I’m naturally very hairy.
It’s a pity, because I only have a limited amount of motivation to get things done, getting things done is a massive drain on my energy. And grooming… keeping back the constant waves of body hair… takes all I’ve got. Keeping my lower body aerodynamic is a full time job. It means the bins are still camping out on the balcony, stinking the neighbourhood out of this world. It means bills not getting paid until the phone company’s desire to get paid overtakes their desire to avoid a phone call with me. And even sacrificing every other responsibility in my life, I can just barely keep on top of things. It’s relentless.
I don’t know if I’d even have time for a social life with all this plucking and waxing and… that’s a lie. I have lots of time really, it just gets spent on internet fuckery and playing games and reading the odd book…
You might think, dude, chill out about the hair and your weight and shit, go out, have fun and get a life… but I’m decided now. I’m leaving this city. Not today, not next month, but I’m not staying. And once that’s decided, there’s not a whole lot of hope for meeting new people and trying to adapt to this country managing to interrupt my hairless hermit regime.
But while I’m here… I’m waiting for time to pass. Waiting for my court date to even begin looming on the horizon… waiting for this awful “smack across the face, you’re a grown up now, just deal with life’s hissy fits” year to come to an end… so I can up sticks and take my hairy ass back to the land that comes close to accepting me just the way I am… While I’m here, looking my best is about all I’ve got. You may have noticed a distinct obsession with my appearance on my blog. It’s true, I’m as superficial as celebrity rehab. But I’m not ALL about how I look. It’s just that right now, it’s the only thing within my control that makes me feel good. Which is probably why I can’t stop shopping. Or taking photos of myself in that fucking swimsuit. (Wish I had that fucking before photo but I deleted it in a fit of self loathing)
I’m stuck for the next 6 months at least, in a city that rejects me like I’m an incompatible transplant. Which I suppose is what I am. Immigrants or expats (the difference being that immigrants are from poor countries, are resented and take the lowest paying jobs and bitch about hardship and discrimination, and expats come from rich countries, are considered exotic or interesting, take the awesome jobs and bitch about the difficulties finding cheddar or creme fraiche.) are human transplants into a culture. Not everyone takes to a different culture. Some marry locals and stay forever… in fact, you only stay if you fall in love. That’s how it goes, from what I’ve seen anyway. It’s partly why I have such a shit time with other people in my sitch- because English speakers here are either students (lame!) or couples (lame! Lame! fucking LAME!) And I’d say I’m about tied between marrying an Italian and sticking a jesus fish to the back of my bike.
So I’m here, I’m hating it… I don’t have the energy to keep trying my luck with more and more people who are complete strangers and never seem to become familiar. So what can I do? Keep pulling out those damn hairs as fast as they can grow back, and at least my appearance won’t stick in their craw. (What is a craw?)
But it’s taxing. There’s a lot of hair. I looked it up- I used to think I was a hairy Mary because of my eye-tie blood, but if the harpies at the waxing place could be that rude about my lady jungle, then maybe Italians aren’t that hairy after all. So I looked it up and apparently it’s because of testosterone. Yeah, that sounds about right. It also accounts for the slightly aggressive attitude to sex and the knife obsession. Maybe. I don’t know. It’s hard to know which gender differences actually come from having an innie or an outtie, and which are just taught by our parents and tv. Maybe there was only ever one woman who got pissy about having to put down the toilet seat, and everyone else just saw it on tv or something and copied that moronic behaviour, and it was added into the Book of Woman, and then eventually Sex and the City came along and cemented us in our confusion. Who knows how much of female behaviour is real and how many of the polished, together, ball busting women on the globe are just Liz Lemons pretending to be something they’re not? Behavioural scientists, probably.
That would be a cool job. You could get asked to state the obvious on Penn and Teller’s Bullshit, and all sorts of documentaries based on flimsy evidence that need sciency type talking heads. I’d love that job.
Oooh… I can feel one of my life goal moments coming on. I know! I’ll go back to college (snort) and study behavioural science. AWESOME. Yeah tomorrow I’ll probably look up some online university and then give up because it actually expects me to study science. I have these burst of enthusiasm for subjects every so often but it always dwindles quickly and leaves me feeling more useless and slovenly and uneducated than before.
So. What is there? I’m here for another 6 months. My life is likely to continue along the same reclusive lines, all work no play (except Fallout and a large carrot here and there…) and blogging about my trips to the supermarket… I honestly would love to have something interesting to write about, but I’m doing my time here people… you can join me in scratching the days off the wall, until I rejoin life and its lovely chaotic uncertainties, and I promise I’ll show you a wild time.
I can just about take the weight of solitude, because I know it’s got a sell by date. And until then, hopefully this time in my cell will give me some perspective and gravitas ‘n ting and when it’s time to butterfly the hell outta here, I’ll be like that creepy vampire dude in the 17 year old body still hanging around a school even though he’s like 100- I’ll have done my time, spent so much of it thinking about life and shit, I’ll be a freaking guru… and I’ll be all skinny too.
And smooth. Just have to keep on top of that. It’s tough though. Tough being hair-free when I could get by so well in my limited social life with just shaving the bottoms half of my thighs and my lower leg. But then if I get hit by a car… I don’t want to blow the only chance I’ll ever have with a hot doctor with the dreaded:
“Nurse, get those fur shorts off that gorgeous skinny patient and prep her for minor, non-scarring surgery!”
“Ehh… doctor… those aren’t shorts…”
You see, I need to keep things sweet down there in case of hot young doctors.
Well. I’ve successfully wasted my entire day off in the following manner:
1. Slept til 1pm.
2. Stayed in bed til 3pm drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes and watching movies I downloaded ages ago but that are totally shit.
3. Decided to make some dresses. Cut up some clothes I kind of liked. Sewed some stuff together. Got bored- left everything balled up in a plastic bag for “later”.
4. Put some of my clothes away. Washed some clothes. (yay!)
5. Played fallout until I got bored then completed the game, like an idiot. Now I can’t play anymore. Shit.
6. Wrote this because I had nothing to watch.
7. Ate some pasta with tomato sauce and a natural yoghurt.
8. Took photos of self in swimsuit.
9. Going to have another yoghurt because just realised, that’s not enough food. I’m hungry, too.
10. That’s it. That was my day off. What a jip. Now I won’t have another day off for 13 days.
Oh but countdown to festival and london and all… we’re on baby, we’re on like…not donkey kong… definitely not like donkey kong. There was no sex in donkey kong. But we’re on. And there will be fucking. And unless I do the bold thing again and wind up sleeping with someone I really shouldn’t, and who is a friend and stuff, then I will give vast pages of details. Promise!