hope so, otherwise, she crazy.

So that’s all I have to share with you for now. I am sure some more wild adventures will strike me any time. Who knows what can happen… it’s a freaking rollercoaster ride

Can’t get over how soft my hair is. Seriously if it’s not the conditioner thing, which would mean conditioner is a massive scam, then I thoroughly reccommend you try washing your hair with bile.

Because seriously it’s worth it.

 

UPDATE:

Just plucked up the courage to whip off the band-aid covering whatever the fuck happened Saturday night: I asked Andrea on facebook how the night ended.

GREAT NEWS! she was just as mouldy disgusting drunk as I was, and her SOBER boyfriend who drove the two of us home, conked out in his car, said we were fine, and didn’t seem too drunk.

She doesn’t remember anything either. Thank fuck for that! Oh that’s all I care about really… that my friend is as much of a legless mess as I am so I can be forgiven. Hall Ay FUCKING Yoo YAH!

I feel good.

Glossing over my shrill threats to mace guys on the dance floor…

I feel good.

I have managed to survive another night without losing this one last friend I have.

WOO WOO!

So… next weekend, right?

Next weekend there’s this party. Oh my god I can’t wait. It’s gonna be off the hook… AND I don’t have to work in the morning, so I can get proper messy. Oh dang, I know, I have learnt my lesson… no shots. I swear. I promise. Really. And I will not carry weapons either.

Ok really. I will be good. I have learnt from this experience, probably.

 

NOW it’s time for happy happy joy joy.

Scroll up to the to if you wanna do this blog reading experience right… If you don’t want to listen to happy happy joy joy twice, I will understand though.

A bird I’d like in the bush, and two that have gotten out of hand…

Today began stupidly but ended kind of sublime.
I woke not fifteen minutes after the last of 8 strategically spaced alarms had been muted, already too late to put on makeup but going to spend 5 minutes anyway because my eyebrows look like crap.
Not today, no.

I woke with 40 spare minutes to spend on myself and my makeup and brushing my hair before I left the house. I was refreshed too, despite staying up like a naughty child until ridiculous o’ clock.
I had all the time I never have, enough to ensure I left the house groomed and awake and with no need to run for a bus.
But I squandered it.

I turned over clutched my duvet to me and tried to mush together an image of sexy bartender in my mind’s lecherous eye… I was too sleepy though and kept drifting off and looking at the clock to find I had jumped forward ten minutes in what was clearly 30 seconds…
Ugh.
Rolled out of bed at the usual, fantastically late time and did my makeup in a rush and brushed the top layer of my overdose of hair so it looks brushed but underneath is a wannabe uni-dread…
I ran out the door flustered and rushed as always, but looking pretty fucking good anyway if I do say so myself. I seem to have become adept at doing makeup brushing teeth giving hair the appearance of being brushed AND picking and putting on an outfit in 15 minutes.
I wore a red pencil skirt and vintage stretchy belt that makes it look like I have a tiny waist to offset my massive hips. I felt like a brunette Christina Hendricks except without the boobs. (don’t make that face, it’s not ALL about her boobs and red hair… is it?)

I made it into work 2 minutes before lateness.
I rushed out for a quick coffee and my morning dose of gorgeous, but along the way I had to pass my usual obstacle… Sexy Homeless guy.

I began inexplicably looking right at homeless guy (I’m not calling him sexy any more).
And as I looked at him he began looking at me. So we were just looking at each other. Nothing flirty or friendly at all. Just blank expressions. I realised in panic that I was getting close and would need to find some legitimate reason to look away or awkwardness… I faltered. My brain failed me.
I passed him maintaining intense but ambivalent eye contact and then somehow some kind of greeting tried to politely emerge from my mouth but whatever it was I have no idea.
I just approached this homeless dude,staring at him, and as I came closest I grabbed my keys from my bag in an act of desperation, to have something to look at, and I looked at my keys held aloft in my hand, dangling like I was offering someone a lift, and muttered something probably inaudible and he probably thinks I was brandishing the keys in the air like “look what I have that you don’t” or something. His eyes briefly registered confusion. I don’t know how he took whatever behaviour I just displayed.

Whatever way he’s looking at it, it’s just increasing my already high anxiety about walking past him every day.

I have no fucking clue what the etiquette is for homeless guys you walk past every day and who you also see sometimes in your local bar where he is a normal customer so clearly not that fucking desperate for cash.
I don’t want him to think I like him or anything… Ugh I have no idea what the correct way to proceed is. He is always looking at me as I go past, he looks at everyone who walks past because that’s what he does, but there is no way for me of looking anywhere without it being obvious that I am avoiding looking at him or his stupid sign. Oh man… I wish I wore shades, but it would be weird to add shades now when I never wore them all summer, I hate shades. Also it’s dark between the buildings in this street, so there’s no excuse.
Crap.

Then I (hardly) worked, which was boring as hell and I spent most of the morning obsessing over the encounter with homeless guy.
I think I will just be really rude now, fuck it, it’s not worth it just for the sake of politeness… I can’t risk having him talk to me when I am trying to check out hotties in the bar.

So I just stewed in that until a customer arrived who pissed me off  to new heights… She was horribly obese but certain she could fit into these one size fits all shirts, and I was like “uh no they are very small, size 10 to 12. (which isn’t that small but that’s how you have to do with fat people. You have to enter into this plane of alternate reality where skinny means anorexic and miserable and having 30% extra body weight means you are happy and enjoy your life and any clothing that doesn’t fit you is made for an unrealistic body shape)

So I’m like oh they’re veeerrrry small… to appease the beast, (who if you watch Doctor Who looked surprisingly like a Sontaren except more fat) because there’s no fracking way she’s fitting into it and I don’t want to waste her time (read:mine)

But she hums and haws. She doesn’t want to accept my ruling, and she refuses to try it on. She eyes me up. She sees what I consider today’s Jessica Rabbit proportions, eyes them critically… and she drops an insult-bomb.

“Would YOU fit into this?” She waves the top in front of my small outcropping of belly.

I was of course horribly taken aback. Excuse me, I’m a fucking HOURGLASS! How DARE YOU. These are curves, I’m not just a lump like you, I have a nice thin middle part and great legs! How very dare you!… Is what I think.

Out loud I mutter something about of fucking course I fit the top, and she looks back at me disgruntled and adds,

“I suppose you are slimmer…” as if it’s a toss up and I just about come out on top.

Fuck you, walrus woman. Fuck you and your stupid Sontaren face. (that picture I couldn’t manage to line up better is a Sontaren, so you know. No I am not bitter and mean, she really did look like that. Mostly.)

Anyway I finally convince the whale to try it on and surprise of a lifetime, it don’t fit.

She tells me defiantly as she hands me the top to put back on the hanger (thanks, bitch. I told you it was too small) that it would have fit perfectly except that it wouldn’t fit her in the chest. Bull. Shit. Her belly protrudes a good five cms further than her lumpy boobs. She sucks. Out! Begone!

I was enveloped with rage.

And then I did a bold thing and went on facebook, which I am effectively banned from doing after boss-dad found me like 7 times in one day checking my messages.
So I was online and damn it bumchum was online, and he has an annoying tendency of always starting these banal conversations with me, about nothing, responding to my every time-lapsed “oh right” and “haha” as soon as I hit send.
I mean yeah he did agree “what happened happened” and I’m sure I was clear about not wanting to ever go there again ever! But sometimes he invites me out for some drinks and I’m always like “mm I don’t know I am tired, I’ll call you if I feel like going out” and then I never call.
Today he invited me to his house for dinner which flashed neon warnings in my face, but then he said he was having a whole bunch of his friends over because he has moved house. But I already told him Skyrim is out today so eh… priorities!
He laughed when I said that I would probably not go out for another couple of weeks.
He’s like, oh are you going to try complete it over the weekend.
Ugh. What a dumb thing to say.
You don’t COMPLETE a game like this, you make it last as long as you possibly can and do everything there is to do and you ignore the main quest until you run out of challenging shit to kill. It’s not fucking Crash Bandicoot, you don’t COMPLETE it.  Noob.

Anyway he was also like “oh I might come by the shop and chat to you” and I realised I didn’t want him to come to my shop, I wanted alone time, I didn’t want to have to awkwardly mwah mwah on the cheeks, I didn’t want to smell his aftershave and get the full heebie jeebies his presence inspires in me since THAT night. It has become clear he digs the cut of my jib, and any face time with him is just building to the inevitable attempt and rejection and then awkwardness.

I’d cut him off now, but I feel by remaining friends with him I am buying his silence regarding the matter of what happened between us. If I start being distant and short with him, he’ll realise I don’t really wanna be friends any more and he will be free to spill the beans to everyone I know who he knows which is, uh, everyone I know.

And I don’t want that, I got a reputation to think of!

So I have to be nice but also keep him at arms length.

Anyway I’m like “oh no, I can’t chat today I am working all afternoon with another girl, Paola. She’s quite serious about work and doesn’t take kindly to me dossing or chatting to friends.”
He’s like, “oh right what time do you go to work with her?”
I’m all, “3.30pm” which is what time I go for lunch at, but I don’t want to tell him 4.30 because then maybe he will show up earlier when I am about to go on lunch. It’s nearly 3pm now anyway so I doubt he can make it out to where I work before I have to leave for the second shift. That’s what I think.

He’s like, oh well I might see you later then.
Urgh.

He shows up AT 3.30. I am just about to go on lunch. Paola is taking over from me while I go on lunch. Paolo is there and Bumchum is there and he’s trying to converse with me, I actually hang back and the moment for the kissing of the cheeks passes so I avoid that, but he stays and chats to me as I gather up my things and try to think of where to say I am going so he doesn’t know I am on lunch and offers to accompany me? Also, I want to have lunch in my hottie bar, and I cannot show up with some strange and unattractive man. They will think he is my boyfriend.
So I ask where he’s going so I can go the opposite way, but he’s like “uhhh don’t know,” so he obviously wanted to hang with me for a bit. I’m like, well I gotta go this way… so he walks out with me and he’s like where you going now? And I’m like ugh I gotta go check in the other shop because the girl there called me earlier with this problem…blah blah blah… then I have to go back to work in the other shop.”
So I get rid of him although I do have to do the stupid cheek kisses to say goodbye which I hate and then I visit the girl with the problem which I actually hadn’t made up, and then I am free and I run back to my hottie bar… well… I totter. I look nice though, I checked in the shop mirror.

And there… oh beautiful moment!
Is sexy bartender with his lovely face and two of the other staff and NO OTHER CUSTOMERS!
I order a long coffee, and Americano…
Sexy bartender sees me and says hi.

He begins juggling cups and things and basically impressing the pants off me while demonstrating duly-noted manual deftness. There’s no need for this, oh sexy bartender… you had me at “one euro please” (first words he ever spoke to me, probably. Swooooon)
I pull myself together and manage to force a conversation.
I am friendly.
I do the pleasantries… we talk… I sip my coffee as slowly as possible without just pretending to drink it.
We chat.
I am happy.
Some old biddies come in and start whining about their coffee and how much milk they want. I mentally high kick them in the saggy chins.
Sexy bartender deals with them politely but quickly and comes back to me, and chats to me.
Oh he is so hot. He is just gorgeous.
Man he is gorgeous.
Anyway now I have had a little chat with him the door is open for me to single him out for conversation.
He is now the barman I have spoken to most out of all of them.
I am so proud of myself for just forcing a conversation, just like any pervy man would do with a woman…
But reciprocated, baby!

Anyway I was so happy after I left (damn coffee ran out eventually.) that I went to work and began gift wrapping with gusto. I realised at one point that I was actually humming “happy birthday” out loud while I wrapped the present.

That has never happened before, I normally just focus on solidifying my hatred for the customer who asked for gift wrapping into something sharp.

So now I am alternately super fucking happy and proud of my advancement to level 2 of basic socialisation skills… and oh shit what do I do about the homeless guy? How to avoid? He’s right in my path as I go to the hottie bar every day. There is no avoiding him. He stands guard like Cerberus, except instead of having three vicious heads he has one kind of dejected, accusatory looking one.
And instead of actively defending his turf he just sits on some cardboard.
But I can’t handle the tension.
WHY couldn’t I just be a dick and ignore him completely?
I am going to have to get a hat with a visor or something.
I can’t wear shades in the winter, I don’t care I just can’t. I’m not Italian. It’s against my principles…

 

Anyway.

Friday night kicks off NOW.

Pizza: check.

Beer: Check, yo.

Skyrim: CHECKAROONIES!

 

It’s about to get off the hook.

See you in two weeks. (or before, if I risk some worktime writing, which is likely…)

 

I feel a surge of love and wellwishing for all humanity.

PEACE OUT, y’all

You can stick your umbrella where the sun don’t shine

This morning it is pissing rain.

The Italians, cool as penguins in sunglasses, take snow in their stride.

In summer, when it is 35 degrees c, they strut around in jeans and boots while I sweat and melt and stick to bus seats in the lightest smallest bit of fabric I possess.

But it RAINS, motherfuckers?

It RAINS and chaos. Anarchy. Every man for himself… well, ok, but even more so than usual.

The entire footpath around the bus stop is flooded, although it’s raised above the road which is not flooded. (Nice design, ITALY.)

Everyone is packed in together under the bus shelter even though it is barely raining at all. I have a hat, so I am not degrading myself by putting my body that close to other people’s bodies, especially since I go to work at the same time old people emerge from their homes to stroll around and argue about coupons and generally get in people’s way.

Then there are the umbrellas. By choosing not to dive into the sea of wet, saggy flesh under the shelter, I am forced to go into ninja defensive mode to protect my eyes and other soft bits from their metal spikes.

Italians especially the elderly are mostly shorter than me, so I see them as these grumpy pixie people who protect themselves from tiny droplets of water by shielding their bodies and enough space for 5 more such bodies with a massive golf umbrella.

They wield their unneccessarily dangerous water shields like a puppy wields its tail in a liquor store.

I am lurching and swooping out of the way constantly as nobody around me is aware of the space they take up.

Then some bus comes by and everyone squashes forward and puts down umbrellas and stampedes for what they imagine is a delightfully empty load of seats… they spray me with water and I have to put my arms up to defend my face, my gorgeous face, from umbrella metal.

But it is not an empty bus, it is an out of service bus. It said it on the front, and now the driver tells us. Moaning and groaning ensues. Umbrellas are erected with flumps and fresh sprays of wet.

One elderly woman finds this experience so injust, she waves her umbrella accusingly and shrieks at the driver.

The driver mutters something back to her re “doing my job, it said out of service on the front, etc”.

The woman yells at him saying in a tone that drips with more sarcasm than when I thank my customers

“VERY POLITE, you have a very good education obviously!”

Another old woman beside her joins in berating the bus driver and the bus service in general, and the bus drives off leaving us to fall back into our previous, pre-bus formation.

A woman in a burka (or hijab… look I don’t know the difference, and I don’t care) scours the face of a prune-juice enthusiast who’s passing. I watch the umbrella’s pointy bit dig a furrow through her face, slowly, without breaking the skin or anything, but then it was a plastic tip. She shrieks. The burka woman jerks her umbrella away and gets me with it in the shoulders, but I have my hands up, I’m blocking.

Eventually we get on the bus which is crammed full when it arrives, so we are practically having sex with each other after my stop which is a main train station. Then people hold their soaking wet umbrellas all folded up, against my coat, my tights, my legs. Umbrella water drips down into my boots. I take a passive aggressive stance against this treatment and manage to divert the umbrellas towards more passive and less aggressive companions. I look at facebook on my kindle, but then I can’t hold onto the bar so I have to put it away and stare at the tops of these peoples midget heads.

Several slimey slimeballs try to catch my eye.

I’m not even flattered because I woke up at the last possible minute to wake up for arriving in work on time…. yesterday.

Today I woke up at the last possible minute for leaving the house to arrive on time.

So I didn’t put on any makeup or brush my hair which is GROSS and I mean I never leave the house without at least eyeliner. I look really shit without makeup, trust me.

I arrive at work and don’t even go to my hot barman bar for coffee also because I’m late but I would normally sneak off anyway for a quick shot of coffee anyway. But I look shit so I don’t want sexy barman to see me sans slap and be discover my filthy secret, ie, what I really look like.

So I have not had a coffee yet. Lack of caffeine is like my vitriol-fuel.

Anyway by some freak of random eventitude, I arrive 1 minute before I have to be in work. YES!

Then I start reading shit online. I know I am safe to use the internet this morning because it is pissing rain, my dad won’t be popping in today, he can stay home and be warm.

Then I am just internetting it up, being disappointed with my lack of facebook love, and suddenly BAM out of the corner of my eye, a freaking spider lurking past me with deliberate, menacing movements like someone wearing boots that are way too big for them… ….who is also menacing.

What the fuck? I jump away from the danger area, the computer-equipped danger area, and wait, quivering with fear, for some clever course of action to present itself to me.

I wait, and it becomes clear that I have two choices.

Only two.

First choice is to kill the spider. This is actually not possible for me. I never understood people who are afraid of spiders and yet able to kill them. How can you be afraid of something where you have a simple solution to get rid of it at all times? If I could stomach squishing a bug and having its bug guts VISIBLE to me… ugh no. Can’t do it. I can’t.

That’s that option out.

Second choice is to stay back and hope its trajectory leads it far far away from anything I will need or want to go near, and I can just be on spiderwatch all day. This isn’t a great plan at work, because if a customer distracts me and I lose visual contact with the spider, he will be missing and presumed RIGHT BEHIND ME at all times.

This is the action I took, of course, and I imediately lost sight of the spider as her retreated behind some shelves.

The spider was last seen behind some leather bags, he is considered unarmed and extremely terrifying.

I try to look for him. He is definitely not by the computer right now though so I am safe to type for the moment.

But of course I am jumpy and nervous as hell. I keep imagining his spindly spidey legs wrapping around the side of my face and just as I realise what’s happening, he’s got his icky spider body in front of my eye and because he’s so close and I am young with amazing eyesight, I can see all the cogs and gears that make up his non-human exoskeletal body and it’s wrong and unnatural. And then I see his EYES and he spits spider acid in my eye and I am blinded.

This is my greatest fear.

It combines my two single greatest fears- having acid thrown in my face (leaving me with something REAL to complain about) and my fear of spiders.

Anyway I keep jerking around the place and my eyelid is threatening to come out and get jiggy with it. Damn that shit is annoying. I hadn’t had eyelid- freaky- trouble in years, probably since I lived with my mother. Hmm.

Anyway. A customer comes in and goes straight to the part of the shop I consider most likely to be hiding the spider. I put on some Bootsy Collins so nowI can kind of pass off some of my involuntary shuddering as just bad white person dancing to funky music.

(I didn’t imediately see this side of things, I was just having a little boogie and realised how similar my on purpose dancing is to my ugh spider makes my skin crawl movements)

The customer watches me warily indeed. I stop dancing. I don’t wanna look weird.

He is buying a wallet decorated with flowers, so for some stupid fucking reason I offer to gift wrap it even though I am not mentally ready for anything right now. I have adrenaline raging through my ill-equipped body, telling me to hide or run away. (fight only occurs to me when I am drunk, otherwise big coward)

Normally I am ok with giftwrapping unless I am hung over but this spider thing has me tormented. I am having what can only be described (without too much exaggeration) as a mid-day crisis. I imediately hate myself for offering to wrap the gift. It was a stupid thing to blurt out, it was a moment of insanity and now I have to pay for it.

I smile shakily and select what I think is the right sized gift wrap. It’s not. It’s just too small to close neatly. My fingers try to do some deft shop assistant movements and make nice, but it’s not working. I am trembling like a hung over person and my peripheral vision keeps sending me false alarms regarding the missing spider.

I try to look sick or hung over so it makes sense to the customer that I am looking really weird and my hands are shaking.

I toss aside the giftwrap and take a bigger piece. Then I remember my dad put the scissors in his pocket yesterday, I remeber telling him it was dangerous (it’s a BIG scissors) and he was like “pff” but now I have no scissors. So at this point the customer has been standing waiting for his gift wrapped package for five minutes while I wrestle pathetically with a just too small bit of giftwrap.

Now I can’t cut the big piece so I just wrap it around loads of times and sellotape clumsily at the edges. It looks terrible. I try to slide my creation into a plastic bag without him seeing, but the plastic bag is stuck to the next one and I can’t get them apart with one hand. I crumble and deposit the shittiest gift ever onto the counter and take a bag and then he HELPS me open the bag because he has seen enough to realise I am SPECIAL and not in the good, Fallout games kind of way.

WHERE IS THIS SPIDER?

I can’t find it. My nerves are shot. I keep finding stray bits of my hair brushing across my forehead or neck and am ready to burst into self indulgent tears if it’s actually the spider.

Ugh.

Not happy right now.

Anyway it is raining lots and I am sniffling and sneezing which probably means I should get an umbrella because my hat aint doing its job, if you can’t beat em join em, but I am OIRISH! WE don’t waste our time with such inventions.

For those of you unlucky enough to have never visited the nation that spewed me forth from its lovely loins, let me tell you about Irish rain.

In Ireland it rains on average, 300 days out of 365. That doesn’t mean that wherever you are, it is raining 300 days of the year- but somewhere on the island it is raining, yes. It isn’t a particularly huge island, so that’s… well whatever. It’s a statistic, for whatever it’s worth.

Anyway you would think knowing that it rains a lot, that the Irish would be massive users of umbrellas. You might expect us to have monogrammed umbrellas with gold plated handles, or to accessorise umbrellas with our outfits. Or something. But we don’t.

Ireland is too windy for an umbrella to really be a very good idea. It’s too fucking windy. Here’s what has happened every time I have gone so long without using an umbrella that is has seemed like a fantastic invention and I have taken to the streets with one borrowed from an elderly relative (elderly people can use umbrellas because they will probably not go out in the wind anyway as they are too frail, frailer than an umbrella really)

Five minutes of wow, this is great, I’m not even wet, I could READ if I wanted to… my hair is gonna look awesome when I get to work.

Then a little gust of wind turns my umbrella inside out and I have to decide whether to use it anyway all broken and fucked up looking or discard it by the side of the road. Sometimes you see people with umbrellas in Ireland, but it is mystifying. Maybe business people are buying good quality unbreakable umbrellas that I can’t afford. Maybe that is it. All the more reason to hate thier stupid guts.

I hate umbrellas and whosoever wields them.

In Italy it is not windy, so umbrellas make sense. But I still resist them on principle- also, if I carry an umbrella and meet someone on the footpath who also has one, by the laws of I AM TALLER THAN MOST ITALIANS, I have to raise mine over theirs to squeeze by- that means theirs ducks under mine, and flings water onto my head and also my head is exposed to umbrella spikes.

GARRHHH! I hate umbrellas. I wish personal head-bubbles would become a thing, and we could say goodbye and fuck off to umbrellas forever.

I am going out tonight anyway and guess what, after three days of 10 hours shifts to make up for the hours I missed when my mum was over, I actually have tomorrow morning free from work! Saturday morning, imagine! That means I can get shitfaced and fancy free and even footloose if I so desire, and tomorrow I can sleep enough sleep to function as an employee!

Oh man it’s gonna be great.

Except it’s piddling rain.

So hopefully can find somewhere nice to drink and not call it off due to bad weather. My Saturday morning off work will not be taking a rain check, so I have to make tonight a good night.

Anyway. I better do some proper work now. There are no customers but I am too afraid to be near the computer it’s in a corner, if the spider strikes and he could at any moment, I am fucked.

Laters,

MFO.

 

UPDATE: I found the spider. I couldn’t handle not knowing… I shook the shelves by the expensive bags and it came scuttling out and up onto the top shelf. I thought ok, I will let it stay there. We can coexist. (Ie. I wish I could kill you but you are just as scary to me dead) but then the stupid fucker starts making an expedition towards my computer again and my workstation.

This will not stand.

You know how protective I get about bugs coming into my personal space.

So I took off my Clark Kent the pussy glasses and became EXTERMINATE-RA!

Or I don’t know about the name yet, I am working on it. The point is it is my bug killing alter ego who only comes out when I am really truly under siege by some crunchy multi-limbed plague.

So I got my gypsy stick and started stabbing at it through the metal grid back of the shelves as it picked its way across the wall. I said “Hiii— yah!” once but it felt like I was saying hiii-yaa! long after I had stabbed with my stick and the spider was much faster than my stabbing OR my voice so I didn’t continue with that. Then it was nearly getting to the part near my laptop where I would no longer be able to stab at all in case I got bug bits on my precious, so I got real crazy and did a frenzied attack on wherever the spider might hit next… I saw it slip a bit on the wall high above my laptop and realised with some feeling of guilt that I must have mutated its leg a bit. Poor guy. I am sorry mr. Spider, it’s not that I hate you, it’s just that everything about you and your species revolts me and makes my skin crawl. On a celular level I respect you, you are an awesome creature and you have such cool natural abilities that a human with those same powers is a SUPER HERO. So that’s cool. I mean no other creature can say that- maybe an ant. I hate ants too but they are smaller so I can squish them good so they don’t freak me out hence I can allow them to live. Catch 22 yo.

Anyway once I realised I had made it harder for this spider to live its life and catch flies and basically do what a spider does, I decided I could pretend to be merciful if I killed it. It still grosses me out but at least it doesn’t feel like senseless bloodlust. Even though it’s bollox- I only believe euthinasia is right if you can really know if the person wants to be alive or dead. So with animals, I can’t really feel justified with putting them out of their misery… but then luckily I’m not in a position where I have to clarify my stance on the subject.

Anyway I got out the hoover even though this spider was quite large although not very fat, he just had long spindly legs. I know spiders apparently can survive the hoovering process but at least he will be contained for a while. I wish I had some spider poison I could hoover up after him but I don’t. Oh well. I couldn’t allow him to stay living above my head while I blog, that would have been intollerable. That is all, now I can go back to doing nothing.

I’m at least grateful to the spider for giving me something to freak out about this morning as there have been only two customers so far.

Post- birthday post

Today was not a good day. Nothing happened, I just hated Italy particularly badly today.

I hated the customers with their interminable foot complaints. Boy am I sick of hearing this shit. I snap at one deluded mouth breather with her “fallen arches” that necessitate “not wearing totally flat shoes”. Oh you find it uncomfortable to wear ballet flats all day. SO DOES EVERYONE.

She’s like “ooh no it’s because I have specific special weird feet” and I’m thinking why if you have such special delicate fucking feet are you here in the bargain basement buying crappy made in China pumps? Why don’t you go to one of those proper shoe shops where the salespeople feel your big toe through the shoe for some reason, maybe to make you feel like they know what they’re doing.

I hated the billboard ads saying “wives: serve your husband this pasta dish!” and another one warning that the instant meal was so tasty, your kids won’t leave home til they are 40! Hahahaha … die now.

I hate those assholes in the white paint who go around jumping out at people and asking for money for having done nothing. Today one jumped at me and blew a loud kiss and my arms instinctively went to smack him in the face but my head said, no you can’t smack him, so I sort of flapped my arms and jerked them back and made a strangled yelping sound and muttered to myself and walked on, and it must have looked really odd.

I hate that I think I have put some weight back on. I thought I could put aside the starvation tactics for a while, and incorporate some parmsesan back into my life.. I was wrong. It’s banana and bean salad time again. Uff. I just wanna look good, is it so much to ask? I eat fuck all, I never have fizzy drinks, I barely go out and drink at all… I should be a stick insect.

I hated that on the bus a really quite attractive guy was staring at me the whole journey… but what the fuck was I supposed to do? I’m not going to pick some guy up on the bus. I’m definitely not going anywhere with anyone who picks girls up on the bus. So I avoided his eyes and thought why the fuck do I never see hot guys when I’m out?

I feel kind of pointless. Like I could just hibernate.

It’s not a good day.

Stupid question of the day:
Customer, pointing at a rail where I have hung thick woolen jumpers.
“So is this the winter range?” points around her.
What does she want from that question?

I know I’m a terrible pedant at times, especially when bored:
But what was this girl’s motivation for asking her question?
What could I have replied to that?
“No, they are our summer woolen jumpers”
or (the answer she received)
“Yes”

What did she DO with that information?
Why did she need to ask this?
What decision did having this information better prepare her to make?
Why would you ask a question like that?
Aside from the obvious “why wasn’t she able to use her own powers of deduction and reasoning to glean this mosel of knowledge?”

She said “oh,” thanked me, and left.
If I had said it was our summer wool collection, what, would she have bought something? To bring on her southern hemisphere beach holiday?
It’s ALL WOOL!

Anyway I do not want to encourage the weird vein in my eyelid so I’m gonna calm down and let go of the customer hatred that is building. That’s all I need, a facial tic.

I’m partly attributing my ongoing antipathy to the fact that I walked past and LOOKED AT a disgustingly fucked up pigeon corpse this morning. It was lying on its back drammatically, feet splayed in the air like a cartoon, and it had BRAINS and GUTS and weird looking shit coming out of it. I made the mistake of looking at it full on. It was like… ever see that movie Bad Taste? It was like that, except real, but not with humans so not as bad.

I briefly considered vomiting to highlight how awful the sight was, and to take advantage of the opportunity. Rarely have I seen something so gross that it made me feel like I could have puked if I let myself… I decided against it after mentally rehearsing the phone call with my dad: “Hey sorry I’m late for work, I saw a dead bird and threw up”… nope, that conversation is not a good idea.
So I moved along and let the bile settle back below the danger line. It was super gross though.
I really hope I never come across a mangled human, I would NOT be able to handle that.

Oh in other news, and possibly another root of my grouchiness,
IT WAS MY BIRTHDAY yesterday.
Yes, I am 24 now.
Birthday came and went in a flurry of non-eventitude.
I had dinner with my family, my sister gave me 10 drawings she did for me. I jokingly told her I was going to wallpaper my apartment with drawings, now she is manufacturing them furiously so I will have enough. Have to remember not to be sarcastic with small children.

I got a lot of nice birthday messages from people who took the time to click “write on MFO’s wall” when prompted by facebook, so that was sweet.
I was surprisingly excited about it, even though I wasn’t going to be celebrating with any kind of party or going out and getting drunk at all. I couldn’t help myself- I grinned all day and was friendly to people. My mum rang and matched my level of enthusiasm the way only she ever could- she probably woke up excited just because it was my birthday. I sort of expect that reaction from other people too, and it doesn’t happen. But you know what, yesterday I was thinking about it and it’s amazing how much enthusiasm other people DO muster for your birthday. Come on, people congratulate you all day, for doing what, surviving? Having been born on a specific day? A lot of people look really overjoyed when it’s my birthday. If someone tells me it’s theirs, I will probably just be like, oh yeah? Me too.. oh no, it’s not. Mine is 26th october. Interesting enough, my last birthday… and then I go off on a story about myself.

I’m just impressed by how they manage to fake this level of interest every time any aquaintance has a birthday, because I know I personally don’t give a crap, unless of course I’m thinking hell yeah, there’s going to be a party I can go to.

So anyway I bopped around the place giddy as a kid who’s actually going to unwrap shit they haven’t picked out in advance, and it was only around 10pm when I realised that, that was it, that was my WHOLE birthday and it was about to expire, that I reined in the hyperactivity a little bit.
I did a little bit of the traditional “ahhh I’m a woman and I’m ageing!” birthday build up, but ultimately it couldn’t get a foothold. I did try to freak out but it just felt ridiculous. The only thing that really upsets me at all about ageing is that it feels like I barely got to be jailbait at all. And I really loved being jailbait. I loved how bad and dirty I could make a man feel about wanting what was perfectly natural but kind of against the rules, knowing there was nothing wrong with wanting to fuck me, but also running through his mind the dangers associated and whether or not he even had a chance and was he misreading my signals or was I actually into him too?

Also, it was fine for me to be shit in bed, because the whole point in a 17 year old girl is that she’s a 17 year old girl, there’s no expectation that she has the stamina for buckaroo type shit.
I barely got to be jailbait at all, and then it was over… I was briefly barely legal which was also cool (Although I did used to yell it when I was drunk, which always embarassed me the next day). Now I’m just an adult.
I mean 23 wasn’t a whole lot different. But the last 2 years sort of flickered past me so I didn’t stop and think about what age I was and what that meant, if anything.

It sort of feels like I was 21 and thinking how cool that was, if I ever went to the U S of A I wouldn’t have to worry about getting served in bars… and then I hibernated for a while and woke up and now I’m 24 which feels like a much meatier kind of age.

But I am attributing too much to a number…
Anyway, managed to get through the day without headbutting a customer.

Went for a superfluous coffee at the bar- sexy bartender was there! YAY! So happy… then he made me my coffee and that was it, of course. I think I better stop drinking espresso, start coming up with something more time consuming… freshly squeezed orange juice? Probably expensive. No, it’s probably better I don’t increase my stalking budget at all.

I can at least switch to cafe Americano, that costs the same but has more water in it so it lasts longer, although then I look like some kind of amateur who doesn’t like the taste of coffee.

Anyway… it’s nice to have ridiculous shit like this to occupy my brain.

I have a few days off work now… My mum is coming to visit me and I didn’t realise when I was all excited about having a freaking VISITOR to my home, (woo woo it’s time to show off how I clean some of the things now!) that her visit will eat up all of Halloween and means I will miss out on the greatest event in the vain slut calendar. Damn it I miss going out for Halloween and getting messy drunk, dressed as sluttily as my figure will allow, but without anyone taking me for an actual slut… hee hee. I love Halloween.

The best slut costumes show off your body but are slightly embarassing so it throws people off the scent- it looks like you’re just having fun wearing something silly and your hot bod happens to just show through that costume anyway.

My favorite: Star Trek catsuit. Come on, it’s a catsuit. BUT it’s nerdy as hell, so people won’t think you are a vain bitch like someone who goes as catwoman, which is both sexy and cool.

Amateurs.

Anyway my mum’s coming to stay which will be nice except for obviously the orgasm eating sounds but I am 24 now so I have to stop fixating on that sort of shit, I have to be mature now.

Anyway 3 days off work, me and my momma in the hizzay, It’s gonna be OFF THE HOOK!

I cleaned up my apartment and mopped the floors and threw out lots of rubbish and washed all the towels and I’m pretty fucking happy with myself.

Except that I don’t FEEL happy. I feel like crap. I want some compliments to my appearance or something. I crave compliments. I feel like absolute shit actually. It may be the fact that I didn’t go out last night for my birthday…

It may be also that the various men I am secretly obsessed with did not facebook me for my birthday.

Maybe it’s because I had birthday money and I spent all morning fantasizing about how I was going to put that money towards getting out of debt, and I felt so good about even having the fantasy, it was amazing, and I had a list of all the chores I was going to do around the house when I got home and then I finished work and lied to myself and said “I’m just going to get some cotton knickers in H&M because washing faded greying off colour undies is depressing me, and anything sexy I have is just made of a stupid fabric that probably gives you thrush so you can’t wear them all day”

And then I went to H&M and bought the SLUTTIEST dress I could find.

I mean it is too slutty for me.

I was embarassed paying for it, because it was a guy who served me.

I pushed it under the knickers I was buying at the checkout so it wasn’t visible to everyone around me. I hit it with underwear, that’s how slutty it is.

I am going to try it on again now and see if I should just bring it back or what because it is seriously too short and too slutty to wear out, my only female friend is Andrea and she just dresses casual and always looks sexier anyway, if I wear that dress out with her I will look like a lunatic, like I’m overcompensating for being the uglier one. Which of course, is EXACTLY what I’m doing.

Ok I’m going to try it on and see if I feel better about myself.

NOPE. Worst possible outcome: I look plump, it’s way too short, and I can’t find the receipt.

ARRRGH!

Ok I am going to wash my face and brush my teeth and watch some classic Seinfeld and tomorrow I get to see my mommy and drink lots of wine with her and we can hit the town and she will get me a present.

Good night.

Sorry I am in a bad mood.

I just thought I should write something anyway because my mum will be here tomorrow and I’m unlikely going to get any time to write anything while she’s here.

The Best Hangover Ever, and only some self-flagellation!

I feeeeeel good!

So good, in fact, that I went to put on some James Brown. Discovered I don’t actually have any James Brown on my work computer so I am currently downloading some, and THEN when that’s finished I will listen to it and my happiness will be complete.

Today is the first day of the rest of my life. Like, really!

I woke up feeling rough as the backs of my calves, but as soon as I made the leap from bed to clothes and tooth brushing and getting outside into the crisp autumn day (finally some crisp motherfuckin weather!) I felt like a new woman, and like I had way more sleep.

Apart from waking up separated from my ex, I also woke up with the most amazing possible type of hangover: the “damn, I have to wait all next week to party again” kind of hangover. I don’t feel like ugggh my head, or ugh my behaviour, or ughhh this guy beside me (there was no guy beside me), I just felt a pang of sadness because I had a really good time and now I won’t have any partying to do until next Friday.

Oh man, I feel good.

Really good.

Damn that album is going to be 20 more minutes, what’s up with my dl speed?

Anyway. I am living proof that the worst most debilitating part of the hangover is the mental anguish. I feel amazing but I did get quite inebriated last night and also I slept about 4 hours, so my feeling totally human and acceptable must be down to the lack of regret and guilt and shame.

Of course I did say a lot of stupid shit to people and I was very drunk and silly by the end of things, but I was in a fantastic mood and importantly, the people I was with were much better fun than the usual crowd of jerks I come across. So my intermittent bullshit and weird unexplained humour were greeted warmly or at least tolerated.

It was a house party- a rare occurrence in Italy as apartments are small and neighbours are sensitive to sound, and Italians seem to like the showyness of the cocktail bar and the amateur-ish mixing of drinks and fruit syrup.  (The true alcoholic proclaims himself by ordering a long island iced tea. It’s nearly all alcohol.)

So I didn’t know it was going to be a house party- I uncharacteristically showed up empty handed and knocked back my host’s beer all night.

I wanted to slowly slowly get ready taking pleasure in layering careful beige crud and coloured powders on top of each other until my face matched my ego’s idea of itself. Unfortunately I wasted about an hour of getting ready time panicking over my stupid outfit and the fact that I don’t have ANY suitable shoes for any occasion. I can’t even throw away my stinky black pumps because they are my only normal black shoes. I eventually settled unhappily on my nice green silky dress that gapes open at the front if I’m not careful. I had to kind of rush my makeup then but decided to mark the occasion of my separation by wearing fake eyelashes, which looked pretty awesome and weren’t excessively mad looking so it was only blatantly obvious to some women that I was wearing falsies.

I left the house and felt like oh no I look like CRAP but it was just because I hadn’t been sure of my clothes and as I was leaving I saw that my comfy slouchy boots that made my over the top dress look more casual, had practically departed from their soles, so I had to change boots and the other boots looked pretty shit and disjointed. But anyway. ONWARDS!

We went to this party, me and Andrea, who was so lovely and happy for me with my good news, we squealed like cheerleaders, I was totally elated to have a decent friend here with me who is actually really fun and cool.

I announced to her that tonight, instead of insisting on pacing myself and being good and then waking up the next day all regrets and self-flagellation, I was gonna get SERIOUS FUCKED UP DRUNK! She nodded and gave me a beer.

I knew some of the guys there- most people were Chilean and there were some Italians, but we had a little group of Chileans going on and it was good craic. The guys I knew were, I don’t know if you remember but one of them I thought was hot but too short, and the others were really easy going and interesting. So they were there, and short hottie was actually not short at all, I think I was wearing heels the last time. But he’s intimidatingly hot but in an innocent looking kind of way that makes me feel very unattractive myself.

I decided I would be extra interesting and smile a lot near him, and see if I got any good body language, and otherwise just chill with the other dudes who I liked better as people. Unfortunately liking someone’s personality doesn’t work for me like physical attraction paired with a shit personality. I feel like that may be my problem with men because it’s a bad formula for happiness and also, I have really lofty aspirations, but meh, I’m a strong personality, I’m boisterous, I should be one of those women who can catch men who are out of my league. I don’t mind if he’s a bit dull or stupid, I just want some hotness. In some way I’m a little bit afraid of the ones I actually like as people- I know I’m a delicate flower right now and I don’t wanna rebound onto anyone, so it’s actually sensible to stick to guys who bore or annoy me a small bit, at least I won’t try and move in with them or hold their hand or anything.

So.

I began the evening by  taking off my jacket and accepting a half glass of neat vodka, which I downed before the poor guy had time to get the mixer. In my defence, I thought when he offered me “vodka” that meant neat vodka, or if it was vodka and sprite he would have said “do you want vodka and sprite” because if you don’t like the taste of neat vodka then you will consider the sprite part to be its selling point.

But I managed to accept the sprite in my empty glass and drink that without him realising I had already finished the vodka part. I don’t want to appear totally dipso to these people, tolerant as they may be, an alcoholic is an alcoholic.

I drank my sprite chaser and switched to beer. I started getting these spring-break-esque bursts of euphoria that forced me to release energy in the form of clinking glasses with people at random, grinning massively, and occasionaly a woooooo! would escape my lips. I was like Aaron Carter’s crazy little party girl. Do you remember that song? Whatever happened to him, did he get all obese and shit?

So I’m partying around the world and this Italian guy pops his shaved little head into the group. He points around at everyone in the middle of our conversation about I think Steve Jobs and how (oh yes, this was one of MY conversation starters, how charming) it’s really depressing that he died because it proves that there actually isn’t a cure for cancer, when I always thought it was like aids and you can cure it if you have lots of money. (At this point people shake their heads and say, there’s no cure for aids either.)

So he points and pronounces us “Chilean!” one at a time. There are some nods. When he gets to me, I shake my head. Where? Where?

Guess… no wait, I realise that “guess” is an invitation to converse some more and I was standing talking next to the hottie so I wanted to get back into that groove.

I tell him I’m Irish. He’s like no way, wow, where in Ireland?

And I’m like, well do you know any place in Ireland besides Dublin?

He’s like.. no, I just wanted to sound like I knew.

And I’m like, that’s what EVERYONE says, but then when I tell you, you’ll inevitably admit you don’t know any place names in Ireland so you will be showing you DONT know….

He says he wants to know. I tell him.

He blushes and says, yeah I don’t know where that is. URGH I get this all the time. I try to extricate myself but hottie has sat down on a couch beside some little ferretlike Italian girl with a pile of curls pinned to the top of her head, who is not particularly attractive at all but has small features, the bitch.

Ooh my download is done, yay! Except I downloaded an album that doesn’t have I feel good on it. But it don’t matter. It’s good funky shit anyway. Get on up yeah…

Right so this shiny-headed bundle of eagerness starts yammering away about how GREAT my Italian is and wow how great my Spanish is too and oh my god wow. So I absorb the compliments but I’m getting bored of this guy. I want back in my clique of Chileans only. This guy may as well be reading his conversation from a script, it’s so exactly the same as everything every single Italian guy ever says to me. Yawn. He’s amazed by everything I do. Wow I’m so cool. He’s gushing. I’m annoyed. I mean thank you for the compliments but shut up now or let a normal conversation ensue so I can continue being witty and interesting, receiving compliments to my command of languages and my interestingness is getting in the way of actually talking.

I try the shoulder-out-oops wow I’m back in my circle again, but it’s way too subtle. The guy barges into the middle of the circle with a big happy smile. He says something jovial and then apologises, sorry I didn’t mean to interrupt. Then he continues talking. Then he apologises for interrupting again and looks around a little uneasily. It’s like he’s waiting for everyone to be like, no you’re grand, come join us! But I mean we’re not an unfriendly group, but we’re having the craic in Spanish and this Italian dude is so fucking over enthusiastic about how great spanish is, but then talks to us in Italian so the whole group has to to talk in Italian.

So anyway he manages to insert himself. We talk Italian. I keep furrowing my brow and seeing something in the distance I need to go inspect for a second to get some relief. I’m standing near this Italian guy and he’s SATURATING me with his company. It’s oppressive but innocent. Poor guy. I spot a… “oh I see is that a jar for coffee over there? That’s nice, I was looking for one for my kitchen……” and I excuse myself and start wading through the party to get a closer look at this jar, and then I squint at it and then when he’s talking to someone else I can rejoin the people I actually want to talk to.

I do this as much as I can without being really obvious but it’s not working and I’m having to do a lot of hopping around being a weirdo perving on door knobs and interesting floor tiles so I give up and resign to being worshipped by this guy for the evening. He’s nice and all but I hate the fucking gushing. It’s not cool, I want to just get on with the socialising and mingle, not stand in front of someone wh0’s waving a banner with my name on it.

At one stage the bathroom door is closed and I want to pee, but I can’t tell if there’s anyone in there. I creep up and peer through the keyhole. I thought I was on my own in the hall, but I hear squeals of pleasure behind me. It’s the Italian guy. I ignore and go pee, then come out to find myself face to face with him waiting for me, alone. He shakes my hand vigorously and tells me he was so impressed by me doing that, peeking through the keyhole, that it’s so fucking cool of me to do that, and that he would do the same thing! And I’m like, well what’s so impressive about that, I mean you just said you’d do the same thing. And he’s tripping over himself trying to make it into a reference to my awesomeness.

We rejoin the rest of the group and all sorts of good humoured party sillyness ensues. Someone has a camera and I am for some reason stuffing a scarf into my dress to make massive boobs and Andrea is pushing her boobs up, and everyone is laughing and then I take the scarf out and then some guy is tied to a bed with scarves and I’m egging them on to take his clothes and or wallet, but it’s not that kind of prank, it’s just some mild high jinx, and people think I’m a little too zealous about taking it further, and maybe somewhat creepy, so I shut up…and we are eventually sitting in a circle. Hottie is going home. There is a nice conversation going on. I for some reason announce that I hate the french, even though I don’t and I don’t even know what someone was talking about. It feels like I’m telling a joke, but it leaves my mouth and I’m like, what was that? But I shrug and move on, I’m not too good at digging myself out of a hole, especially when it comes to inadvertent racism, so I don’t bother. Plus there are no french people around, it’s just a weird thing to say out of context. Anyway.

Italian guy is so clearly into me it’s making me nauseous. Anything I do, anything, racks up points on the pinball machine of my awesomeness. He does the underhand, cowardly thing and tells the circle in general that we should all exchange numbers so we can ALL meet up again. None of us are able to reject that friendliness so he goes first to Andrea, then one of the guys, then me. He rings their numbers to make sure they are real which I think is a classless move, but it means I can’t fob him off. He laughs when I say “69” because my number has 69 in it. Also, because when I read out my number I get insanely proud of the 69 and announce it with a showmanlike flourish. Like I’m reading the last lottery number. Anyway I think he counted that as flirting. Man what a pussy, it’s such a wimpy way of getting a number, asking for the group’s. He was attached to me all night and it was fairly obvious. Ugh if only he was hot, but even still I don’t think hotness can make up for this little-dog-like enthusiasm. He’s jumping up at me yapping for me to throw the ball. Down boy.

Anyway hottie is gone home now as he was out last night too and is fading.. he shows his total incompatibility with me (if he was even interested, which he clearly isn’t) by saying that “obviously he was out last night… that’s why he didn’t change his clothes.” I’m like, well I don’t see anything wrong with the clothes, it’s not like you stink or anything (smooth moves I know). He’s like “well I would have worn something that MATCHED!” And I’m like, urgh. I’d prefer a smelly guy than a colour-matching one.

But heh, I would instantly forgive his lameness if only he wanted to match… our GENITALS.

Anyway once he’s out of the picture, I re-scan the room with my standards adjusted to make up for the significant drop in the hotness curve.

With the radar thus calibrated, a new contender begins to show on screen.

He’s a bit vanilla, nay VERY vanilla, but he’s tall enough for me to feel like a female, he’s inoffensive enough to kiss without irony and he’s not openly racist or interested in matching clothes or anything else that might make the clam snap shut.

I turn my attention to him and he seems interested if only mildly so. Maybe he just likes me because I am good for chatting to at a party. Anyway then he gives me a really obvious signal, he says do you like band i have never heard of,

and I’m like YEAH HELL YEAH! (I still do this. It’s sad. I know. And I always get caught out. But I still forget myself and pretend to love bands I don’t like or know to impress guys. Derp. I know.)

And he’s like ooh let me play you some music, come on, and he leads me to another room where a laptop is perched on a counter and starts going through music naming bands and I don’t even know what genre they are, I’m just agreeing I like their music like the spineless tool I am. I’m so in there anyway, this let’s go play some music shit is old and tried and true.

I tell myself I don’t care if he makes a move or not although he probably will, because I’m not that keen on him really and also I know if I decide I like him, then I will begin to try even harder and make a mess of things. So I relax totally and then for some reason go the other way, and begin ranting about how I love computers, because someone has put a full plastic cup on top of the keyboard and I’m freaked out because it’s a good laptop, and I’m like AAAAHHH I have computer empathy, and I go in and CARESS the laptop and I gush about my love for computers and how I would prefer to kill some sheep with my bare hands than… than see a computer break? And I can’t stop myself talking, it’s just spilling out, serious word vomit, and I panic and try to calm down but it’s too late, Mr. “I just decided is hot enough” has backed away and gone to fiddle with some little statues, which is MY trick to get away from people. And Italian dude springs up and starts enthusing about how refreshing it is to hear a girl talk about computers and how awesome I am and wow wow wow we should meet up and go computer shopping some time. And I’m like groaaaaan why do I do this to myself.

But it’s actually a good thing I didn’t score Mr. Barely hot enough, because later Andrea told me he had tried to kiss her, so it looks like I was Plan-B’ed. Although he was also my plan b, but that shit is hurtful. So I’m glad I didn’t succeed at flirting, because then I would have felt like the consolation prize.

I scanned Italian guy with a critical eye, hoping to find him attractive after so many more beers, but no. It’s not happening. He must be really unattractive, I can’t remember but I was DRUNK and still no way would I go there. I doubt personality alone could have stopped me from jumping his bones if he was hot.

I had actually been chatting to the Chileans earlier about how the main thing I didn’t like about Italians (they were talking shit about Italians too, I wasn’t just being a lone racist here ok) is that you have to add a laugh track or they don’t know you’re joking. At one point I’m talking to Italian guy and Andrea (we are CORNERED!) and he’s talking ad nauseum about Berlusconi, and he says he bought votes, and that buying votes is really common. And I’m like, hey if someone offered me a hundred yoyos for my vote, I’d be on board. I’m not every using mine. I’m like, I’ll sell ya mine for a hundred, come on! And he’s like, ha ha no I’d prefer a beer than your vote. And I’m like, awesome, well for a hundred euro I’d be more than happy to get you a beer. And he’s got this serious face on and he’s like “If I’m going to buy a beer I will buy one for 4 euro and keep the hundred, that’s too expensive.” GROAAAAAN. I mean I know, my drunken banter needs some work, I did talk a lot of shit last night but… man. What a humourless asshole. I had to say “joke! joke!” afterwards and I HATE when people do that. Italians do that when it’s really obvious they are joking. Like “ooh no this is all for me!” pointing at a pile of 6 kegs or something, then “JOKE! IM JOKING!” and it’s like, dude, way to ruin any subtlety in your witticisms. But it’s just a different culture. Then there’s something else I said that he took totally seriously, I can’t remember what it was… I mean you could tell an Italian you lived under the sea and shared a flat with some starfish and commuted every day to work on the surface because there is a recession under the sea, and he’d be squinting at you going, “what, really? Wow, I didn’t know people lived under the sea… really?”

Or like whenever I decide to flirt by telling someone I have corpses stacked in my house and somehow those army guys don’t want to come back to mine. One of the Chileans said the casserole took ages to cook because the rats were really hard to catch, and then the boneing is kind of fiddly. And the girls they cooked for were open mouthed, freaking out. Like they thought they were eating rat.

So I turned to the final possibility, a guy whose company I really like, who’s intelligent and interesting and funny and who clearly thinks I’m decent company too, and he’s not ugly or anything he’s just not… doing it for me. I mean I’ve thought about it, I would really enjoy fucking this guy. And I know I could… I’m pretty sure he’d go for it. Of course he would. He’s within my league. I chat to him for a bit and begin clumsily flirting. We’re talking about something to do with lesbians and I tell him vaguely about my recent lesbo enterprise. I don’t tell him much, but he’s well impressed. Sad that I’m still pulling these same amateur moves out of the bag. Like I haven’t had to flirt in years. Drugs faciliated getting into bed with people for years- now I’m clear of that shit I’m trying to remember how to pull a guy and my last memory of conversational flirting was when I was 15 and pretending to be a lesbian or announcing you liked porn was like the ace card, guaranteed way to impress a dude. It’s a bit pathetic now I’m all growed up though. I manage to pretend I didn’t mean to blurt that out. He buys it. He’s impressed anyway and gives me a high five. I like this guy. I don’t wanna ruin it by mushing up my face with his and exchanging saliva. The thought of it, and the of course diminished future conversations as well as basically pissing on my doorstep because he’s Andrea’s best friend, makes me just not want to fuck him any more.

I hang with him for a bit. I consider how I’d actually really like if he just made a move, grabbed the small of my back with authority and pulled me in for a kiss and then ground me up against the wall with an increasingly evident dick, and that would be so fucking hot, but of course he won’t, the same way I won’t jump on the lame but hot guy who was there earlier. It’s a massive risk, doing that shit. I might not even like it, in reality. That’s why it excites me so much, of course. Because any guy who does just go for it, grab me and TAKE without asking, he’s a seriously confident arrogant prick and oh I do like that…

Anyway I dismiss this unlikely scenario and just enjoy myself.

I had a really good night, being silly and young and all this non-serious horseplay that I have a shameful tendency to scorn.

I have to admit it, I actually do feel like I’m apart from most people my age because of all my responsibilities and shit,I do kind of think I’m the shizz and I do feel wise and mature and insightful because I spend all day thinking in depth about things and have leapt into a lot of shit most people don’t get to at this stage, so I’m wary of my happy go lucky 20 something compadres, because I presume their worst problems are getting their hair to look right or making up with a boyfriend who forgot their anniversary or getting a bad result in a test or something.

But now I’m like fuck it, I have to stop feeling superior to people for negative reasons like I messed up my life for a while. This stupid superior attitude is exactly why I never have any fun. In fairness most young people I meet here in Italy are mindlessly boring and simple, so I haven’t just pulled this idea out of my ass/ego.

Anyway just counting people in this city, I have one really good friend who is awesome and I have all these other new aquaintances some of whom are really cool and I can relax and have a good time and I can take stupid photos and sleep a couple of hours and go to work and I feel really good and like I got really shitfaced drunk to the point of being a tad ridiculous but I had fun and there’s no one to judge me because we all had fun. Damn this is why I should be hanging out with people my age, and stop being the kind of person I hate, someone who thinks they are superior because of things that have damaged or harmed them in some way like drug taking or bad decision making. Enough of this hypocritical snobbery. I think maybe it was just the shit I was dealing with with the separation that made me feel that way… like I felt pretty alienated from all these people around me. So now I’m gonna be good and have fun and stop talking about my separation because I’m over that shit.

But damn, I still can’t stand Italians socially.

Ooh also, didn’t smoke all night. YES!

I admit I did kind of want to last night. But I’m good. I was good. I was really drunk, but I was good.

In the taxi I kind of touched the knee of nice guy I like but don’t want to fuck because it would destroy my only decent social life I have gathered in 3 yearsm but I know guys don’t tend to be as sure of flirtation as girls are so it’s probably fine.

I feel GOOD.

I’m now listening to Erasure and I feel GOOD. And happy. And like I wanna go out and party some more and fuck it I would like to feel some hardness against me and hot breath against my neck, but I don’t wanna fuck someone in a car ; ) those days are over, baby… it was never good anyway. Is that a gearstick or are you just happy to see me? Oh right, it’s a gearstick. Sorry I’ll wipe that.. sorry… sorry oh it’s your mum’s car? Shit sorry.

And I’m not going to chase after someone who clearly isn’t interested (hot but lame guy) or one who likes Andrea more (this limits me considerably, she’s really gorgeous) and I’ll just sleep with someone when it happens naturally in a way that isn’t forced or set up or anything, and I’ll just enjoy the company of people who make me laugh.

Also ps: I know I only detail for you, every excrutiating detail of my social failures, but I wanna point out I was at that part for like 5 hours so if I only got 4700 words out of it (sheesh… maybe I am hung over?) then it means I did pretty well because I only behaved like a twat for about 40 minutes in total and the rest of the time I was on fi-yah! So there you go.

Oh just got a flashback of me doing my party trick as another form of flirtation I think. This is where I pull the ends of my hair back behind me and under my armpits so it looks like I have long armpit hair. It’s a desperate last ditch attempt to get a cheap laugh. I’d probably eat worms to get attention… also I’m such a sleazy weirdo when I try to flirt.

Update:

It was a bit of a stealth hangover. I’m fine, now, but I had a bit of a meltdown….

Was walking along during my lunch break- oh yeah sorry don’t judge me but I bought a pair of high heels. They are really nice and they were on sale so it’s… actually I can’t remember how I justified it so that I actually saved money by buying them, but it was very clever whatever it was. Anyway I was walking along and suddenly out of the blue, the FEAR. It hit me like a fist in the stomach. HOOOOLY CRAP, I’m walking like a freak. People are staring. I walk like a weirdo.

Oh man am I moving my arms way too much? My arms were swinging at my sides… it hit me, I look like Jar Jar Binx.

I realise I’m hideously ugly and I’m completely deluded. People aren’t attracted to me. People only try to get with me because I’m so clearly easy… I panic. Totally.

I’m still walking but it’s freaking me out, I can’t figure out how to walk like a normal person. The image of me as Jar Jar is really depressing. I’m horrible. I’m so fat…

Then I remembered it was a hangover day and I had let my guard down like an idiot, but obvioulsy the capacity for mental anguish is still strong. I realised I was seeing everything insanely grey because of the alcohol.

I really, really wish I could give it a rest with the obsession with peoples looks, including my own. It’s a huge source of depression for me, not being as good looking as I want to be. And it feels shitty seeing hot guys I’m attracted to and knowing that they won’t be attracted to me because I’m not on the right level… Some gypsy should put a Shallow Hal curse on me except without the Gwyneth Paltrow element. Actually I’m not that shallow with men so much as I am with myself. Gahhh…. What kind of a tool am I, allowing myself to chew all this sort of shit when I’m supposed to be hung over? I will stop now.

Holy crap I was actually much better since I got home from work, I’ve been fine all afternoon really, my colleague and I were bored at work so we did Ministry of Silly Walks walks in the shop and cracked ourselves up, and then I came home and called a pizza and the guy’s like “uh it’ll be at least an hour” and I’m like fuck that shit, so I made some ravioli and they were kick ass, and now I am drinking tea, real proper tea and I feel good again, just that writing about my meltdown made me all depressed so I will no longer talk about that because I’m HAPPY!

Best. Hangover. Ever.

P.P.S. Some asshole posted a photo on facebook. I am in it. I look bad. AAAAAAHHHH NOOOOOO.

p.p.p.s. Watched porn with a really attractive blonde girl with massive boobs that made me feel kind of insecure and a really muscular skinny guy that just kind of grossed me out. Somehow feel better anyway. Don’t think I enjoyed watching it or it turned me on or anything, but I do feel better.  Good night. I’ll stop tacking on extra bits now I swear.

Sorry this is really long….

If breakups are like sex, and they’re not, then this right here is the orgasm

I just came gooey closure all over the place.

I’m a free woman!

Well not really, but I AM CONSIDERABLY MORE FREE THAN I WAS!

He signed, the bitch ass mofo I’d regret ever having met if I didn’t think I’d make this mistake anyway with someone else, he signed and now I’m a legally separated non smoking tooth FLOSSING (yeah I bought floss, word!) ass kicker and it’s my birthday in less than 3 weeks and someone’s bound to give me money for that or buy me shoes I get to pick out myself so YEAH! Right on!

I’m so freaking happy.

This morning was sunny and warm but there was a mad multi-directional wind stirring up the fallen leaves and grit and dust with an eerie howling. This city is a freaking dustbowl so wind is decidedly unpleasant. It gits in your eyes, it fucks up your hair. But I was walking down the street with my dolphin folder (the only folder I have that keeps my documents in presentable condition) and I felt like Storm, I was feeling badass and purposeful and I looked good and the weird wind was stirring shit up around me as I walked so my ego supplied the “it’s because of my powers” bit and it was cool.

I tried my new dress with leggings (I like leggings, I wear them whenever a dress is too short and somehow if you wear tights it’s slutty but leggings are ok even though you show the same amount of leg/buttock) but it looked shit because my only leggings are black or brown and the skirt of the dress is black and I considered being a total badass and doing brown and black but in the end I will admit, it looked shitty. Not that all brown and black looks shitty, but this did.

So I fumbled and panicked and thought holy crap what if I’m late for court because I have nothing to wear? But then I tried on this blue dress that was just long enough to not be in any way unsuitable: I had this paranoia that the judge would be like “I find your outfit to be in contempt of court!” and bang his gavel and I wouldn’t be allowed my separation because I looked too slutty. So I wore this blue dress that was kind of like something Kate Middleton would wear… if she didn’t have any money. And I put a little cropped jacket on top of that and a pair of flat black pumps that make my feet stink because they are plastic imitation leather but as long as I don’t take them off in court, no one would know! In fact I took them off now and man that is nasty shit.

But I looked good if completely unlike my usual self. I arrived early and just in time to see husband in a WHITE SHIRT that was kinda too short for him (he borrowed it, but I appreciate the effort, it’s surprising) and worn but clean jeans and oh man cringe, a belt buckle that is actually a knuckle duster. So they were taking the weapon from him and putting it in a locker because obviously you can’t bring that shit to court. But no problem, we met and it was friendly but I was wary because of last time we met and he was friendly.

We went to a vending machine because it was the only thing to do, and I bought water and he asked for a water so I bought him a water. Then I was fidgeting and thinking maybe I would need to pee if I drank too much water and hey I’m already halfway through it, so I bought a kinder bar and it got stuck on the spiral and wouldn’t fall out. We were inside the building full of lawyers and I wasn’t sure what the general consensus was on tilting vending machines. Husband saw my plight and stepped in, shaking the damn thing like a madman until I got my bar and the lawyer appeared at that moment.

My bitch lawyer was tied up in a more important case so she had sent her colleague to show us where to wait- she joined a few minutes later. It’s this monstrous ministry of justice type Orwellian structure that takes up about 3 blocks on each side, so it’s about 9 blocks of this terrifying fortress with all metal detectors and more lawyer than you could shake a stick at (and it’s not advisable to threaten lawyers, let me tell you) and it’s not easy to find the different rooms and offices and whatnot. We walked past lawyers and lots of them were hot. Later! Later I will be free. I wish it was like tv, where every time you see an attractive person they will invariably ask you out or at least flirt with you. Damn Californication and Sex and The City, if the USA is really like that then I’m wasting my time here. If it’s a lie, they should TELL US. It’s not fair making us depressed because we don’t live in the magical land of promiscuity and phone number exchange and true one night stands. Anyway. A sermon for another day perhaps.

We chatted amiably, the lawyer getting a few details from husband for some forms he had to finish. When asked occupation etc, husband threw out some bitter, spiteful replies like “oh I USED to work for my father in law, but until he threw me out on the street!” and I was freaking out he was going to pull the same shit as before and I was glad I hadn’t worn mascara in case I had to cry again. I steered the conversation as good naturedly as I could into neutral waters.

He noticed my dolphin folder with a pang, I could tell, because I used to laugh like a dolphin to entertain him. I noticed him seeing it and thinking of that, and he noticed me noticing, so that was kind of awkward.

I have a tendency to smile giddily when I don’t know what to do, or when I’m uncomfortable, so I was constantly trying not to look too happy in case he got all upset and decided not to sign.

I kept a sober look on my face but a smirk kept creeping up on the wizened side of my mouth and I kept having to knock it back…

The lawyer started ranting about the poor distribution of wealth in the world today. “If we don’t stop eating the world, there won’t be any left!” He said, holding a manilla folder flat on one hand. “Look, this is a piece of meat: If we eat that, and we all eat it, there won’t be any left then!” he swiped the folder away drammatically and hid it under one arm.

“This is what the world is doing! There won’t be any left! Either we go on like this, or we stop!”

I found it really odd that he chose this moment and totally out of the blue, to go on a tirade against the society bent on consumerism, especially as eh… he’s a lawyer for fucks sake, he’s got more than his share of the meat.

But maybe it was just to distract husband or something from more personal subjects. We were all able to chime in with a few generic, oh its a shame, the world today, huh! kind of platitudes, and then my real lawyer arrived, the megabitch. I think she hates me. I don’t know exactly why but I get a strong vibe of hatred from her. I think because last week I cried copious amounts in front of her and she started asking me stuff as I was trying to inhale snot back down my oesophagus without her knowing, and I was like can I have some water or something? And she looked really pissed off and brought me a plastic shot glass with water in it, and then she had to call me twice yesterday which she REALLY didn’t like because I stupidly sent her some scanned papers in a “mysterious, unopenable” format (JPEG) and had to resend in pdf.

But anyway, I don’t care, she’s my lawyer, we pay her, me and my dad. (well, just my dad)

I think she hates my dad too, because he got all passionate about my ex being a rat and she just wanted to ask pointed questions about important stuff.

Anyway she’s the megabitch but I love her with all my heart because she added this thing into my separation agreement that I didn’t even know existed, which is that normally married people, if they want to get a new passport, they have to get the signature of their spouse as permission! Or else, no passport! WTF? Draconian, much? Is this a muslim country or some shit? But my megabitch lawyer put a thing in that releases us from that obligation, we both give full consent to the other to get a new passport. WHAT THE FUCK KINDA LAW? Good thing I got my lawyer. I wanted to hug her after we left, but I shook her bony skeletor hand. It was cold. I imagined hugging her would probably be like hugging a collapsed tent.

The hearing itself was a joke. I wasted so much energy worrying about not looking Ally MacBeal enough for the fucking amphitheatre with all the wood and wig-wearing judges and random people in the viewing gallery for some reason… But it was actually just a little office with a desk covered in papers, and four comfy pleather chairs on one side and behind it, a little old man with a nice crinkly santa face and a tight lipped female secretary.

We took our seats and said good day a few times. I think I said good day about 7 times, I was really nervous. It was so unlike what I expected, I broke into a sweat thinking maybe there was some massively important piece of judge etiquette I was ignoring, like saying your honour or putting my hand on my heart or something, but the lawyer didn’t look more pissed off than usual so I sat down and grinned manicaly and my husband sat down and slouched and I though oh my god can you not just sit up straight for two seconds, he’s a JUDGE? But I grit my teeth and thought this is the guy you’re divorcing, you’re divorcing this slouchy, had-to-borrow-a-shirt, knuckle-duster-belt-wearing cowboy.

The cat-arse-mouthed secretary woman asked a few confirmation questions like name, age, date of birth, address… husband was just like “yeah,” or said the name of the city instead of address so I had to prompt him.

The kindly faced old gent looked up for a second, asked “are you sure you want to get separated?”

I said YES with 10 months’ pressure behind that word.

Husband must have nodded but I was facing santa so I didn’t see, then santa read over our agreement in one breath. …contracted marriage 06 June 2009 swear they are self sufficient and renounce the right to maintenance cheques, grant each other permission to renew passports etc…. dadadadadada and now sign here and you (to me) sign BELOW your husband. With a flicker of elation I realise that is possibly the last time I am shunted to the back, because the man goes first… fuck that. I’m an independent woman now. WOO WOO!

So we signed and he said, good luck with your separation and gave me a smile that was just short of a wink, but I felt like he could tell straight up what kind of messer I had gotten involved with. I was looking all classy like a poor man’s Kate Middleton, and I showed up with this slouching too small shirted guy, and I had to answer most of the questions because husband seemed kinda stumped.

I couldn’t believe it.

We left the office and it was like, that was IT?

I shook my lawyer’s icy claw and received a vigorous hand-pump from her anti-consumerism colleague, and exited with husband because it seemed rude and bad form to not leave together after everything.

He was walking fast like he wanted to get away, but I knew it was the last time we would talk and it was better to possibly encroach on his personal space and wish to be left alone one last time than to leave things weird like this.

So we chatted, I repeated a few things like “oh the papers will be ready in a month but you don’t need to come in to get them, it’s just a formality.” and whatever. He threw a few little digs about how my dad and I kept changing our minds about what would happen to the apartment and stuff, and that was why he wanted to drag things on. I decided to ignore the slightly-off logic of that because he knows there was nothing else we could have done, and I’ve talked to him at length about this. He just wants to blame me for shit. but it’s over now. I’m not arguing, he can think what he likes.

Then we kissed on the cheek and wished each other luck and said laughingly “I’ll see you around the clubs!” and it was friendly and then he crossed the road through some gridlocked traffic to get his bike, and I went to get the bus, and the face I left was a smiling, laughing one. Whether it was really happy or horribly depressed I don’t know really, but I’m glad we left it like that, like us, because we always did get along well, we’re just totally at odds with each other morality and worldview-wise. But I’m glad we parted like this, and it kind of takes the edge off the fact that last week he had me wishing I was stronger so I could beat the crap out of him, and wishing he would just spontanously drop dead.

I’m done. I’m out.

I’m not divorced, I’ll be eligible for divorce in 3 years from today. But he doesn’t have to show up for that. I can get the divorce without him being in the same country even. His input is no longer required.

I feel like I’ve betrayed the me that was in love with him three and two years ago, but then that me back then didn’t think too hard about how it would affect this me, so she can fuck off.

Two and a half years later, I’m looking better than on my wedding day, I feel better, I’m stronger, I’m happier, I’m not smoking, IM GONNA GO GET SO FUCKING DRUNK TONIGHT.

P.S. Thank you guys for all the support.

: )

I got 99 problems and a bitch is, at the very least, 1.

It’s the final countdown doop ba doo bop, doo ba doop bop doo,

etc.

I’m like a kid on Christmas Eve, except in a household where receiving coal is a real possibility.

Whether I’ve been naughty or nice doesn’t come into it either. In this metaphor I am at the mercy of some very emotional parents.

Anyway. I will now abandon that metaphor. Methaphors don’t really get us anywhere. I actually find reading metaphors irritating. Sorry then for using them like they’re mini tampons. Sorry again for the tampon imagery. Where was I?

I got up at 8am this morning to get these documents for my lawyer, just in case husband aka smegface aka soon to be my ex… no wait he’ll still be my husband… Estranged? Estranged, is that the word? That sounds a bit underwhelming to me. Like we had a fight and may get back together. NOT A HOPE OF THAT.

So I feel all purposeful and like I’m seizing the day, because I got up at 8am which is half an hour before my alarm normally goes off but 1 hour 15 minutes before I actually get up.

I feel like I just seized the day, kissed it firmly on the mouth, bit its lower lip, pressed up against it and made it wish it had a rubber.

I even had breakfast, a pot of yoghurt.

I had to throw out the muesli which was uncool because I had a whole load of different mueslis. (Well, half the bag of each left… I eat all the papaya bits in the first few bowls and then the granola bit bores the hell out of me so I buy more muesli. Actually I don’t care so much because it was all granola I had to throw out.)

There appear to be a couple of moths left in the kitchen but I have to say my kitchen has never been this clean, there isn’t really anywhere to hide. It’ll never sparkle like a cleaning product ad “after” kitchen, because it’s got those horrible tiles that never look clean….. and I know there are layers of dust on top of the fridge that my feather duster couldn’t dislodge because it’s partly oil from cooking… I will have to give it a proper go with cillit bang some time, but I’m pretty impressed with the change.. it’s a massive improvement.

I just hope those bastards don’t have eggs anywhere. I want them gone so I can buy rice again.

URGH! I was pretty upbeat, and then way to ruin my mood:

STUPID BITCH CUSTOMER!

This woman comes in and to be perfectly honest, which is how I roll dontcha know, I am mostly pissed off because I realise I was a big ole bitch to her too.

She made me be a bitch, but I could have been nice. See she came into my shop where I was peacefully writing my blog about feeling pretty damn good, and she comes in with a sour face and itching for a fight. She comes in where I’m tolerating my day and bursting with the desire for it to be tomorrow already. She comes in and starts giving out to ME for some shit my colleague may have told her, that her receipt would be ready in 15 days or something which sounds very unlike my colleague because these special fattura receipts are really fucking hassley and only the boss can do them, so saying it will be ready for this pain in the ass customer in 15 days is like answering “3.5cm” to the question how long is a piece of string. The boss will do it when the boss will do it. We are legally required to do this shit for customers if they ask for it but it’s a stupid law no one obeys and it’s a clothes shop, so I don’t know what nitpicking moneygrabbing fucker is claiming tax back on clothes.

The people who ask for the fattura in my shop are usually part of amateur drammatics societies buying costumes for plays. This instantly chafes my social receptors because I am suspicious and queasy around people who are so fucking motivated that they actually think up hobbies to keep them occupied after they get home from work.

It sickens me, who do they think they are, prancing around for free, doing shit that makes them happy while mmy hobby is to wallow in my own filth and feelings in the comfort and safety of my own home? Of course if I liked theatre it would be different. But this is my brain we’re chugging through, if I wanna be hypocritcal and suspicious of anyone who likes different things to me, it is, in the words of Britney Spears, my pre-ro-ga-tive.

Anyway this bitch comes in all guns blazing and I parry her bad vibes with ice bitch impatience and lack of empathy. You come in here all angry, fuck you. I’m not here to help, I’m not customer service who’s gonna be all “I’m so sorry ma’am, what a frustrating experience for you”, you can actually go fuck yourself, my job here, what I’m being paid to do, is unite people with money with things they would be willing to give me their money for.

That is all.

Here by the way, is one of my favorite series and depicts one of my recurring dreams.

Pretty rampant in the world of customers is the attitude that the people in the service industry are somehow the servants or even employees of the customer. This is incorrect. We are the employees of the people who employ us, the boss, the capo, the jefe if you will.

We are nicer to customers than they deserve because this is in line with the empoyer’s guidelines to maximise likelihood of money being relinquished by customers.

When we say yes ma’am thank you ma’am, it is an empty platitude. We smile with our mouths and not our eyes, if you haven’t noticed. If you think that shine in the eyeball is a shine of happiness or genuine interest, don’t be so foolish. Even glass shines.

Sometimes we really are being friendly out of the goodness of our personalities. Sometimes we say “it suits you” and we mean it. Sometimes when you spend a decent amount we know our boss will be pleased with us, and we sincerely thank you very much and hope you come again.

But we are not the modern day equivalent of your fucking chambermaid. Customers like to think they are in some higher class than waiters, barmen, retail assistants and such. I’m a customer too, in other shops. This isn’t Gucci or some shit. I shop in more expensive stores than my own, so I know nobody in here buying shoes from me is totally minted.

It’s not like in the golden age of everyone who was anyone having servants: the people who serve you in a shop or restaurant can afford to eat in the same restaurants and shop in the same shops as you. It’s not like shop assistants are born to peasant parents who call their daughter “Bessie” because she’s gonna wear the frilly cap one day and marry a nice stable lad.

It really sticks in my craw when people without realising it, act like I’m some lowly servant because I happen to be doing a job that doesn’t require a degree. It’s particularly irritating because I consider myself a very smart individual, so this whole “you suck cause you didn’t go to college” bullshit is a sore point.

I’m happy with my undergraduate course in the university of life, but there are little moments of sensitivity like people going OH when they ask what I study and I say I work. (CUNTS)

Anyway. This woman pissed me off with her belligerent attitude and readyness to go ranting to me about some minor error of my colleague. So I was extremely rude. she was taken aback. I said I have nothing to do with it, I never said 15 days, etc.

Sorry, did I do anything wrong? Did I not just tell you to call before you come in next time so you don’t waste a trip? I don’t care, come back tomorrow if you want but IT PROBABLY WONT BE READY.

So she storms off snorting in indignation, all wide-nostrilled like a crazy horse.

She pointedly, loudly mentions to her friend just outside the door:

“THE GIRL THERE IS VERY POLITE!”

Sheesh, my pocket sarcasm detector just vibrated so hard, I almost came.

Anyway I was calming myself with “be nice, fuck her, she was a bitch before you were, don’t worry about it, stop beating yourself up, and fuck it people must realise when they go around giving each other shit, I’m not just some smile without a face standing here in the wings of existence, waiting for a customer to observe me and spring me into their personal reality like the sound of a tree falling in the woods. I have my own crate of shit to carry around, if angry cunts like that are gonna get all up in my grill, it’s gonna get ugly.

So I calm down and promise to be more empathetic next time and stop with the personal crusade against rudeness fought primarily using my own rudeness.

Then in comes a muslim woman in a headscarf and matching floral mumu.

Ugh. Groan. Now I get to feel terrified of somehow offending this woman with what I imagine is my stench of atheism and flash of sexy legs, while I show her scarves and shit, all the while firmly aware that she thinks I’m some demonic hussy who should be pelted with stones. My hair is long and loose: I wonder is the experience of shopping here, for this muslim woman, comparable to me shopping in a place where the salespeople go topless? I wonder what it’s like for them.

She wants to see a scarf. I show her the scarf.. She asks what material it is. I check the label, say it’s rayon.

She’s like, what’s that? I wikipedia’d it ages ago and don’t full understand. It’s a semi-synthetic, semi natural fabric. I don’t know what that means, too lazy to look it up again and figure it out.

Also did you know Wikipedia has ceased to run its Italian version? There’s a new batshit crazy law that says that anything published online, if it’s about someone (and regardless of truth or falsehood) has to be taken down and corrected within 48 hours if requested by the person it’s about. So for example as a blogger, if hot barman comes across this, he could be like “hey I’m not hot, change that shit” and I would have to edit my blog to change all instances of him being hot with him being ugly, which isn’t true, but then everyone would read this and think what was all the fuss about with this ugly barman? And also, no one would know how truly shallow I am.

Anyway. So I’m like… ungh… it’s semi synthetic, I think it’s made from a natural fibre but it’s treated or processed somehow…

She’s highly suspicious.

I’m deflated, I couldn’t be arsed selling rayon to her with enthusiasm or a saleswoman pitch.

I shrug. It’s not itchy or anything, it’s soft like cotton.

She tries it on. I am treated to a naughty glimpse of hair under her current scarf. I wonder is it rude for me to look? I understand the thing about hiding the hair though… I feel a prickle of taboo when her scarf comes off, like I’m actually seeing something more exciting than some flattened stragglers of reddish brown. I should whip out my penis right now and be like “FOOOOOLED YEWWW!!!”

That would be cool.

Except if her husband caught me looking, she’d be due some lapidation for allowing her hair to show in front of a man. Is that the correct term for being pelted with stones? I think so. If so, wow finally I get to use it lapidation in a sentence. It’s a first I think.

Anyway.

She starts asking me if it suits her. I am like, yes it’s nice. She doesn’t trust me. She turns to another customer, some bitch who was going on about her supposedly flat feet and how hard it is to fit them into shoes. I’m like, wow real interesting, maybe increase the shoe budget a bit and quit looking in the bargain basement section? But I don’t say that, I just smile and nod.

Anyway the other woman tells her it’s a lovely scarf. The muslim woman thanks her as Flatfoot makes a swift exit with panicky eyes.

“I know you’re being sincere!” she tells the woman’s fast retreating back, shooting me a sidelong “the same doesn’t apply to you” look.

I can’t help that I’m the help, I can’t be more sincere or less sincere… Really, the scarf is nice. Honestly I don’t give a crap, but I’m the salesperson what am I supposed to say I hate it, you look like crap, why don’t you throw in the towel and scarf and leave your husband and buy some chairs to sit on when you eat instead of that cushions on the floor crap?

Sorry is that too sincere, right-o, I’ll keep my sincerity to myself (and my blog) and just limit it to the fact that yes I think the scarf suits you as much as any shroud for your sexuality possibly could. You work that metaphorical condom against man’s lusty thoughts. Oh and keep up that “it’s not repression, it’s just a way to praise god” shpiel… real convincing. I like to praise god by keeping my toenails hidden from view, but that’s just me.

But the scarf objectively is nice on her, so I wasn’t being fake or anything. Maybe my enthusiasm wasn’t at the correct pitch, well I’m sorry but I’m not in the right mood. I was this morning, but stupid receipt bitch ruined that for me.

Anyway she doesn’t sense the flatness of my spirits right now and complete lack of the will to be involved in interactions beyong open till insert money remove coins close till force a smile thank the customer be left alone again breathe sigh of relief.

She starts HAGGLING.

€7.50 is too much.

I’m like, well sorry there’s nothing I can do.

€7.00, I’ll give you €7.00.

I’m sorry I can’t, it’s not my shop, I can’t give discounts.

€7.00, ok?

No, I can’t. Sorry. Look I scan the label, the price comes up, I can’t do anything to change that (even if I wanted to, which I don’t)

I don’t have the energy, I retreat to the till before I become a bitch again. I don’t want a jihad on my ass over this fucking scarf.

I do my traditional rustling of papers to look busy.

She starts inspecting the scarf for flaws with her hawk eyes.

She asks what colours would go with the scarf. I give a noncommital, oh lots of colours, black, brown, beige, green… any colour really, it’s very neutral.

I firmly believe you can wear any two colours together in theory, as long as it’s with an attitude and obviously it’s not a fucking rule, just because one green thing goes with one brown thing doesn’t mean all green and brown go together.

She snaps at me because of my vague answer.

“OBVIOUSLY NOT ALL COLOURS!”

I sigh and look at her sorrowfully. Why does everyone want to argue this shit with me? I work here, I will agree with you as far as I can, but my own personal taste is so fuckng different to yours, there’s no way we can really talk honestly about clothes.

I agree, sure, not all colours… fine.

She insists on applying her own personal taste as a blanket over all of clothingdom.

“NOT WITH BLUE OR GREY, OBVIOUSLY!”

Right… so yeah the blue item she is wearing looks terrible with the army green scarf, but like, I know blue jeans would probably look nice with it. I rebel against all application of universal rules to clothes. That magazine advice over what not to wear makes me wish we just lived in the Star Trek world and got one colour to wear for the rest of our lives. It’s one of my pet hates. (I have a fucking animal sanctuary of hates you know)

All the rules of what to wear can be bent, I repeat, it’s a matter of attitude and personal tastes. Brown and black used to be the biggest no-no, and if you’re completely clueless with clothes, then fair enough it’s a good rule of thumb. But sorry if brown and black clash so badly, then how the fuck do you explain people with dark skin wearing black, or anyone with brown hair wearing black? Or black haired people wearing brown? Does black clash with my hair? No. So brown and black are ok together. I mean not all black things and all brown things, but having a no this with this rule is just stupid. They are colours, for fucks sake.

Anyway enough of the rage.

She haggles again, I insist I can do nothing, wearily.

She flings the scarf at me and snaps “fine, I’ll take it” like she’s doing me some huge favour but she’s not happy about it. I have done nothing wrong, I wasn’t even remotely rude this time.

Fuck off.

And then imediately behind her comes this miserable sweaty middle eastern dude who wants to show me jewellery he’s selling, and I’m like No no no thank you not interested no no no.

And he’s like just have a look, and I’m like no no no sorry.

Just have a look, I’ll just show you some…

I’m like I SAID NO! DO YOU UNDERSTAND NO?

And he’s like, ooooooooh sor-ry!

And he goes all offended and then my dad comes in and catches me typing my blog but I manage to really unsubtly exit out of it before he can see anything but still I’m internetting when I shouldn’t be.

But I ignore that because he doesn’t say anything although I know he’s not happy because every time he springs in the door of the shop, I’m typing away and I can’t close the window quick enough… damn. But I can’t resist the pull of the internet or the temptation to spill my guts live from the scene of being hassled by people.

So then this OTHER middle eastern guy who also stinks of B.O comes into the shop and starts offering us brooms he is selling.

My dad and I in unison start chanting “No, No, No Thank you, no, no, not interested, no.”

And he repeats, do you want a broom? Brooms? I have mops? Dustpans?

We’re like no no no ad nauseum, and he keeps insisting.

This makes my blood boil. I’m getting hot feminist rage flushes all over because this is exactly the same bullshit that the guys in nightclubs pull, it’s like respect my first answer, you’re not changing my mind, no means FUCKING NO!

My leg hairs are standing on end like a motherfuckin hedgehod. I’m glaring fiercely at this sweaty fucker, and it’s probably hugely amusing to him because my fierce angry look is about as convincing as Victoria Beckham being snapped eating dinner.

My dad is pissed off too, so I let him have the floor as my voice is high pitched and lacks any real authority.

The guy starts flashing his stupid seedy teeth.

“Oooh mister, you need a aspirin? You need a aspirin for your stress? Ha ha!”

And he’s standing there leering and my dad is yelling at him to get out and I just close the door slowly so he automatically steps a bit back and then I shut the door on him and he shouts in to us that we need to chill out.

But like, seriously if it was just one guy fair enough we are an uptight little family unit.

But it is CONSTANT.

Gypsies coming in to steal… old women coming in to beg…. those Bangladesh guys selling roses….. window cleaners trying to bully me into paying them to clean the windows that I clean for free every couple of days…. nuns trying to sell calendars (I am rudest to the nuns)… disabled people trying to sell pencils for 2 euro (I don’t understand the deal with the pencils, it doesn’t help that it’s like actual… what’s the word… special people trying to explain the deal with the pencils)… greenpeace…. actual customers…

it’s non stop… oh and then last but not least, those assholes who dress in white and paint their faces and arms white and then go up to people on the street and expect money for some reason.

And if you don’t give them money and laugh and shake their hands and appreciate the shitty little half a mime bit they do, you’re an asshole and they tell you you need to chill out.

My whole life philosophy, or whatever philosophy I have managed to sculpt for myself from extensive hermitage and repeated watchings of sitcoms, is that you live your life how you want to and you don’t step on other people’s toes or stand in their way and you certainly don’t get off an escalator and as soon as you are no longer standing on a moving step, just stop right there and look around you while people pile up behind because all you’re thinking about is yourself. To me, that’s just one of the most self absorbed piece of shit behaviours I have ever come across. Yes I’ve lived a sheltered life perhaps…

But seriously, my moral code says first and foremost, do no harm unless you have to do harm. You can’t help being an asshole sometimes because sometimes the way a situation is structured, the only room you have to move without screwing yourself over, is to be an asshole. I seethe with hatred and indignation when I see someone who is in a bad mood seeking out someone to offload their shit onto. I may sometimes offload MY shit onto people, but I will hide away on my own when I’m in a bad mood so as to internalise most of my negative energy. I know that’s not always good for me, but it means I only snap at people who come up to my cage and start poking through the bars. Me in a bad mood, I will stay in my place by myself until I’m feeling better, and then I will seek out company. But other people, some of them are real dicks and they look for trouble with other people. Conflict saps my energy, but some people get off on it.

Anyway I had a load of these people today wrecking my buzz.

I wrote this at work but couldn’t post because I was afraid my daddy-o would come back in and catch me writing angry blog things at work, I would be in so much shit.

And after work I went and…oh don’t judge, I know I’m terrible….

So the other day I picked out a few of my items of clothing I don’t like or wear, but that are basically brand new and that I just bought in a fit of shopping hysteria, and I brought them in to work and put them for sale. My co worker Gabrielle does this all the time and I’ve always thought it was really bad, selling people used clothing as new stuff… but then I was just jealous because she gets some cash for those clothes she shouldn’t have bought. So anyway first day I put my stuff on the rails, I sold a dress for 40 euro. YAY! It was actually really nice but I never wore it, but now obviously I will miss it like mad.

Anyway I celebrated byyyy…. GOING AND BUYING A NEW DRESS!

Yes. I feel a little foolish but it’s a pretty dress. It’s quite classy and sober looking but short and flattering enough that I don’t have to worry I might once leave the house without showing off my fuckability.

It’s too short for court though. OHHH SHIIIT I still don’t know what to wear.

Right better get onto that.

Tomorrow I will let you know everything obviously.

Wish me luck, or whatever.

I’m so excited, I feel like tomorrow is my big day.

I feel like tomorrow is really my ceremony of marriage to myself.

Like I’m saying, I promise never again to settle for some fucktard with thick arms just because I’m afraid to be all alone and weird. I won’t forget how much better I am on my own. I won’t forget how much I love to dress slutty and I won’t forget how even guys who like me slutty at first, always start getting all posessive afterwards, and how it’s not flattering- posessive, it’s just oppressive like you’re his property or some shit.

:)

YAY!

Good arm hair, bad conversation.

First, let me list my achievements. It’s kind of a big deal for me…

Last night I put my coupla days not smoking to the test- I was excited about it actually, not dreading it. I didn’t smoke, I didn’t WANT to smoke. I’m over the moon. So I didn’t want to smoke, that doesn’t mean I didn’t THINK about smoking. I did think about smoking, and I talked at length about not smoking. But I didn’t want to smoke really, I just sort of observed smokers engaging in their oh so familiar ritual as if it was through a pane of glass, or like I was reading about people smoking and not actually seeing it in the flesh.

I’m not sure I’ll never smoke again, but I have never been this convinced I really didn’t want to smoke. I get what the book says about not needing willpower: I don’t feel like it was a strain to not smoke all those individual cigarettes, although it wasn’t 100% easy as snapping my fingers and not wanting a smoke, in fact I can’t actually snap my fingers so it was much easier for me. Anyway.. I don’t know, maybe I’m cured maybe I’ve a long way to go, maybe I’ll snap… But I’m very cheerful about it. It feels good. My breath is still horrible though. So it wasn’t just the smoking, I realise I have actually got bad breath too. Oh well.

I’m coughing up a lungfull today but I think it’s the beginning stages of the gunge expulsion. Excelsior!

The point is, even if I haven’t hit my biggest most harmful vice a knockout blow in a few painless days, I have at least give it the almighty finger. I have at the very least, called its mother a ho.

Anyway. I have awarded myself the congressional medal of non smoking, let us move along and sink our hyper-analytical paranoid little chompers into the soft belly flesh of the evening.

I’m talking, socialisation.

Again: I deserve top marks. I wasn’t exactly super entertaining, but I made no waves and offended no ethnic groups. I inspired a few giggles and witters and didn’t mention my divorce to anyone, at all! I didn’t even brag about having to meet my divorce lawyer today. Boom, I’m getting the hang of this. Admittedly, only had 3 pints of beer. But still. I was good. I could have been so bad on just 3 pints…

Unfortunately, apart from Andrea (who scores top marks for awesomeness. I finally have a proper friend, yay!) the company was about as exciting as a night in exfoliating my feet. (This was the alternative timeline for yesterday. Some time last night, a parallel universe version of me made a decision, pulled down the shutters, stuck on the Joni Mitchell and scattered foot flakes like Edward Scissorhands up in his house doing an ice sculpture.)

We met with a group of Italians (alarm bells, yo) who Andrea had pre-warned me, were not attractive. Well… she squinted… they are SHORT. She is short, so this means… they were SHORT.

I was dressed in a few too many colours to really attract an Italian  mate anyway. The Italian is a peacock, the male is meant to display his coloured plumage, the woman to cluck impressed and feign disapproval from the safety of black boots and jeans and a white top combo. I had blue tights, a yellow cardigan and a pretty flattering grey dress on. I looked nice, but it wasn’t the right look. Fuck it though, I’m getting bolder. I don’t really want to be slimed on in a black cocktail dress. A black cocktail dress makes my appeal way too generic. And I didn’t look like a hippie or anything, I was quite groomed and had nice sexy makeup on. So fuck you and your undeveloped palate, ITALIANS. I give good head, did you even stop to think about that? No! You see yellow clothing, you think crazy. Well your loss. I don’t even like GETTING HEAD. So really, Italians, you are foolish and you are the ones missing out.

Anyway. deep breaths.

We met this group of guys, one of whom Andrea knew vaguely.

Andrea introduced me to him, and he promptly went to the bar leaving us standing beside a table full of his friends. We exchanged a look, me and my newly-promoted gal pal, that said “what the fuck, he didn’t introduce us to his friends, where’s the bubbly circle of “hi!s” and where’s the gracious and charming offer of bringing us drinks from the bar and where is the pulling over of empty chairs so we can sit?”

So I had already crossed off a few items on the “decent human being” checklist when doucheface came back with his own “fruity as an ass full of pineapple” cocktail with maraschino cherry and black straw.

We were inserted gracelessly into the circle of best buddies whose quickfire back and forth was like watching the Gilmore Girls talk about their favorite detergent.

Groan.

One of the girls… there were two nondescript, mashed potato boring, typical Italian girls at our table. They both looked like they had emerged from the womb middle aged. They had young skin and young bodies, but the expressions on those smooth, sallow faces could probably be found in Pompei, on the igneous casing of a housewife, frozen in the eternal act of reprimanding a foolish husband.

These women are made in a different factory from real women. They come out all shiny and petulant, little daddy’s girls who like the proper girl colour, pink, and eat a proper girl amount of food to stay nice and perfect, and probably grow into proper teenagers who masturbate in a neat and discrete manner, folding ironing and putting the clitoris away after use, making eager Italian boys wait in torment for a glimpse of perfect brown nipple. Tortured Italian boys propose, and become tortured Italian husbands with receding hair and encroaching waist-lines.

And the expression is always the same, I presume. I presume because this is just a fictional imagining of what happens behind the polished exterior I have actually seen.

Italian woman play the game like they’re on a different team from the men. Who knows what kind of depravity they reveal in the privacy of the girl’s only club. But on the pitch, with the jocular men, the women put up a front of girlish sweetness. They giggle flirtatiously through tight lips, repeating their ancestors’ jokes and giving nothing honest away. There’s something menacing and hyper competitive in their wordplay. They’re playing to win. I don’t now if it’s just in my head, because I come from a society where we don’t have to take mincing little steps, we can be- it’s ok to be and it’s GOOD to be, a stampede of personality and a roar of a woman.

I’m not saying everyone should be rowdy or vulgar, but just… this portrait of a lady is mighty old, and very fake. If it takes all sorts, why don’t we SEE all sorts at the Italian bar table? All I say is the same cookie-cutter eyelash-batting future battleaxe of a wife and mother, smelling like a rose that doesn’t fart but hollow in the middle.

I’ve never had a good conversation with an Italian woman in a mixed-gender situation. I’ve had moderately good times with women here, but in female-only environments, like in my shop, or when it’s just a few girls together having coffee.

So I’m getting a bit sidetracked. One of the Italian girls piped up, anyway.

She giggled something about one of the guy’s arm hairs. This is the girl opposite me at the table, and the guy sitting beside me whose name I forget, let’s call him Giaccomo.

So Giaccomo is like “what? What about my arm hair?”

Giggly wench is like “ooh.. nothing! Yours are … well-formed! Some people don’t have good arm hair.”

What’s this bitch really thinking about? Her collection of ceramic pig figurines? The fact that she posted a comment on a Star Trek fan site, and she’s itching to know if her forum nemesis replied back? Does she have Abba stuck in her head? Is she worrying that she might have got her period, but she can’t be sure because maybe she just leaked a little lady liquid? Is she thinking about the stock exchange? Should she sell her stock that went down two points or wait and see if it goes up again?

These women are a mystery to me.

Giaccomo is now pulling back his sleeves now displaying an immaculate forearm, mahogany brown, smooth coloured and glowing with health and mamma’s cooking, and coated with a thick, even army of black hairs. The hairs lie harmonious against his skin like a mammal in water.

He coos and flutters asking about what she means, what kind of hair he has, is it normal, etc.

The other girl at the table, the friendlier, curly-haired girl, interjects randomly with “please! Arm hair! Really! Can we STOP!” and squeals at the ridiculousness of it all.

I exchange glances with Andrea.

The arm hair conversation spreads around the table, attracting the other men to compare forearms and chuckle and the two girls to be extremely silly about it all, in a clearly contrived, controlled and appropriate way.

Andrea and I retreat quietly to our own conversation in Spanish.

Giaccomo catches a few words and turns to us. “Ah! But you must speak in Italian! I can’t understand you!” Big nice smile. Pity the summary of nice smile, nice skin, nice arms, nice hair, nice eyes… doesn’t add up to an attractive man. Strange, but meh.

I’m quite bored by this group and their shitty conversation. So I’m like

“Oooh… That’s embarassing… It’s just… I was telling my friend, about how awful your arm hairs are.”

He does a double take. “WHAAAAT? MY arm hairs? What’s wrong?” He starts examining his arms frantically.

I’m like, “Yeah… they’re actually pretty horrific. Like, frightening. I’m sorry that’s why I was talking in Spanish”

And the guy is freaking out. He announces he will get them waxed tomorrow. His big brown eyes are puppy-dog-desolate.

I have to put him out of his bizzare misery.

Yeah. It was a joke. How could you have scary arm hair?

All is well. He’s in stitches with my amazing practical joke. Relief circles the table like a giddy vulture. Whew.

My little jest got me in good with the group for a while.

But again, they bored the hell out of me until if I had been any more drunk I would have started announcing weird truths or lies about myself for entertainment purposes.

Luckily I began whispering to Andrea, let’s ditch these lamewads.

She was like… nooo I feel bad, they bought me shots. I abstained from shots because I’m a sensible adult, I know I can’t take shots. I had a cold bottle of beer while the mama’s boys chugged thimblesfull of vodka with thimbles of O.J as a chaser. Fear and Loathing, eat your heart out. I throw myself into not sneering at these lightweights. It’s a bad habit of a previous hardcore party beast, I tend to look down on people who think they are mad bastards for having a cough medicine spoonfull of spirits.

I wheedle at Andrea. Come on, admit it… These guys are super boring. I’m taking a gamble here, she’s a nice person maybe she’ll think I’m a dick. I tell her she can pretend I want to go meet up with this guy I fancy. I don’t care, throw me under the bus! I want out of this Italian version of Friends, except less funny.

She crumbles and admits I’m right. We make excuses and leave.

We need to pee. We are talking about how lame Italians are.

I go on a rant that is luckily well received, about how Italian women annoy me by acting so freaking perfect. Whether or not its true, they perpetuate this idea of women being these pillars of grace and cleanliness and men are these oafish sods who need to be glared at until they sheepishly submit to the will of the woman.

I’m sick of these faux conversations where some bitch with flawless skin squeals about having seen someone pick up food that landed on the floor, or peed in the gents toilet when there was a queue for the ladies like a mile long.

I hate these fake, prissy bitches. The two wenches we were with earlier had left the group for like an hour to “find a clean toilet”. Come on, we queued for ages and got to a hole in the ground with no lock. And my bladder didn’t give a crap (it couldn’t, it’s a bladder)

What kind of joyless masochist would queue for various toilets and reject one with a full pee-sac?

That’s bad parenting, that’s what I blame it on.

I have news for you: I SIT my bare bum on public toilet seats all the time and as far as I know, mr. fucking Monk, I have neither dyptheria nor hepatitis nor bum rabies. So there. Imagine what a carefully places sheet of tissue would do. The mind boggles.

So me and Andrea are rejoicing in our kindred sloppy spirithood, and we decide to pee beside these dumpsters. It’s a very quiet street, poorly lit. There are like 4 big bins. We lower our knickers and hike up our skirts and unleash frothy fountains of joyous piss in unison, giggling like Beavis and Butthead.

Someone’s coming.

He has a reflective shirt on.

He is coming towards us purposefully.

Behind him is a MASSIVE BEEPING BIN TRUCK.

Dang. We force our streams to halt and yank undies back into place more or less cleanly. More or less. and begin to walk past the guy in the reflective jacket.

He’s a binman. They are for some reason emptying the bins right now, the bins we peed all around.

We try to act casual as the bin truck pulls up all beeps and lights. He shoots us a look of revulsion.

“All done, LADIES?”

We power walk past as I fume at the inconsideration of bin trucks, choosing toilet-queueing nightmare time to come and do the rounds. Not fair.

We cemented our friendship, anyway. I know it seems pretty tame, peeing on the street, but in Italy the girls we have met are such prudes, it’s like an act of rebellion…

We moved to a kind of social-centre (warning bells, I know) party where on the strength of Andrea’s good looks and in spite of my hostile arguments, we got in for free.

We found one familiar face and began dancing to the most intense, unpleasant strobe lighting I’ve ever seen. It showed brief unnerving glimpses of the other dancers, like flashes of lightning in a horror movie.

I was just loosening up my funky chicken wings when a flash of illumination showed me a face I had no intention or expectation of seeing…

HUSBAND.

Husband, the broke, no money for bills, selfish lying piece of shit, out clubbing in a pay-in party.

I grabbed Andrea, unsure if I had seen what I had seen. I told her nervously. What? Are you sure?

I shook my head. I turned. I saw my husband dancing with some girl I don’t know.

He was wearing the hawaian shirt he married me in, that later became all tatty and worn out, so I cut out the bad parts and using another favorite shirt of his, I created a new supershirt for him. It’s an awesome shirt. I’m sloppy as hell but this was a labour of love and devotion. He was wearing his awesome shirt made for him by his wife to dance with some stupid looking wench while spending money he owes for electricity and heating he used last year, on drinks for himself.

Andrea spotted him too and yelped. Let’s go! We snaked out through increasingly dizzying flashes of light.

Andrea looked around for any familiar but not married to me faces, and noticed my slack jaw and stunned, lifeless eyes.

Ah… let’s get out of here.

We left the place and those horrible jarring lights and sat on a curb outside.

It all flooded over me as I sat and didn’t smoke, and didn’t really want to…

I was out kind of hoping to find a nice face to slurp all over and then regret the next day, and who do I bump into? Husband, a week before my separation. I can’t afford to give him anything he can use against me like that. Imagine he could go to court and say I was unfaithful? Until we have our legal separation, anything goes. We’re still legally together.

One week baby, and I swore to Andrea, we are going out, I am having a reverse-hen night.

We’re going to go see strippers and I’m getting a horrible greasy lapdance. I’m going to drink a bottle of whiskey and take a 19 year old man child home to my black satin sheets and ride him like a mechanical bull set to “easy”, and if he cares if my legs are hairy, then tough shit, I’ve never been thrown out of bed for resembling a faun before, and if it happens here in Italy, hell it only confirms my theory that men here are an insult to closet homosexuality.

In fact last night we were walking along and one of the guys sort of stroked and squeezed his friend’s arm, and the two were like to us, all jocular, “Ha ha it’s a guy thing, it’s man stuff,” like they were comparing arm muscles or something but man it seemed quite sensual from where I was standing. Yes, I admit I am standing in a sexually obsessed position, but whatevs. I can still use my spidey senses.

Anyway I was sitting on the curb with rolls and rolls of neatly packed emotional trauma toppling out of my secret ignore place, like logs off the back of a Final Destination truck. I sat there moody, considering smoking not for enjoyment or because I wanted to, but for the same reasons I started smoking as a teenager… to say a silent, unnoticed fuck you to someone who had hurt me. In this case, husband. Back when I was 14 or 15, my parents.

I decided I am somewhat more mature now, and that sort of poor me bullshit has run its course. I don’t want to do shit that makes people think “wow, she’s coping SO WELL considering.” I don’t even want people to KNOW the shit that’s going on. No that’s a lie, a blatant lie. I want people to catch little snippets of my personal drama and be suitably impressed with my stoical heroicism in dealing with growed-up shit.

So I’m spacing out and I realise Andrea’s just along for the ride, and I’m like, sorry for the crappy company, it just threw me to see husband out of context like that.

She’s like, wow no worries, I totally understand! Jeez it’s totally expected!

So we sat for a while then shared a taxi which we paid for 50-50, but actually it worked out cheaper and I was going further so I wound up paying less to go the longest journey. I will get her a beer next time to even things out maybe. Hmm, just thinking I MIGHT do that gives me some good person feelings. Nice.

This morning I woke up and felt pretty fine, 4 hours sleep, enough is as good as a feast they say. That’s true although of course I didn’t get enough, but fuck it I have a month left before I’m 24, and I’m perfectly capable of doing 10 hours customer service on my poor feet and a lawyer meeting with husband at 4pm in my lunch hour on 4 hours sleep.

This is my youth baby, I just gotta deal and enjoy that it’s even feasable.

I feel pretty good actually.

I think the feeble amount of beers consumed paired with the not smoking at all and the sensible glass of water before bed, the trifecta of my accumulated wisom…

Totally doable workday.

And then I got a really sweet message from Andrea this morning, being all like hey let me know how you get on with the lawyer today, if you need to vent or whatever I’m here.

I have a proper friend! Looks like I won’t have to go eat those worms after all.

Woop woop!

You see, I must be doing something right.

And tomorrow I’m meeting another new friend for a day of good humoured sunny tourism and possibly catch a film in English.

Go on mah son! (This in a brutish English football fan voice btw.)

I am on a roll of social excellence.

Just one week since my deplorable argument about maturity with some dickweed, and so much is better. So I saw husband, big whoop. I don’t even care. Also I got a big phone bill. Why? Who? When? Pffff. I’m just chillin.

Fortuna, you filthy auld dame, you really are spoiling me with this latest series of spins.

Rock on.

Why nice girls don’t play computer games.

My hair is greasy at the roots and scraggy at the tips (but resplendent in between! Oh cruel distribution of oils, it takes three or four days for the grease to work its magic on the middle of the hair, at which stage the roots are reminiscent of an Italian’s chat up lines)

My feet are grotty. Bag those toenails… and I have callouses on my heels because when I was younger I rebelled against this idea of soft feet. Who wants soft feet? We put leather on our feet so they can walk on hard surfaces, and then we want soft feet? I wanna be able to run across gravel barefoot and fancy free. So my callouses are hardcore, horny little bastards that will take some fucking Gara Raffa fish or something to sort out.

My legs are commencing their winter coat.

My limbs are covered in mosquito bites in varying stages of healing.

My teeth are yellow and need a floss, but where is my floss? I don’t want to buy more floss, I have a budget. More about this later. I need to find that floss I already bought.

My moustache is about 3 days away from needing a wax. It’s ok… now. I can get away with it for a few more days.

My eyebrows are creeping over the agreed borders, violating the terms of peace. They must be removed by force.

My skin is pasty and anaemic looking.

I have blackheads all over my nose, big bad fuckers that will cost me a hell of a lot of time and pain to squish out, and then I will have nose leprosy for days as my skin panics and tries to heal its tortured surface. And then the blackheads will fill back up with crap anyway.

My belly is flabby and squidgy, although it is shrinking thanks to the kickass bean diet.

My bikini area.. is a disgrace. But fuck it, I give up. I actually give up.

There is no TIME for any of this.

I don’t even count fingernails as worthy of attention. But people do!
Who has time to constantly uproot the weeds, push back the hairlines, squeeze out the dirt, wash and scrub and exfoliate and cover up and peel off and brush and massage and work muscles and tone and tan?

Who?

Women.
Women with different priorities.
If tv and movies have taught us anything, it’s that a viable mothers day gift is a session at the spa, and that girlfriends will chew the fat together over the eliptical trainer or in a sauna.
These are not enjoyable things, but they are considered “treats” for women.
Women light up when you give them bath salts and moisturisers. Well, our mothers were always polite about receiving gifts, I guess.

But look at the equivalent male gifts.

Golf equipment. Novelty drinking items. Computer games or electronic gadgets. Sports gear.

FUN THINGS. Or at least, enjoyable things purely for that man’s hobby and his spare time. Nothing to help him keep the natural depreciation of his sexual stock at bay.

A man’s spare time (still in this tv- style universe, I know not everyone is like this obviously) is about HIM.
He reads the newspaper to find out what’s going on, he watches tv to enjoy himself.
Women’s sections in the newspaper are all about looking after yourself. How to best lose weight, tone up, smooth your face and improve your flakey dishevelled appearance enough so that those men who are reclined on the couch will find us attractive enough to fuck us, even though sex has absolutely fucking nothing to do with being shevelled (opposite of dishevelled? Meh, I’ll allow it) or smooth looking.

Ok I’m not getting at the state of gender roles or how ridiculous it is that women buy into this beauty marketing bullshit… because I’m a sucker too, so I can’t rage too much for fear of extreme hypocrisy.

What I’m talking about is- there isn’t enough time in the day for women to keep up to scratch AND have spare time for herself. And I’m a single woman with no kids.
I think you would need to be unemployed to have enough time to really stay at the required level of hygiene and neatness.

The time I have free to myself, is time I want to spend unwinding. It’s time I need to spent unwinding and de-stressing and enjoying myself. Admittedly my situation, lack of buddies and divorce and all that, does make me run for the escapism of tv and gaming.
I already have to maintain my apartment, and boy is that going badly, if I were to keep my apartment clean and my body impeccable, I would probably have time for one episode of a tv show per night. That’s it.
I wouldn’t be able to cope.

When you see some woman walking around looking all glossy- when you see a woman on the BEACH and she looks good practically naked, in harsh sunlight, you can tell right then and there that either her hobbies are things that make you look good (lucky bitch, enjoying excercise) like volleyball or swimming or some active shit, or she is forcing herself to forgo a good portion of her hobby and game time just to be able to look good on the beach.

So you know immediately, she is a joyless bitch. Don’t even look at her. Looking at her makes the chubby girl you can’t even see on the towel next to her, decide to be a joyless bitch too.

This is why you will go on dates with women who you are attracted to but they will end up talking about yoga or what they eat, because they have nothing else to talk about because their spare time is spent grooming.

Ahh I’m just bitter. But it’s normal, mostly when we are jealous of someone we find a way to be like “yeah they LOOK nice, but I wouldn’t WANT to look nice if the price is giving up my free time.” and then we can look down on them, and there is no more need for jealousy.

But I’m still bitter, because it looks like there are lots of girls going around who clearly have so little desire to go around looting in virtual cities that they can keep themselves in perfect condition. Isn’t the whole fucking point of living in the modern age, that all our whadjamacallems and gizmos are supposed to free up our time so we can do things we like? The industrial revolution didn’t happen so that I could spent hours inflicting pain on myself so I’d look good for some guy who’s perfectly free to slob around if he wants.
We’re supposed to have more leisure time than ever.
Now I have a mountain of debt, I look and feel like crap, I work about 45 hours a week to keep myself in beans and tins of tuna and my mortgage paid and my bills sorted (which I still can’t afford) and I’ll admit I’m bad with money, but come on modern age, throw me a bone!

And this little rant is brought to you by, I had to get a lawyer for my divorce. Shit got kinda ugly.
I thought it would be fun and exciting to have a lawyer. I thought it would be like on tv (this is a common flaw in my reasoning) that I’d be able to knock my bastard ex to his knees and my lawyer would kick him in the guts until he coughed up all the money he owes me.
Instead bitch lawyer from hell, with her hideously expensive but tacky clothes and massive belt buckle, waved away the money issue. “You can’t get that back. You could sue him but it would probably cost more to sue than you’d get back. Also if he’s unemployed, you can’t get anything from him.”

Oh. So… what am I paying you for?

Apparently the forms myself and husband filled in in the courthouse, while he leaked big embarassing man tears on the page, and I wanted to cry but couldn’t because I had been the hard bitch who broke up with him, those forms are all filled out wrong.
So now I have to beg him please come in and sign some shit with my LAWYER and he’s all suspicious and acting like I’m trying to screw him over.

So I sit here and rage about other things. Because I can’t handle the injustice that I am hugely in debt and a good whack of that is my husband’s debt, and if I don’t pay it, it’s MY problem, not his.
And that my lawyer has shattered my illusions of what the world of mysterious legal wrangling is really like.

And that I look like shit.

I actually starting writing a post a few days ago but it was massively depressing and I decided not to share.
This is considerably more upbeat.

The sober moment when you realise it’s not other people who are the dicks, it’s you…

So I’m in my shop, minding my own business as usual.

The shop is empty.

In the open door stomps a short 30 something with her phone glued to her ear. She guffaws and bellows down the phone, a whole stream of irrelevant gossip about people I don’t know. I instantly seethe with hatred. She has punctured my solitude and not even offered me any company.

She’s not the only one- so many ignorant cunts enter my shop mid conversation to seek refuge from the noisy street for their personal calls. And she’s barely disguising this ploy with the usual cover up of looking around the shop and fingering bags and trousers on the rails. That throws me off the scent for a bit, so I can’t rage for fear of losing an actual customer… but this inconsiderate wench isn’t even paying lip service. She can’t even afford me the basic courtesy of leaving doubt as to whether or not she’s using to shop as a customer….

I’m pretty annoyed because she’s here for like 5 minutes and her voice is grating on me.

So I do what I always do when I’m feeling like my sanctuary is invaded- I put on some loud motherfucking music and wait for my subtle hint to wash over the non- customer as she struggles to carry on her convo, until finally she scurries out shooting me an offended look.

He he he.

I put the plan into action and instantly feel beads of embarrassed perspiration form on my brow. Eck… I do hate this. It’s such an awkward moment when she realises I’m telling her to fuck off and take her bullshit phone call elsewhere.

I see her face register my vibrant 90s choons.

She turns to me, telling her friend to hang on a second. She advances on my till…

Shit! Shit!

Confrontation! Shit! I’m about to be called rude or something. Agh not prepared for this! Abort! Abort! It’s too late to abort mission. I have to stick to my guns and hope she doesn’t call me on my antisocial behaviour…

She stops at the till as the shop’s airwaves fall back into flatline silence.

Calm before the storm?

She smiles, probably in a confrontational manner.

I grit my teeth into a nice salesperson grin.

“Can I just ask you something?” she barks…

“Yeesss..” I whine back placidly.

“It’s just… did you put on that music?” she narrows her eyes. Oh no oh no oh no I don’t want her to call me rude, that would ruin my day. I’m pathetic, I know. I hate everyone but I can’t bear anyone not liking me.

“Ye…esss”

Her face erupts into an agressive type of smile.

“Oh my GOD please tell me what this song is called? I have been looking for it for YEARS! I love it so much! I can’t remember the name, but I absolutely LOVE the song!”

Oh. I see. She’s just a loudish, aggressive person, she’s actually being friendly.

I write “King of Rock and Roll, Prefab Sprout” on a card for her. She thanks me radiantly…then continues her obnoxious conversation to the background of a very loud “hot dog, jumping frog, albequerque!”

Then leaves, thanking me again, profusely, enthusing to her unseen friend about how happy she is to know the name of that song.

I am a little thrown by this exchange, mostly because I realise that I was being a dick. But now I feel good because I reunited someone with King of Rock and Roll and I didn’t get some earful of abuse from an asshole, which would have pissed me off big time.

I was all happy and decided to stop being so fucking hostile to everyone who behaves outside of my rigorous behavioural code for humanity, and the phone rang.

“Hello, I’m blah blah blah from blah blah blah, can I speak to whoever is in charge of telephony in your company?”

This means, telemarketer for a phone company. The reception is shockingly bad, I can barely make out what this call centre slave is running together in one breath, but I know it’s the same bullcrap special offer from one of the 3 operators we have already tried and left because they were shit and expensive.

“sorry, what is this regarding?”

“I want to…. xxxxxxxxxx (muffled noises)… offers and promotions… xxxxxxxxx your supervisor?”

“Sorry, the boss isn’t here now.”

“fine. Have a FANTASTIC day, you’ve been EXTREMELY HELPFUL”

What the fuck? I have never heard more sarcasm on the phone in my life. And how come she can be a bitch over the line and I hear everything perfectly?

And since when were call centre employees allowed be rude like that? I know I wasn’t allowed be rude when I did my time on the phone lines. My calls were scored for quality, and I woulda lost my bonus if I laid it on noticably thick with the sarcasm.

I fume for a few seconds until I realise that’s exactly what that whore wants me to do, she’s pissy because she works in a shitty call centre and her only solace is knowing she put me in a crappy mood and I can’t say anything back to her.

So I cheer myself up and move on with my day, friendly and bright as I can muster…

It works, I’m in a whopper mood now.

YAY!

And THEN I made a new friend!

Well, we shall see.

But a Scottish girl came into my shop and we chatted about getting our legs waxed and other intimate but clean kinds of things. We talked shit for ages, and I laughed more than I have since coming back to Italy.

So yeah, there’s another potential newcomer… I just have to stay relatively sober around this girl so I don’t scare her off with the full scope of my conversation topics.

Oh and then I finished work and walked past lots of shops with nice things in the windows. I nipped into a supermarket to reward myself for my restraint with- and I mean this is all I was going to buy- an avocado.

But then I realised I didn’t have cash so I had to buy more than just an avocado to use my card, and so I also bought some fennel tea and some more tins of tuna and some lettuce and deodorant because I ran out.

So I was pretty good, really.

I wanted other stuff, I nearly splashed out on some hair repairing serum, but remembered smugly at the last minute that my hair is in pretty fucking amazing condition, it only looks lank because it’s fucking 35 degrees every day and I am sweating from every follicle on my body (and boy, do I have follices)

So I put it back and felt a surge of good in control feelings.

And then I exited through a clothes shop in the same building, and I was looking at dresses and I snapped myself out of it like a model of restraint, and then I nearly got home but I walked past this “sexy shop” and it had blacked out windows so I thought hey maybe they have corsets? Corsets are sexy. It’s a sexy shop.

I had to ring a buzzer to get in, which startled me and made me go bright red because it made a loud noise and all the people walking around nearby were alerted to my about-to-walk-into-a-sexy-shop status.

I dove in when it clicked open, and found myself in a gloomy room full of porn dvds on shelves, like in the olden days.

Who the fuck goes into a shop and buys porn? Who pays for porn? Like, hello? 2000 called, it wants…. I don’t know but it wants SOMETHING back.

I felt like I was in a museum or some shit.

A man in his 40s, attractive I presume but not hot enough to transcend the age difference, greets me, his only customer.

I look around and see only dvds. I ask him if he has… bras. I don’t know how to say corset and I damn well amn’t describing “a long bra, that laces up to suck in my stomach fat so I can train my waist to look like a wasp’s” in Italian.

He waves me to the back, where a glass case houses the sluttiest, trashiest looking boxes of “sexy” outfits you have ever seen.

Sexy nurse, obvs. And sexy cat, sexy… ah just a load of halloween-quality ho clobber.

I see corsets, but they are not heavy duty tummy tuckers, they are elasticated sheer netty things that would just highlight my uglies. I spy a dildo section to the left, and I really want to know how much a little bullet vibrator would cost here but I know expensive from looking online in Italian shops… I should just buy from the UK, it would only set me back 15 quid.

So I stutter some “no, I wanted something different” to this guy and he decides to take the typical Italian sales ploy of “NO YOU ARE WRONG, YOU JUST THINK YOU WANT SOMETHING ELSE BUT ACTUALLY WE HAVE WHAT YOU WANT.” which they don’t actually say but it is pretty hard to argue out of. I am used to this bullshit technique by now though so I just say, glancing at the boxes of trashy crackwhore garments and seeing “S, M, L” type sizing,

“Actually I was wondering if you had bras with more specialised sizing. You know, cup sizes and things.”

Man’s eyes flicker to my tits. I feel like I was unprepared for the appraisal, and I’m aware he thinks I’m deluded that I need a special size. Damn damn I feel judged now. I puff up as imperceptibly as I can, to give my knockers a bit of an edge.

“They are all elasticated, you don’t need cup sizes”

“Right…” I say, “I am actually looking for good bras with more specific sizes, I thought maybe you sold lingerie…”

“We do, look behind you… they fit any size, they are elastic”

“Yeah I know, I mean like good everyday bras, not…ahem… special ones. I need a separate cup size and bust measurement. It doesn’t matter, it’s just I thought I’d check if you had anything like that…” I edge towards the door.

“WHAT you want a bigger cup?” his eyes return to my sorry attempt at breasts.

“NO.. I have a… wide back. No it’s ok, thank you”

He rolls his eyes like I’m a complete fucking moron, I know that look, it’s the look I give customers when they refuse to believe our real, obviously leather bags are leather, or some shit.

I duck out the door grinning wildly and stumble onto a street full of elderly judgemental passersby. Oh no oh no oh no, I’ve just come out to my neighbourhood watch as a perve.

I make it a few paces away and realise I’m a stupid bitch, I should have just looked at vibrators, this guy works as a porn salesman, what the fuck do I care if he knows I masturbate?

Sheesh. But this is Italy, and who knows? Men and women are very private sexes here…. it’s not the same…

I read an interview one time with this guys who had opened a sex shop somewhere in Italy… it was about their business plan and success and all… but of course the interviewer had to keep asking stuff like “ohmygod do WOMEN come into your shop?” and the slimeball owner was like “yeah, we even get some women in the shop! Yeah it’s hard to believe, but some women come in and buy things from us! Yes, maybe a woman wants to surprise her boyfriend in the bedroom, he he, we don’t mind, it’s all good fun!” or something similarly sexist and closed minded.

I don’t remember verbatim but I do remember fuming about the ridiculously backwards attitude to sex in the part of Italian life that I am privy to…

Just one more point on the list of reasons I’m in the wrong fucking country.

Anyway.

Before I go to bed, I want to confess something…

Yesterday, I bought two MAC eyeshadows. I didn’t really notice I was doing anything wrong until I had my card in my hand, and then I justified it by saying “yeah well if I had woken up late this morning and been hungry, I would have spent the same amount on a taxi and a big lunch, and then a few coffees, so it’s ok.”

I didn’t tell you yesterday because that’s what addicts do, we lie about shit.

But I’m being honest, yo.

I don’t want you to be buying this bullshit about how poised and restrained I am now that I managed to not buy dresses ONE DAY.

Although I am still proud.

It’s progress of some sort.

Good night… and peace out, motherfuckers.

You think someone intelligent made a dumb bitch like this?

Thought I’d do some masochistic youtubeing before bed…

 

I want to smack this bitch upside the creepy smiling face.

 

If she can not believe in evolution because it means humans aren’t as special and loved as she wants them to be…

Can I say calories are a myth too, because if there are really calories in food, then eating too much will make me fat?

 

Really, really stupid argument… dumb broad.

 

Also pissing me off this evening: loads of moths.

Where they come from, I don’t know, but they are in my kitchen up high on the wall where I can’t swat ‘em. Every time I streak in for a glass of water (need curtains. Desperately need some fucking curtains) they flutter up around my head like I’m some crackhead disney princess.

Arrghhh gross… I hate moths. They are only tiny moths, I can kill them without feeling too icky, but it annoys be because I can only get one at a time and the rest cop on and fly out of reach.

And also, I have no problem sharing my apartment with a few small moths if they keep to their part of the room (the high part of the ceiling which I am not using) but noooo, they have to swarm around me like I’m their mother and they love me.

They don’t eat my clothes, luckily, they are food moths. They are the kind you find scattered in the flour tub when your stupid husband takes the lid for his lunch tub and he doesn’t think there’s a problem with this, and he doesn’t use flour anyway because all he does is stir fries and bbq.

And then he won’t wash up after I cook, because I dirty so many pots and bowls. YEAH asshole, that’s because I cook shit that’s more exciting than rice with vegetables. Ah it’s ok, I don’t have to deal with him any more and his insensitivity.

I don’t know if I told you guys about this, but towards the end (maybe we were already broken up) he decided to defrost some steaks on the radiator (yes.) and oh guess what was already on the radiator? My favorite soft woolen jumper dress. Really nice dress.

So I had it drying out for the next day, and I get up in the morning and put on my dress and I’m all groggy and brushing my teeth (nah that’s a lie, I have terrible oral hygiene. I was probably trowelling on some slap) and I catch a wiff and I’m like, wtf, why is there a stench of period? And I realised it was me. And I started freaking out that I had developed that actually real disease called dead fish syndrome (I think it’s called that, it is real though) that makes you just constantly stink of something horrible even if you just had a shower. And I was panicking. And then I realised that it was actually blood on the front of my dress. And ugh, where did that come from? And then I went back to the radiator and saw the steaks dripping blood and figured it all out and yes I was relieved but also, really angry.

What kind of asshole does something like that?

Ok I’m getting all uptight about that and it’s ok because we’re not together any more.

I am free.

But also, loooooonely.

 

Oh but wait, before I go down that road AGAIN,

I have actual reason to be in a good mood.

Tomorrow I’m signing up for a pizza making course. And not just some bored housewife kind of evening class, it’s a proper one, that trains you professionally. Like, I’m going to learn how to spin dough up in the air and make proper tasty pizzas and shit.

YAY!

Then I’m really, really going to be able to impress men.

Actually it’s mostly because I really get sick of coming home from Italy and everyone’s all, “ooh you should know how to make amazing pizzas, because you live in Italy!” and yeah, it’s not like you just learn that in due course.

Also, it makes me employable in another sector if I ever get sick of not rummaging frantically in an incredibly hot oven while hungry people grumble near me, and my eyes blink through sweat to decypher blurry short hand on scraps of paper.

And yes, I’ll impress some men, too.

It’s all about building up my portfolio of resourcefulness. Hell yeah I’m still convinced this is where I’ll make my sexual fortune.

I also think I want to learn to play the piano, but I realise if I decide to do that as well, my motivational powers will not stretch and I won’t learn anything, but just pay the full courses up front and stay home miserable and ashamed of myself like what happened with the driving lessons and the sewing classes. (You don’t know about these because they were pre-blog. But yeah I paid for a full course of driving lessons and never went back, and that was a year ago. And the same with sewing classes but I taught myself to sew on my -yeah, quite expensive- sewing machine. Except I’m not very neat, but I was never gonna be so booya, I’m a motherfuckin autodidact. )

So baby steps… baby steps. But I am definitely doing the pizza thing, I SWEAR THIS IS HAPPENING.

It’s not one of those whims like becoming a computer scientist or an evolutionary biologist or a physicist that I quit before I started, those I gave up for a reason- the reason being that the open university had a little test to see if you had enough basic science/maths to go to college… and I don’t.

Damn I used to be good at maths. REAL GOOD.

Fucking differentiation, man. It killed my science career. I just wanted to know what the fuck it was before I learned it off by heart, but no one could give me a straight answer, or maybe my maths teacher did, but I didn’t understand it. I prefer the former reason.

Ok. Anyway. I will keep you posted, like obviously.

And in case you’re wondering where all the people are this week, yeah that’s it. You have literally heard about all my non customer interaction. Except for one or two convos with my dad, that’s it.

Now you see how I churn out so many of these bad boys.

I have no social life.

But hey it’s cool I’m not depressed or anything, I actually really enjoy my own company.

Even my pity parties are off the hook.

Except the sex has gone downhill lately, so I may need to yank out some hairs and get back out there and tolerate some people I don’t really care much for.

Woop woop!

Ok right that’s it I’m getting bored talking to myself now.

Don’t you wish your girlfriend was hot… like my dad

Went shopping yesterday with my daddy’s credit card.

Not for myself, of course.

I’m not going shopping any more. New leaf. Restraint, baby. That’s how I plan on rolling.

I went to a big huge wholesaler’s fair to buy for autumn/winter. 32 degrees celsius, walking around a Heathrow sized collection of exhibit halls, buying christmas decorations and woolen jumpers in bulk.

Oh the weirdness of it. I was of course sweatier than a priest watching a nativity play, but I looked pretty fucking good.

Picking my spots in this instance seems to have been a good thing: they are now at the scar tissue phase. Still gross but now at least coverable with makeup.

For my business woman look, I channeled “classy hooker”, and wore my wedding dress for the first time since the fateful day I signed my sex life’s death sentence.

It’s not a proper wedding dress, it’s a 40s style not toooo slutty orange-red dress. It’s not too slutty really, except I forgot all about the boobage- it has a tendency to unleash one boob as the front is kind of open. It would have been fine with some tit tape, but this is something I don’t posess because my tits don’t tend to fall out of my clothes, being pretty damn small. Every time I buy a bra with a c-cup, I’m lying to myself. Then I have to go around trying to keep the damn things from gaping open because I’m not a c cup at all, am I? Maybe for two days of the month when those bastard hormones throw me a silver lining and make me believe I have decent boobs. Then I buy bras, and bingo, I don’t have a single bra that fits properly. Ok enough about my tits.

Anyway. I looked pretty good, but I had to keep checking the cleavage situation.

I hated how I looked on my wedding day- the dress looked cool but I was having a bad face and hair day and the official photographer actually wound up having some degenerative illness that meant our official wedding photos were all totally out of focus and blurry. All that was left was the millions of horrible, family-quality snaps that are now displayed proudly in all my family’s homes… urgh. The worst thing about horrible photos is when everyone else coos over them. YOU LOOKED AMAZING! Really? If that’s me looking amazing, then I clearly have a case of the “don’t know I’m ugly”s. It’s depressing.

But my hair is nicer now, and I strutted around the fair like I had a right to be there, among all the serious professional people.

I bought clothes for the winter, metaphorically cool and confident in my choices while little beads of sweat popped into existence on my back.

The suppliers are friendly, they remember me and they ask about my dad. “Where’s the big man? Well well, he sent his beautiful daughter instead! Ah!”

The first guy, probably around 40, quite attractive in a slightly too short kind of way, took me aside and worked his charm.

He laid it on thick, complimenting me, complimenting my taste… a little too much slime, but flattering nonetheless. I know it’s just part of the deal, they hope to extract a few thousand euros from me, so they want to make me feel appreciated and valued, and most of all, afraid to offend them.

“I tell you what… I give you a big discount. First, because you make a nice big order with us, yes? Second, you are your father’s daughter. Third…. (looks a little hesitant, not sure if he’s crossing a line..) you are a beautiful woman.”

I try to smother the happy blush that threatens to erupt all over my face.

I reply “really? I thought the first two reasons would suffice…”

He freezes the slimey grin on his face, while his eyes allow some annoyance to filter through.

“Ha ha yes, yes. Come now, would you like a nice coffee?”

Eh, yes.

He stops me before I drink the coffee.

“You have to be careful, it’s hot.”

I nod.

“Yes, you see, you may burn the tongue… the lips. It happens sometimes, you drink something hot, it burns you.”

I stifle the “yeah it’s not the first time I drink a hot beverage” that’s about to trip on out of my mouth, and instead jovially agree that it’s very annoying when a drink burns you.

“Yes yes! I have often burnt my mouth! Oh it feels very unpleasant!” he tells me.

This continues for a while. I throw back some vague agreement that burning your mouth isn’t good, and he repeats it. Eventually I sip the coffee, which at this point is more likely to be burnt by the heat of my mouth than vice versa.

He raises his eyebrows. I tell him I am unscathed by the coffee.

He sees another customer and excuses himself with the bullshit that “he will just get distracted by my beauty while I’m doing the order, so he will leave me with his colleague.” Oh wow it’s so slimey, but man I do feel better about myself. What a ridiculously transparent manipulation, and oh how it works.

I order a decent but not excessive amount with the friendly female colleague. She fawns over my “beautiful” name, but otherwise doesn’t try too hard.

I go to the desk to confirm my selection, decide on payment, etc.

Signor Smooth makes a show of insisting to his colleagues that I get a 20% discount on ALL my orders. They do a routine of raised eyebrows and “no! you can’t! Oh ok then, if you insist!” I try to muster an expression that implies I don’t buy it for a second, I’m not phased by this behaviour, but I am also friendly and nice.

I thank them and leave. Signor Smooth begs the liberty of kissing my on the cheeks before I go.

I struggle with my face until I round the corner, then collapse into beaming.

My dad is gonna be so happy he sent me, I’m so happy I dressed up nice and didn’t start rambling about stuff like the last time I went buying. This time I got discounts! Woop woop!

I’m so proud of my feminine wiles and business sense, I call my dad to report back.

“Hi dad, just made an order with Smooth and X, and Y… Y didn’t have much but I got some dresses because they were cheaper there.”

“Ah great, yeah they’re all going out of business… it’s the recession. Yeah get lots at Smooth, they have some nice stuff, and they give a good discount…. 30%”

I’m like, what? 30%? This is bullshit. They give me 20% off for my pretty face and a flash of leg, and my dad gets 30%? AND I have to endure the overexaggerated adoration and allow cheek kisses? My dad says he’ll get onto them and refuse to pay unless they give the proper discount. But I’m a little humiliated. What’s my dad got that I don’t? (Yeah yeah, a business, and money)

My businesswoman ego took a little knock there… although it doesn’t entirely negate the feel good factor of receiving even the most fake of compliments. YAY crappy female brain software! (No offense to other women- if you’re capable of feeling good about yourself despite other people’s opinion, which I DOUBT, then you won’t care if I insult your brain software, will you?)

I moved on to the next supplier. This time a pretty good looking guy probably late 30s (it’s hard to tell with Italians, their faces express diet more than age) shakes my hand warmly and enquires as to my partner. Ah… he’s not here this time. We broke up.

Oh! You’re single!

YEP.

It’s better single, no?

YEP.

I just broke up with my girlfriend too, I’m enjoying being single…

I flirt with the idea of scoring one of my dad’s business associates, and decided a resounding NO, not even if they were actually interested and not just friendly or trying to make a sale. This supplier is much less sleazy, in fact he’s just a nice friendly guy.

He tells me my dad made a beautiful daughter, but very long!

I don’t know whether that’s a compliment, I suppose he’s calling me tall but there’s another word for tall. It’s probably a compliment. OF course it is. I fold it away in my compliment box anyway.

The rest of my day was spent explaining to various disappointed wholesalers that I have split with my husband, and selecting clothes for my shop to sell from a range of increasingly expensive and unexciting stuff that I would never wear. But customers hopefully will.

I caved in my diet (again) and had a toblerone and a large pack of crisps I didn’t even enjoy because they tasted kind of burnt.

I got a packed train home, sleeping soundly for most of the journey except for a few times when I jolted awake, which always includes me yelping with surprise, my jaws clattering together and my whole body jerking weirdly.

The woman opposite me seemed amused.

The pretty sexy guy opposite me observed me cooly with his legs crossed and tanned, bare feet in loafers. No socks, that’s sick.

The crossed legs and bare feet in shoes thing made it easier for me to feel unashamed at my full body spasms and intermittent yelping in front of a hot guy.

That’s right, the attractiveness meter is something I can never switch off. It’s exhausting constantly regulating my mood and emotions based on how hot people make me feel and how hot I find them and ahhhh it’s something I need to work on.

Ooh, and I discovered I have been measuring myself wrong.

I have a measuring tape that has cms on one side and what I presumed were inches on the other. But then I measured myself and was really upset because I appeared to have hips measuring 45 inches. And that’s massive. but then last night as I was measuring myself for a corset I swear I was only window shopping for online, I found that the second side of my measuring tape is actually not inches at all, it’s like… in increments of 2cms. For some reason. So I am rejoicing now because I don’t measure that much more than lots of famous people. I have wide hips and shoulders but I need to get my waist smaller so I can be an hourglass. I need to lose like 3 or 4 inches from my waist and then I will be an hourglass shape.

So I need a corset.

Or to do excercises.

I NEED A CORSET.

I am planning on sleeping in a waist cincher belt and see how that goes.

I will of course keep you posted.

A few words before I go kick retail ass…

Bffff….

Good morning.

Yeah I know I was going to sell loads of clothes today and pay attention to customers….

but, like…

Anyway.

So. Here is a transcript of my first three “customers”

Customer 1 enters shop and marches up to the counter, where I am standing erect (he he) with a bona fide howcanihelpya smle on my spotty, sweaty face.

Customer 1: “I’ll come back later when I have more time.” Waggles eyebrows conspiratorily, “My parking meter is about to expire” *leaves shop*

Me: Ok. Em, see you later?

Customer 2: Enters shop mid sentence. ….”any more, because I got this here a few years ago?”

Me: Excuse me?

Customer 2: (slightly enraged) ” I SAID… do you have more of this kind of bag, but with long straps, kind of heavy, any more, because I got this here a few years ago?”

Me: Deep breaths. Gonna help and sell shit to this woman. “Ok, well I don’t have a bag like that one, but there are some similar bags here, these are from the new collection so they’re more robust”(fucking velvet, damn the autumn winter collection, I fucking hate velvet. Die velvet, die.)

Customer 2: What? NO! I don’t want a winter bag, look at this bag here! Don’t you have any more like this one?

Me: (eh I just said I didn’t) No, we don’t have any like that, but if you want something lighter here are some bags in cotton…

Customer: NO I carry water around and books, it needs to be heavy like this one! (pokes the velvet bag)

Me: Ok… well…

Customer: Even if it’s different, whatever bags you have!

Me: I grab a few different bags.

Customer: Not like that, it has to be like… this. (pats her own bag)

Me: Gritting teeth. “Right.” Begin rummaging for other bags. I know I have nothing she’s going to like. I’m determined to sell this cunt a bag. Eventually find something that is neither heavy enough for a bottle of water nor summery enough nor does it have long straps, but the customer pounces on it.

Customer: This is perfect. But can I get a discount, I always get a discount.

Me: I’m sorry I can’t give you a discount.

Customer: It’s annoying, I never get a discount. (WTF???)

Customer: This is very expensive, don’t you think? (looks at me expectantly)

Me: Well, that’s difficult to answer. Value is kind of subjective…. (trail off. Not the right platform for a lecture on the differences between cost, price and value / how capitalism works.)

I didn’t sell this woman a bag. She left me with a pile of rejected bags and slightly less of a helpful smile on my face.

Customer 3: Not actually a customer. I was huddled behind the till squeezing my spots. I know, I said I wouldn’t. I’m not strong enough to resist. I’m already trying to smoke less, eat less (not going well. finished the pistachios last night then got up at 1am and made myself some hot dog sausages and ate half a jar of olives.) AND drink in moderation.

Something’s gotta give. (well… everything. I’m not doing well in any of my quests for moderation..)

So yeah, I’m crouched behind the till, squeezing out a really satisfying tube of gunk..

and in walks customer 3. I wipe the gunk away and croak out a “Salve!” (that’s one of the things you can say when someone comes into your shop, I think it’s an ancient Roman greeting or something.)

Except he’s no customer.

He’s my fucking ESTRANGED husband.

Yeah… awkward.

We hugged. I gave him his post, loads of letters from the bank I’ve been collecting and not opening for months.

He has lost weight (lack of sex had taken its toll on both our figures during matrimony) and looks pretty good except he shaved his head which is good because he’s ridiculously hot when he has kind of messy hair. Not that I’d ever go there again. The only relationships worth revisiting are those which end due to clashing personalities or ideals, where the sex is still good… so that excludes my marriage.

Anyway, I had been dreading bumping into husband for ages now, knowing he owes me money but he thinks I owe him money, and probably we’re both wrong and being stingy assholes… and just thinking about having to drag up the dregs of our dead relationship again, and pick at it like vultures… ugh. I just want to stick my fingers in my ears and go LALALALALA It’s not real, I can’t hear you, etc.

But actually, horrific and untimely as it was, husband’s visit at least put an end to the unpleasant anticipation.

We’re going to meet up for that awful talk next week.

I have to try keep my cool because money will be mentioned, and he said he’s currently unemployed, so basically I will NOT be seeing any money from him. And meanwhile, I just got a letter in the post from the rubbish people, who apparently want to charge me for rubbish collection. I’ve lived in that apartment two years and never heard a peep from them. So I’m a bit miffed because, it’s an extra bill I didn’t know about and now I have to pay. Bastards.

Also you have to pay per metre squared of apartment, so it doesn’t matter if I start recycling or stop throwing bottles in the mixed bin without even scrunching them up. YEAH THAT’S HOW I ROLL.

Ok, so today I haven’t achieved the mega sales I had hoped for, but then I was trying to do one of those waterfall braids in my hair.

Oh man, really fucking hard.

I mean, who can plait their hair like that in the back of their head? It’s hard.

I did a first attempt and it felt like it looked neat and awesome and sexy and then i held up a hand mirror and stood in front of the big mirror…. and no. It resembled back-combed hair the next day after a fancy party where you leave the house looking AMAZING and then wind up sleeping in between the fridge and the washing machine in some house whose owners you don’t know.

Which wasn’t the look I was going for.

I tried again, and it fell apart.

I did sell a couple of pairs of shoes in between braiding, but everything’s on sale now so it really doesn’t add up to much.

It’s cool though, I’m going to go deal with some customers and shit.

Peace out, motherfuckers.

It took me longer to come up with this title than to write the whole post.

My holiday didn’t end in a bang, as I expected, but with a whimper.

I went to work today and I smiled at customers and I wanted to smack them in their faces, and I didn’t clean and I picked out things I liked in the catalogues for the season… and the whole world around me just acted like this was normal, normal behaviour.

I felt like more emphasis should have been put on my personal tragedy, the return to misery and loneliness.

Doesn’t anyone want to interview me? Or make a documentary about it?

People in work don’t seem to get the hugeness of my first day back.

I wonder why I’m so intent on other people acting like what happens in my life is in any way important, when I can barely raise a “oh wow that’s too bad” when they tell me about their difficulty finding shoes for such a difficult shape of foot.

Is it some remnant of my childhood, of everyone’s childhood, when you go back to school and the countdown is begun a few weeks into your holidays… back to school back to school new year, new class, new teachers, new books…. Everyone asks you all the time, how do you feel about going into next year? How do you feel? Are you excited? Are you nervous? School starting soon… wow!

And I kind of expect that now.

I just want attention and for people to be impressed by the super hardships I have to endure, and be even more impressed by the fact that I even got up this morning because man that was difficult.

You know what else is difficult?

Not opening the lovely wine in my kitchen.

I feel my little evil wheedler piping up.

It was your first day back, it’s a common way to unwind. You could have a glass and put the cork back in for another day.

But it’s prosecco, it’ll lose its fizz.

Ah but you can have a glass tomorrow and another the next day.

Yeah but then I’m having wine every night, so fuck off, you lose, man my inner bad influence can be shit at arguing sometimes.

Ok but what about, it’s tasty and you don’t have anything else to drink?

But I like drinking water.

Yeah but your lovely big water tankard broke, remember? What are you going to have a small glass of water? Boo. Plus, you had like 2 litres today, I know, I saw you.

Yeah well…

Oh wait, that’s weird.

I have only peed once today.

That’s fucking weird, I drank LOADS of water.

What’s going on?

Where did all the water go? There should definitely be more pee.

I’m not going to drink the wine.

I’m not, I’m going to drink just a small bit of water in a small glass and then if I’m still thirsty… I’ll have a tea.

Yes. That’s the one.

Damn there’s nothing lonelier than wanting booze and not having the excuse of company. Anyway… I’m back in talk to self mode. One day down, only another 120 or so left before I maybe can move country. Oh man I’m so broke. Also, I bought a pair of shoes today.

I HATE MYSELF.

Nah, not really. If I wasn’t me, I’d probably be really impressed.

That’s the trouble though.

I don’t just have an ego or low self esteem, I have a MASSIVE ego and CRIPPLING low self esteem.

They just attack me at random. I’m either wildly overconfident and think everyone wants to fuck me and anyone who doesn’t, it’s probably because I look like their sister or something. Yeah that’s it. And then in a few minutes I could be like, holy fuck, I’m as deluded as Sarah Jessica Parker. Maybe I look like a foot? Maybe I’m just really really ugly and it’s just like back when I was 15 and that night I went to a party and kissed the three hottest guys there and I was all proud and thought I was shit hot with my unibrow and my slutty boots and then the next day I found out it was a bet they made to see who could make out with me quickest, cause I was so easy.

Yeah.

Ok I’m going to have some pasta and ponder on some stuff.

I’m sorry to be so introspective all the time. Or maybe that’s ok. I don’t fucking know. I don’t know, oh maaaan if I was a fairy godmother and got to give a little princess three gifts, it would be like

“that she is ACTUALLY the best looking woman in the world, ever”

“that she is invincible and strong so none of the other women or jealous rejected men can kill her”

“that she is completely free from paranoia”

 

That, my friends, is fucking superwoman, right there.

Oh actually no, a better third gift would be: that she can read minds. Then she wouldn’t have to be paranoid, she’d just know what people thought. Or actually no, that would suck. I don’t REALLY want to know what people think of me. I know I think a lot of mean shit about people I love, so I really wouldn’t want to know theirs…. Well I don’t really need to debate this with myself because, uhm, it’s not going to happen. I’m never going to actually be in a position of fairy godmother to a baby princess, and even if I was a fairy godmother and even if my mates were a king and queen, there is no fucking WAY any of my friends would let me near their kid, let alone decide its three traits at birth.

But I’m pretty confident with the three gifts apart from a few kinks in the last one. I may actually ponder this some more, because I have made a deal with myself where I’m only allowed think about frivolous things until the 7th of October when my hearing is, and then I can start thinking about my real problems again. So yeah, no boo hoos or poor mes or anything until then, because I honestly haven’t a clue how poor or sorry I really am until that magical date.

So, bring on the fluff.

I honestly think that like 99% of all women are miffed that they aren’t actually the best looking woman in the world.

I honestly do. And then there is 1% of people who so rarely come into contact with people better looking than them, that they can be all well adjusted and cool about looks and do things like really mean it when they congratulate a friend for losing weight.

Ok right, I’m bored.

You probably are too.

Good night.

A month of awesome fun: The hangover

Hung over post, motherfuckers!

I have been off work now for nearly a month.

Tomorrow I fly back to my shitty ball and chain of an apartment, with my ridiculous unpaid bills and distinct lack of food (I hope, or there will be a nasty surprise) and I have to actually work on Monday.

Work again, with the customers and the repetitive futile tasks and the hollow knowledge that every day is going to be just the same as the last, and I have no friends to take the edge off weekends… or weekends to take the edge off weekdays…

Oh man.

Fuck.

I remember everything I’ve done since I took that first flight from Italy, 2 suitcases full of my favorite, cherished, flattering clothes, skinny as fuck, optimistic… parties and festivals and fucks in my near future.

I remember seeing friends and family for the first time in ages, and them complimenting how awesome I looked, and how upbeat and sorted I sounded. Problems were trivial, my life was in a little rut but I had my head high. I spoke warmly of moving to London, of finding a new exciting job, of pursuing interests…

Everyone said I seemed a different person than last time, I felt radiant.

Cue 3 days mild drug taking and then 3 weeks heavy drinking.

I have put on alllll the weight I ever lost, well nearly.

I have spent allllll the money I saved- actually that’s a lie, I haven’t had the balls to even look at my bank details and I can’t remember the login stuff anyway. I may have no money at all. I may arrive in Italy to find I don’t have the cash for the aircoach.

It’s a possibility.

I couldn’t be much gloomier. I realise I’m in exactly the same position as I was a few months ago when I was in shit form. My outlook hasn’t changed really. Oh man I think the hangover may be colouring my perception just a tad.

Last night…. I looked so nice. I got a new dress and I wore high heels and a bucketload of makeup. I looked shit hot and had some of my best buds with me. One friend promised to be my wingman for the final night of debauchery.

I was in a good mood.

I was going to score.

Instead, we wound up leaving the house at 1am, pissed as farts, loud and obnoxious… and hitting the clubs in Brixton.

I remembered my debit card and began charging rounds of drinks to it, waving away protestations like a rich person, or someone who can afford to buy other people drinks.

Jagerbombs and shots of some weird apple liquor…

Unggghhhh…

At one stage, nearing 4am, my wingman gave me the hottie alert by wiggling her eyebrows over my shoulder. I swung round and saw some vague man shape nearby, and decided that yes, he was my mark.

I began dancing sexily. I actually pulled it off, I think, because the dress was pretty slinky and sexy just came naturaly with the smooth fabric against my skin as I got high on my own inflated sense of attractiveness.

I danced sexily near the hottie.

I bumped into him a few times, turning around and apologising with my most charming smile (this is how I perceived things anyway, I was quite drunk, I might have just leered) and laying it on thick with an arm touch.

He didn’t seem interested. I danced in the vicinity for a while, then gave up.

Fuck it anyway, I’m just having a good night. I don’t care if I score.

So we danced. My buddy, intent on hooking me up, awesome friend that she is, went up to the hottie and told him loudly to meet us outside a nearby shop afterwards.

Then it was very late, apparently, so we left.

A little posse of stragglers had formed outside a local shop-  our destination. We began drinking cans of Red Stripe inside and spilling out onto the footpath to chat to whatever random people were around.

Hottie and his friend turned up.

Hottie wasn’t actually too hot under the less flattering street lights, but he was ok really…

His friend, not so much.

I began trying to flirt without appearing in any way interested in hottie, just in case of rejection.

Hottie.. or ok guy… moved to talk to my other friend, my best friend from my childhood who is basically ridiculously good looking. Some of the old memories surfaced of teenage parties and all the guys flocking around her… and my having to wait until they knew they definitely didn’t have a shot with her before I would even register on their radars….

She clearly had no interest in either guy, who we decided to label nerds, because they laughed at a Red Dwarf reference I made. (yeah, smooth moves as always)

But the fact that she didn’t have any interest in scoring them (and has a boyfriend) just made it possible for her to be friendly and look nice and relaxed, whereas I was mindlessly paranoid of appearing interested in someone who didn’t seem to be into me…

Anyway. I was very drunk. I began feeling unattractive, and inferior, and my shoes were killing me.

At one point some big black guy with a bottle of vodka comes up and tells my friend she is gorgeous. She turns her back, and he looks wounded, angry, and his eyes are bloodshot.

He says something to me. I reject him.

He begins bellowing at me:

“Your friend is better looking than you, YOU’RE UGLY, YOU’RE UGLY!”

And continues shouting “You’re ugly”.

Of course, I was seriously hurt and offended, as well as.. hugely embarassed. Everyone was watching.

I was like, “Eh, no I’m not, fuck off, you’re an asshole, I’m not ugly, I’m a lot better looking than you anyway”

And he keeps shouting but moves away.

My friend turns and is like “what a dick” but obviously doesn’t realise that I am reaaaaally fragile right now and any man telling me I’m ugly even when I’m sober  is going to carve a whopping chunk out of my self esteem.

I get in conversations with other people. I meet some Italians, and start talking Italian.

I feel good about myself for a second.

Fuck that other guy. I look good.

The nerd just wasn’t interested because I was being a pussy about flirting and basically trying to play hard to get with someone who hasn’t exchanged more than two words with me.

Then my wingman calls me over to where she’s talking to the big guy who called me ugly.

I was like, no, fuck him.

She told me he wanted to apologise.

I went over, bristling with Jagerbombs and indignation.

YES?

“I just want to say, I apologise.”

I’m like, sorry what? Is that your apology?

“Yeah, I apologise.”

I’m like, you can’t just say I apologise, that’s no apology. If you were actually sorry, you’d say why you’re sorry and what you’re sorry for.

He begins getting annoyed again.

“I apologise if I offended you with what I said”

Eh, hello? Of course you offended me. There’s no if. What are you sorry for?

My friends are yelling, just take the fucking apology and leave it. I’m really pissed off. I shed some rage and injustice tears out my right eye. He stretches out the most begrudging apology I’ve ever heard.

“I’m sorry for calling you ugly. You’re obviously not. Of course not.”

I’m furious with myself for crying. I just want to be away from these horrible people who don’t find me attractive. I’m shamefully delicate, I can heard 999 compliments and the one insult wipes them away in a second. I really, really want to not be like that, but I’m not even as bad as women can be: I don’t read insults out of nothing, like every female in a sitcom…

It’s insane how easy it is for someone I don’t know, don’t like, don’t care about… can have any effect at all on my mood. But yeah, drunk…

Big scary guy looks at me, incredulous.

“What? You actually got upset by that? You must have some fucked up self esteem if a random guy calling you ugly is going to upset you.”

I’m like, yeah, you asshole, it’s called, being a woman. And a drunk woman. You’re a dickhead. Asshole. What kind of asswipe goes around shouting you’re ugly to a random girl on the street?

He’s like “uhh… you shouldn’t believe me, you’re stunning.”

I’m almost buying it for a second and feeling flattered but then I’m like, wait a second, he said my friend was better looking than me too. And he definitely meant that. So fuck him, he’s just bullshitting me now.

I tell him some more stuff like he’s an asshole and storm off.

The bubbly Italian and some other random guys are outside the shop with my other friends.

My unwanted tears make them awkward. I mumble something about how that’s not an apology, and he’s a dick.

They’re all like, yeah he is a dick, but you should just calm down because this is Brixton at 5am and that guy is massive and angry and you’re putting yourself in danger.

Of course I pooh poohed that because, drunk me is not a pussy, although I may cry like one. It’s one of the many things I hate about drunk me. I really wish there was some other option for having a good time and not drinking, or I wish I could just drink in moderation. But I really need the social lubricant. I hate drunk me: I hate my stupidity, my annoying rants, my drama, my sulkiness, how paranoid I get, how irritating I am, and how most of how I act and react is totally at odds with who I am sober.

I feel like the first three or four drinks go down well, I loosen up and dance and have the balls to do things like stand up for myself and flirt and be a bit cheeky about asking for more spirits in my drinks and whatnot..  and then I hit the level of honestly don’t have any idea of consequences any more and just pile in as much alcohol as I can and become super manic and annoying and prone to crying.

I repeat, I’m hung over so it’s pretty natural to feel negative about drinking… but yeah… uhuh…

I wish I was just better at moderation. AND I wish I hadn’t spent so much money last night, imaginary bank card money on drinks to make me feel super shitty today… urgh.

So yeah I had a pretty shit night in the end. We hung out outside the shop for some reason, and then went home where I remember doing a hyperactive monologue on how much I hate giving hand jobs and we were all rolling around laughing as I ranted. But I can’t remember any of what I said, it was probably pretty stupid anyway because we were all pretty fucked.

I woke up today so fucking dehydrated and hung over, I lay quivering in agony for about 2 hours before I was able to go get water.

It has been a seriously rough day, I feel like I’ve been pickled from the inside and now I’m just a barely functioning taxidermy of myself.

Tomorrow I board a plane, which terrifies me.

And I didn’t get to do half the stuff I wanted to.

I was going to walk around London and buy my very first vibrator. I have always been like, pffff, but…it occured to me that I really should have one and I could test out my theory that I’m one of the supposedly 2 thirds of women who can’t orgasm from penetration, or if it’s just something I haven’t experienced because it’s more difficult or because it can only happen in certain positions, or something.

I was also going to score a hottie with a London accent.

I was NOT going to buy a new dress.

I was going to see loads of people I didn’t see.

I’m very miserable today.

Tomorrow I’ll be back home and there won’t be anywhere to buy a vibrator, and I really want one. Ooh! Internet.

But do I want it arriving in the post and having to pick it up? Not really… although it’s hardly going to come in a transparent box.

Ok.

I’ll buy it online.

If I have any money left.

Ok I’m going to have a manual wank before my friends get back from dinner (I was supposed to be packing)

Keep it real.

Later…

Two weeks with your parents, anyone?

Ok.

So I’ve nearly put in 2 weeks with my family.

2 weeks.

I’m returning to london for a couple of days but I’m not quite sure I’ll make it to the end of my time here without having a Christmas- style breakdown.

Now I remember why I was such a moody bitch as a teenager.

MY PARENTS.

Oh god.

They’re being as nice as they can to me, but it’s unbearable.

My mother is driving me insane with her orgasmic eating sounds.

I swear she is doing this on purpose- yesterday she was having a salad and I was enjoying (in silence) a steak and chips.

She began with the “mmmmm mmmmmm oooohhhh mmmm” and actually worked up to an “Oooooh YEAHH!”

Like, seriously? I’m sitting at the dinner table with my mother and I’m trying to enjoy a juicy steak, my favoritest food in the world, and I can’t even fucking open my pleasure receptors because I’ll let in the sounds of my mother orgasming to a fucking bowl of leaves. If I enjoy my steak properly, it’ll mingle with my mother’s nasty noises in a way that I am definitely not comfortable with.

When she said “Oooh yeah!” I just flung down my knife and excused myself, went to the bathroom, looked at my hands for signs of shaking, didn’t find any, calmed the fuck down and went back to mechanically chew and swallow what should have been a really nice steak.

I stare hatred at my mother as she eats. Is she completely oblivious that her offspring doesn’t want to hear her make those noises? It’s unreasonable. I don’t make those sounds when i eat- I don’t even make those sounds when I have a dick in me.

It’s not normal “yumming”, so don’t think I’m being ridiculous. It’s sex noises. Ok.

So that’s me pushed to breaking point from one side.

Then we have my stepdad.

My stepdad taught me sarcasm and introduced me to about 80% of the music I like now.

I appreciate that.

But he’s an alcoholic, and it’s ridiculous how much alcohol he manages to incorporate into his life. Coffee with whiskey, and he doesn’t even offer that shit around. So because I’m over, it’s a special occasion and this means he drinks all day, and my mother potters around shooting him begrudging looks while flinging suggestions of booze in my direction. I’m offered wine and beer all day long. I’m actually sick of drinking. My mother takes “no, thanks” to mean “no, keep guessing, there’s bound to be one alcoholic beverage I’m hankering after” so I’m constantly bombarded with creative drinks suggestions with every meal, and coffee, and in the evening…

NO I DONT WANT ANY MORE ALCOHOL I ALREADY DONT THINK ILL EVER FEEL NORMAL AGAIN.

But there have been a few good nights.

It’s just that, I’m 23, my mum and stepdad are a tad older. My body is dealing with the alcohol overdose by being grouchy and sprouting a big spot under my nose, and my lovely flat belly has bulged out again reminding me cruelly how much starvation it cost me in the first place.

The price the oldies pay is a little harsher.

My stepdad, last night, had that smell coming out of his pores. The alcohol smell, that doesn’t remind you of any one drink, just of sad old men taking buses to stay out of the rain. It would probably disgust me a lot more if he wasn’t family.

And he’s being very depressing.

He talks of the bad shit happening in the world these days as “the world is revolting, throwing us off its back, we’ve fucked it up and now we’re paying the price” and I’m like, fuck that shit, there were always hurricanes, when they say “coldest winter since 1903″ that means that 1903 was even colder, so stop blaming the global warming, K?

Then he starts on the smart phones. The government taking millions of photos of you every day and tapping your phones and nothing is private any more.

I’m like, yeah, I don’t doubt it, but there aren’t enough people on earth to actually watch the surveillance of everyone. And to be honest I’m kind of happy if the chances of crimes being witnessed is greater. I don’t have shit to hide, really.

This he takes as evidence that I love the government. I don’t LOVE them, but fuck, I prefer there to be bad cops than no cops. I prefer to be taxed on shit than for there to be no hospitals. I prefer ministers taking limos to meetings about nothing than for there to actually not be any roads, and shit. This suggests to my parents, that I’m a right wing capitalist monster. Really, I consider myself a-political.

But it’s depressing. Everything he says is depressing and sodden with drink.

He goes on, that we are all going to choke on carbon monoxide… it doesn’t even make sense, but it’s depressing as fuck. I tell him to stop being a dick, and listen to these fun facts I found online. Did you know that in ancient Peru, when a woman found an ugly potato, it was customary to push it in the face of the nearest man?

I’m feeling the darkness pulling down at my corners. I try to scramble up, keep buoyant. It’s hard. The tendency for misery is in me too, I’m just fighting it.

My mother keeps nagging him to stop drinking, or at least not drink whiskey in his tea, because it’s ridiculous, but she still drinks like a fish. I want to bang their heads together and be like, you’re BOTH freaking alcoholics, if you want him to quit, mother, why don’t YOU fucking quit first?

Anyway. I’m at the end of my tether.

I have had good times. I have had, wink wink, good times.

But I have also spent too long here in my old bedroom, in my single bed, with those shitty curtains that don’t block out the daylight when you need hangover sleep, but when you open them, the light is still too shitty to do makeup properly.

I’m also narky because I still haven’t emerged from the hormonal bullshit aftermath of being fucked.

Like, he said he was going to call over, and I was all excited, and then he didn’t.

I don’t know what I was expecting, and I don’t know what i even want. More sex? I have my period.

A hug?

Eck. I don’t know.

I think my own mood may be somewhat coloured by the drainage of alcohol from my body.

All the more reason I don’t want to keep drinking.

Anyway, I’m remembering all the old shit that annoyed me and how it always felt like I was more sensible than the two of them, and how GOOD I was as a teenager, I mean as far as they knew… they had no idea of what I was really up to. I was, as far as they knew, a really good girl. And I got so much shit about everything.

Now I go home and it’s hugely frustrating. The other day I managed to almost convince my mother that homeopathy is bullshit, but I know she only thinks it is on the surface. She still believes in the magic of it all. I just don’t bother, usually.

But I’ve been here for like 2 weeks and oh man, everything just grates on me.

I love them, I do…

But man I just want to bang their heads together.

My stepdad buys loads of alcohol.. Loads.

When we had a party recently, he probably spent about 100 euros on drink for other people to help themselves to.

But when he makes tea, he insists on using one teabag for two cups.

It makes piss-weak tea and I’m like, seriously, let me have my own teabag.

No, it’s lovely like this! He says.

And I’m like, you spend so much money on other shit but you can’t afford to give me one teabag for myself?

Anyway. I think I’m still a little moody from the alcohol over a series of days.

And the not being sure where I stand with my one night stand.

And the fact that I am tolerating constant orgasm noises from my mother when she eats so much as a baby rocket leaf.

And the fact that I am sleeping in a single bed and it’s my old bedroom and it puts me off masturbating.

And various other things.

I’m sick of being in my family’s house.

End of rant.