The game has not eaten me up… although it has hollowed me out and left me a haggard shell of my former self, twitchy with lack of sleep and close quarters hack and slashing at giant arachnids.
I am not going to talk to you about the game I am playing however because it is sad enough that I write a blog and play computer games instead of having a social life but to combine the two for any more posts than I have already done would just be taking the piss (or as we say in Ireland “extracting the Michael”)
Anyway. I look about as good as I could expect to look having slept between 4 and 6 hours every night since Saturday.
I used to aim to go to sleep at 12am, with a cut-off point of 12.30 for all computer usage. Then it was 12.30- 1.am
Then it became, I could begin watching anything on my laptop before 1am but then as soon at that episode finished, I would absolutely have to sleep.
But I should have known any kind of boundary: even self-imposed: was a bad idea. I’m such a freaking rebel I reject even my own authority.
So gradually I crept closer and closer to my cut off point. Soon it wasn’t the “absolute latest I am allowed to stay up”. It became “bedtime”. I would sometimes be sleepy around 11.30 but felt that succumbing to natural sleep so early would rob me of what I imagined were 1 and a half hours of good old fashioned tv time, so I would make myself stay up and watch sitcoms with no staying power and formulaic unlikable characters, milking my evening for all its usable entertainment hours like a chapped udder full of yak’s milk . I regularly woke up cursing myself and my stupid pig headed late night snacking and watching 8 episodes of something mildly amusing back to back.
I flagrantly disregard my own curfew, all the time. But I usually do one 4am bedtime every week or so and then the memory of how grumpy I was the next day protects me from repeating such foolishness for a few days. I can handle that because I am young and what are your 20s for if not sleeping too little and making your face look lived in and avoiding green leafy foodstuffs.
But this shit here is much worse. And it is taking its toll on my face. And hair. And smell.
I don’t look good. My skin looks like crap.
I have been eating whatever can be reached for and grabbed with one hand without dirtying my keyboard. This means biscuits and olives and bits of cheese and crackers (who am I kidding, my keyboard is filthy and disgusting) and I haven’t seen a vegetable in about a week. I have a big spot on my cheek (thanks body, you could have put a spot anywhere but you choose my cheek? Do you know how hard it is to squeeze a spot there? What happened the chin, we like squeezing chin spots?) and I would attribute it partly to the crap I have been eating but it is probably mostly due to having touched my petri dish of a keyboard and then touching my face.
Oh foolish girl! I need to dig out that smelly flubber I was given for free by a sleazy computer repair store guy. I know right? For free. That shit retails for €9.99 and I got it for free. I’ve probably spent the price of a small apartment on makeup and clothes already in my life and I get free flubber for cleaing my keyboard. Yay being a woman! Yay the pretty face discount! Anyway I don’t remember where I put it but my keyboard is getting seriously funky so I should have a look for it one of these days.
Might help with the spots anyway.
I don’t know have you seen the South Park episode wherein the boys get World of Warcraft?
And they end up looking like this? Well. It’s a good episode.
Notable differences between me right now and Cartman in that picture:
1: Cartman has clearly been engrossed in gaming for weeks, not days. I have only one massive pimple and another backup one which will probably come and go without getting all gross because I am focusing all my attention on the big one and the minor spot is not being picked or poked at. There is a lesson there, folks.
2. I haven’t been putting on weight. Playing my game has led me to forget to eat as time passes in unpredictable leaps, and also I have not bought any groceries lately. I have just been keeping myself going by eating jars of things and huffing the occasional fruit yoghurt. (note: don’t eat yoghurt over a keyboard)
3. Cartman has a headset. This means Cartman, while sitting in a basement getting fatter and spottier, is also socialising with other humans. Whether or not I would want to bond with Warcraft players is another story… but he also has three other buddies in the room with him, versus my dead basil plant. I’m sorry basil plant. I reckon babies are easier than plants, at least they cry when they need shit. Basil just sat there mute and let me neglect his watering needs. Stupid plant.
4. That’s it. A little MFO trivia for you here: My ex boyfriend used to call me “Cartwoman” as a term of endearment (? perhaps? The creepiest thing isn’t that he called me Cartwoman, it’s that I liked it. I considered it an ode to my awesome powers of wit and put downs, but now I think maybe he meant it more like, if I don’t like someone I might make them eat their parents.)
That was my nice boyfriend anyway, the one I don’t hate. Yes there’s just the one.
As you may imagine, I am clearly in no state to be playing bunny boiler to the sexy barman. He has been given some respite from my stalking for a few days until I can brush my hair and get rid of that spot.
I did go in the day before yesterday (back when Vesuvius was just a pretty mountain..on my face) and he made some joke to me about whether I minded if a fight broke out, (to which I responded by looking frightened and emitting a nervous sound of encouragement and noncommital because I had no idea what was required of me) and then he began to pretend to beat up his colleague… This I took as a good sign as being similar to what a monkey might do to impress a she-monkey, but also it made me re-evaluate whatever age sexy barman might be. He is definitely an adult that’s for sure, he works full time in a bar and Italians don’t finish school til 18 or 19.. but how far into adulthood?
He looks like he is a similar age to me, but Italians are tricky to judge. I always get it wrong. Anyway the idea that he’s even a year younger than me which is entirely possible makes me feel sort of like some damaged goods or something. Because he probably lives with his parents and he probably goes out to the cinema with his girlfriends and goes on those weird noncommital group dates I have observed in Italians, and then drives up the hill to the makeout point and then probably gets head in the driver’s seat from some petite wearer of jeans who really hates doing it and who had to tell her mother she was going to the gym… Man I would actually enjoy the shit out of going down on this guy. He’s just so attractive. Not just his face or his arms.. which are great… but he’s just lovely. I was waiting to get a coffee today skulking at the back ashamed of my hideous face and watched him talking to a random old woman. She bemoaned her back aches and pains. He listened with a totally non-sarcastic expression on his face. Like he was able to maintain a look of contentment with his lot in life, like he didn’t want to gnaw off his own arms and then throw them at her so she’d stop talking about her back aches. I know if I hadn’t been wearing so many damned layers I probably would have done that. So not that tolerating stupid old people is a turn on for me or anything, but as always any general traits a good looking person displays are polarised in my eyes. And everyone’s, I suppose. A good looking person is kind to someone and it’s like HOLY CRAP they are mother theresa except without the bible bashing, which I guess is why Angelina Jolie gets to play with the UN folks. If one of the other guys at the bar was nice to an old person, genuinely nice, I’d probably be like pffff what a loser, he’s probably having a great time talking about hemorrhoids or lumbago or rising cabbage prices or whatever it is the elderly person feels like complaining about.
Anyway I have built this guy up to a level of awe that I can’t even deal with any more. Seeing him in the mornings almost makes me angry with myself for not being more good looking and chirpy. Why am I not bubbly? Why am I not enthusiastic and friendly? I am those things I guess but when I’m happy. Maybe he’s just happy. Whatever it is, I’m not happy enough right now to attract that calibre of person. It’s probably a good thing. When my mum was over I was foolish enough to tell her which barman I thought was cute. She began “ooo-ooo”ing and calling him “your booooy-frieeeend” and generally ensuring I will never mention anything remotely to do with sex or boys again. This is why we have had one gruff conversation about sex since I was 18, and that was only because she got me drunk, the sly dog, and prodded until I admitted to using the withdrawal method… but anyway she was like “it’s not a good idea for you to get involved with anyone now, because you’re leaving” and I couldn’t be like “mo-therrrrr! I only want to shag him the once, I don’t want a freaking boyfriend!” so I just mutter something about only wanting to look and having no intention of doing anything to complicate my move. Bless my mother thinking I have a shot with mr. perfectface.
I really shouldn’t have built him up so much.
I imagine all the hot guys I see pairing up with these impeccably dressed super hot lithe round breasted perfect nippled bitches who won’t change a lightbulb and make them wait to meet the whole extended family and spend a summer picking olives with them before sex can be entered into.
I look at most Italian women and it seems unimaginable that they would ever let a man see them naked or let a dirty disgusting penis near them. I’ve seen how judgemental they are, I’ve seen how precious they are about not getting dirty and not doing anything unseemly and how they act like men are these lumbering fools with their tongues out and women are the sexless matrons who keep things in order and eventually marry one fool and rule him with an iron fist. I imagine they use sex as a device to bargain for a new oven, and I imagine they act like masturbation is a dirty male-only sin.
But then, I’m being horribly closed minded here. This is a general feeling I get from my interactions with customers, and also I guess several groups of Italians I have loosely and fleetingly befriended. I don’t actually know what they get up to in bed. It’s just the women look more repressed than me after husband.
I’m a big ball of weird when it comes to sex, I know. But I think my bipolar opinions on the subject of the naked love wrestle can be attributed mostly to, divorce baby. It’s taken more of a toll on me than I thought at first. Anyway I’m sure it’s just out of context sex that creeps me out. Like if I imagine myself in this mood, getting jiggy with someone, even sexy barman… it’s like, ugh no I couldn’t. But obviously you don’t start in a general bored work blogging mood and then go to sex, you get turned on first and you have all the excitement of will they won’t they and then comes the awesome rush of HOLY CRAP I AM THE MOST ATTRACTIVE PERSON EVER, and then I get into it properly.
But I’m sure if you met me you would know I was a dirty biatch within five minutes. It might even exude from my pores like slutty sebum, but more likely I will talk about something I shouldn’t talk about in front of new people. I’m sure you could tell if you met me, anyway, that whether or not I’d be up for anything kinky, I’d most certainly fuck on the first date and I wouldn’t require a phone call afterwards. With Italian women I do not get even an inkling of them having genitals under their matchy matchy ironed underpants.
Latin lovers, my hole.
I see nothing passionate about these people, I just see the men looking like randy little jackrussels who want to hump your leg but don’t have any better ideas for picking up women than commenting on your appearance as you walk past or beeping from a car. (These are all I have seen in execution anyway)
Man, I miss my so called cold blooded English speakers.
And here I am, obessively chugging coffee for a chance to get to makeout point with one of ’em.
I think my friend may be right, she says I keep avoiding the eyes of men because I don’t really want to get laid. If this is true and it wouldn’t be particularly startling because back in the day when I used to carry a pair of spare tights and a razor in my handbag on a night out (I firmly believed shaving my legs before going out jinxed me, whereas if I pulled as a hairy Mary, I could nip into the bathroom before naked o’clock and slice off the offending follicles like so much kebab meat), I had no problem finding outies to match up with my innie.
So maybe I’m a little bit terrified of sex, and I pick these hot barmen to moon after because that way I can have non-threatening interactions with beautiful men without there ever really being a danger of getting to the I’ll show you mine stage. Or maybe that’s a load of crap and I really do want to go out and get my slut on but the hot barmen are the only guys I see who I know how to vaguely approach.
Whatever it is… I’m going to try for a social outing tomorrow night. I’d really like there to be some kind of payoff to all the money I spend on my appearance (only to ruin it all by skimping on sleep- the one facial treatment that’s actually free. Damn my foolish ways)
Becuase I have a whole rake of Mac eyeshadows, I have proper expensive foundation and bronzer that I got matched to my actual skin tone so I don’t look like an Oompa Loompa (I’m too tall anyways) and when I can be bothered to bathe I cover the lack of offending smell up with Issey Miyake. I have so many dresses in my wardrobe you could take half of them away and I probably would only be vaguely aware of missing something.
I have invested heavily in my appearance ever since I was 14 and my best friend held me down and plucked my unibrow while I cried real hot tears and felt my childhood’s ability to ignore facial hair drift away…..
And a couple of weird boyfriends and one failed marriage later, not even to a rich guy might I add, and I’m starting to think maybe you can paint a turd and spray it with deodorant and it will still remain quite obvious to all that it is still a turd.
I am no turd, of course. But I’m a slob, I’m lazy and I eat stuff off the ground, even my floor which I never clean, and my personal hygiene is erratic at best.
I am sure I’m kidding nobody with my superficial attempts to mask my nature.
Ahhh this country is screwing with my head. I know that when I am in a good mood I am on fiyah, I get all kinds of lucky with guys who in this condition I would be all mope mope he’s outta my league. I just need to keep the gremlins off my back for a couple more months and then mothers lock up your sons, I’m only interested in guys who live away from their parents so that would be a massive help in thinning the herd. Thank you.
Today at lunch I went to H&M because the Versace collection came out and I wanted to see if there was anything halfway decent (no) and then of course I had to try on some little black dresses because I don’t seem to have enough… I have like 20 LBDs and still am buying more.
OH GUESS WHAT? I tried on jeans.
And they… didn’t look horrific. I didn’t buy them obvs because I thought what the fuck will I do with a pair of jeans? I know if you are lost at sea you can knot the legs together and make a flotation device, but other than that i don’t see what the point would be. Anyway the reason this excited me so much is that I have been convinced all jeans looked like crap on me, but these looked nice and they were only shitty H&M jeans so this means I am not fat, as when you are fat high street jeans will scream “I am fat”. YES. So I can officialy vouch for the computer game and forgetting to eat diet.
Then I settled for some cotton knickers to brighten up the drawer full of lanky depressing off whites I am currently greeted with every morning, and I was queueing to pay and I had to root in my bag for my wallet and WOOSHP! Out flew a condom I didn’t know I had. I have put my regular bag on hold as it is too small for my massive winter headphones (they keep the warmth in and the crazy out) so this bag which hasn’t been used in a few months must have been harbouring an inexplicable and probably gone-off condom. It took me a few minutes in the queue full of men women and gasp yes children to figure out that the condom had come out of my bag and yes it was mine.
I crouched down and picked it up while my brain scanned its bright blue durex packaging and reaffirmed “yes, it’s a condom” and then chugged on to the acceptance of embarassment. Why I should be embarassed about a condom in my handbag, I am not sure, but I definitely was embarassed. I wondered how much more embarassing it was for a condom to fly out and for people to think I’m gettin’ some, versus me actually not getting any and just hanging around coffee shops giggling at the staff…
I could not help being embarassed.
THEN I realised (because I went to H&M before I went for a coffee) that if I had not chosen to buy those knickers, the condom might have flown out while I was paying sexy barman for my coffee.. and I have no idea whether that would have been a good thing “YES I AM A SEXUALLY ACTIVE ADULT!” or a bad one “I’m A FILTHY SLUT/ I HAVE A MAN TO SLEEP WITH ALREADY AND HE HAS A PENIS AND I TOUCH IT”
But, crisis averted? Let’s say yes, and let me feel grateful for something.
Anyway. I just got home form work where I was typing this but then my dad swooped in and I had to ALT F4 the hell out of this page so I lost whatever I had typed after here a whole awesome paragraph never to be seen again.
Then I went for a dad with my beer and then I came home and now I am going to play some SKyrim but I also have to have a shower because eriously dude I smell like I look which is also how I feel. I am insisting on sleep tonight I don’t care how much fun I will miss out on, it must be done. Tomorrow socialisation time… woop woop!