Extreme pistachio eating, from an extreme kind of gal

I shouldn’t have bought pistachios.

I went to Lidl on an empty stomach- stupid, stupid girl. Rookie mistake.

Has anyone ever gone into Lidl hungry and not come out with at least one schockoladen snack? I caved and wheedled at myself and bought peanut m&m style snacks for half the price of actual peanut m&ms. I would love to see the jerk who actually buys the brand name m&ms in LIDL when there is NO FUCKING DIFFERENCE except the price. I’d love to give him or her a withering look.

Or a scathing look perhaps? I don’t know if I could actually muster a different look for withering or scathing. I could definitely describe a look I had given as being clearly either one or the other… but it would be lies, because I don’t know how to do a specifically withering or scathing expression. Hmm. Maybe I’d be a shit actor after all…

So peanut M&Ms and a massive bag of pistachios and I can’t stop eating them. (the pistachios) I keep saying, two more… no that one wouldn’t open… two more now, and then… munch munch munch… just a couple more.

It’s like stumbleupon, except stumbleupon doesn’t directly make you fat or cost 6 euros.

Oh man: just got an insane idea for an extreme sport.

Wait for it….

Stumbleupon AND pistachios.

At the same time.

Genius, or retarded?

——–

I started writing this at 7pm.

DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME, KIDS.

That was pretty hardcore actually but I honestly feel like the kid who tests if fire really does burn, and what that feels like, and gets a burnt hand, but also kind of understands what it is to be burnt in a more complete sense than the sensible pussy children who just swallowed the fire=bad dogma of their parents. And maybe that kid really, really remembers the lesson he learnt, or develops an irrational fear of fire. Maybe…

I now really, really know that pistachios and stumbleupon are a bad idea. You might have common sense to tell you that, but I have the deep knowledge that comes with experience. Like, I also know you’re a fool to get married at 21, and you might have known that anyway. But don’t be smug, because my experience-knowledge will actually protect me from being blindsided again. You might fall in love and throw caution to the wind, but I damn well won’t pander to my emotions again.

Love- what ever happened to love? Like, why does it become this sappy, cuddly, cutesy bullshit? My world of paranoia doesn’t actually extend to government or corporations or anything… I don’t think Hallmark did it.. it’s probably just what happens to animal instinct and emotion when we’re taken out of the animal environment and have our sexualities hushed up, but still have to publicly find a mate… And it does sell… that brand of love. The giggly schoolgirl love. The stupid teddy bears holding red satin hearts with printed puke-making messages, possibly spelt wrong a-la lolcats.

Real, awesome love is free. It knocks your socks off, and it has nothing to do with flowers. Give your mother flowers to show you love her. She’d like that. Don’t give roses to someone you want to fuck, or I lose respect for you right now. Maybe she wants flowers. Whatever. I don’t care. But don’t get me flowers.

And there, you might get the impression that I’m not romantic. But I am so romantic. And yes, my brain is a little clouded right now with the desire to be swept up in lust, but I do know that I have known love and it was brilliant, and then I strangled it to death with cuddles and pet names and singing and saying I love you. I won’t do that again. I mean sure, I’ll say I love you. But not like some automatic kiss with a closed mouth. Not at the end of a phone call. I’ll say it when I mean it, when it forces its way out of me.

Don’t ever kiss your lover with your mouth closed. Open your eyes, close your eyes… just don’t ever close your mouth.

And here endeth the lecture on love, from the 20 something year old in the throes of a legal separation.

Oh my gourd, why is it night time and I have to be up in the morning?

I have to work, dammit.

Bring home the bacon AND fry it in the pan, thank you women’s lib. (I’m not even using my vote, although I appreciate being free to get a divorce…)

So yeah…… anyway the fridge and freezer was empty, hence the Lidl visit…

It’s a monster of a household appliance. I chose it proudly, I was going to be a hellofa housewife and I would always be able to see all the things in the fridge so I would never have to pull out a jar of jam to find a mouldy wedge of cheese I didn’t know I had left, or a fuzzy beetroot. (I wish I could just buy one beetroot, the other one in the pack always goes off before I feel like beetroot again)

I hate full fridges. And I can’t stand the smell of other people’s fridges. I was determined to succeed where my mother failed, I was going to have an entirely good-smelling, hygenic fridge full of in-date foodstuffs and GAAAAH just remembered I forgot to buy milk. Crap. Knew there was something missing.

Stupid. Anyway. I was talking about the contents of my fridge.

I was recently staying with my buddies in London, and first let me tell you I miss being there in that house with all the sounds of footfalls on the millions of stairs and I miss the constant use of the kettle and the non-stop come dine with me on the tv. But the fridge is smaller than mine, way smaller, and there are like 5 more people using it.

And you can’t find shit in there. Things are stacked jenga-style. The milk sits in the door atop a carton of something or other, and opening the door violently results in milk falling to its death and maybe spattering everywhere.

But in that house you have friends, so you don’t care or think about fridges.

My fridge is now a desperate, solitary monolith in my kitchen. It hums and occasionaly makes strange little noises at the other ridiculous evidences of my brief spell in marital bliss. The dishwasher. The massive fucking dishwasher. The liquidiser that crushes ice, because of all the fucking cocktail parties we were going to be hosting as a fun loving power couple.

Oh man that makes me want to cry, that right there.

Nah not really. I’m not good at sharing power and attention, I can’t be part of a cool supercouple.

I remember the smatterings of parties held in our shithole apartment full of massive, shiny appliances. I didn’t really like anyone very much, and just wound up getting drunk and trying to read which of the men present would have wanted to fuck me if I hadn’t been married to their friend. And eventually getting all shrill and housewifey and yelling at everyone to stop skateboarding in the house, because the neighbours were bound to call the cops. And hiding the big knives from drunk guys daring each other to do the knife dance.

And one time, I got very emotional when one of the guys announced his uptight bitch of a girlfriend had roped him into raising an unwanted baby and getting married, and I hit Amazon and bought them a hardback book on babies by Desmond Morris, my fucking hero, author of Manwatching.

Oh, the not very worthwhile memories of my life as a housewife.

It feels weird now thinking how completely I wrapped myself up in our life. I handed the keys to this guy I barely knew and it took me a year to realise I may not know how to drive, but I’m definitely not a passenger.

It feels like being single, I’m missing something, sure… but filling that gap with another person  (NO I’m not being dirty, I’m being deep now, shut up… oh woah woah see what I did just there… deep… like a VAGINA. Sorry. Sorry. I’m trying to be serious. I’ll stop now.) pushes out a bit of me… so when I was in a relationship, I was complete, but not completely me.

And I know that 50% someone else, 50% myself, is totally shit, even compared to 75% me, and 25% an empty, lonely space.

Or maybe it would be different if I actually used some quality control and got to know the guy first? Nah, I’m just too fucking awesome to compromise.

Anyway… today I put the wine in the high up shelf I always forget about. I have biscuits there that go way back. Ah it’s pointless really…. I’ll remember I have WINE, but at least it’s not on the table every time I streak through the kitchen for some snacks and water.

Feels like progress.

Now if I can just manage to stop eating those fucking pistachios, and maybe get some sleep before this shit becomes a cycle again…

Laters,

MFO

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