EDIT: 5000 hits motherfuckers! I know it’s not really a whole lot, probably because I am secretive about my blog. BUT it is a milestone nonetheless. To celebrate, I am putting my blog in another colour scheme or something for a few days, maybe. I haven’t decided but I will fuck around with the settings for a bit until it screams HAPPY BIRTHDAY and thanks for all the spam. Some of you are people though so thank you for reading and fuck all you lurkers out there because I feel like you are probably spam and it is nice to let me feel appreciated.
I’ve been wanting to write something for ages now, it’s been so freaking long since I knocked one out. A blog post I mean.
But all I have been doing and it’s not worth mentioning but… nonetheless here goes…. is wake up, go to work work 10 hours, eat as little as I can manage while maintaining necessary ability to stand and smile at customers, go home on freezing tram, walk rest of way because they decided to cut off my favorite bus, the one that smells like pee and alcoholism, just in time for the holidays. Assholes. I loved that bus, it took me straight to my door nearly and was heated. And I got quite a workout dodging what I imagined were groping hands and erect penises all clamouring for some of my juicy buttock but were probably mostly just shopping bags with hard edges and the tops of umbrellas pressing against me unbeknownst to their owners. But sometimes I KNOW I was being groped, it’s not all in my head. Anyway.
I get home and eat whatever I can muster the motivation to cook, probably a finger dipped in chocolate spread and sucked desolately, watching some shitty bottom of the barrel z-list comedy about sarky twenty somethings saying things to each other that would be witty if your friends said it, but that falls flat because it wasn’t impromptu, it was written by a team of so called comedy writers. Like, someone accidentally puts salt in their coffee, and goes “oh no I just got a mouthful of salty liquid” and then the friend goes “that’s what she said” or something, and you just think… yeah that would have been a mildly humorous moment in real life but the whole thing having been scripted and set up makes it about as funny as an unimaginative simile.
I debate whether or not to treat myself to some repetitive uninspired special MFO time, and usually the part of me that is a glutton for self punishment wins, and then I don’t even think I’m having orgasms any more, they barely register… like a suppressed sneeze. And then I go to sleep because I am tired but still it takes me a while and then I wake up and go to work and am running late for the usual reasons and I get to work and go to my hot barman bar and am all awkward and eerily smiley for a few minutes and then drag myself off to work.
I work 10 hours a day on my feet and it is fairly low-key for Christmas but it is still super up-tempo compared to my usual life of leisure and I am wound up tight and giddy and helpful and chirpy but in a slightly psychotic manner, as in, it is entirely likely the next person to be remotely annoying to me will lose a front tooth or be told to go fuck themselves in the FACE.
I am on edge, my jaw has got all tight. I have also been drinking serious amounts of coffee. I am alternating between my old stalking grounds, Hot barman Bar I, and my current hot barman Bar II so that neither staff will realise how much coffee I am drinking as it is a little fucked up. I am also lying to my coworker about this, I drink secret coffees when she isn’t around.
No one can know how much caffeine is really in my body.
It’s a lot.
Also I gave up drinking sugar in my coffee because that was like… all right, 6 or 7 sugars per day, not good.
OH I probably didn’t tell you, look at me talking shit and not sharing my real news.
I am going home for NYE. That’s correctomundo, motherfuckers!
I’m getting my Ireland on for a week, starting after Christmas.
I know I was supposed to stay here hold the fort, save the cash monies, not spend…
but instead I bought last minute flights to Dublin, a tiny black dress that is all sequins and that only covers my ass if I stand still with my arms down by my sides and a bright red Clinique lipstick and Lancome mascara which is FREAKING AMAZING and totally worth the extra ridiculous price tag I swear, it’s really good.
No, they are not paying me to say this. No one is paying me shit.
Perhaps I’m not a good spokeswoman.
I will plug anything though, for reals, maybe I could be a spokesperson for a brand of vibrator (I will need a free one sent to me first so I know it’s a quality product) or some other suitable item that will make sense within my blog so none of my readers will think I am just selling out and trying to monetise whatever the fuck this is.
In an unrelated side note, I forgot to tell you guys about how awesome Amazon are. I mean it, I broke my kindle and they sent me another one in two days. TWO fucking days, and right before Christmas? That is mad good customer service. No they aren’t paying me to write this, they are fucking Amazon, they don’t need to advertise. Also today I was looking at my kindle thinking about how much better I will treat it than my previous kindle, and I realised that the Amazon logo is not a smile like I thought it was (under the word amazon) but actually a much more logical arrow going from the A to the Z. Oho!
It was quite a humbling and intense moment for me.
Anyway, I wanted to write something interesting or entertaining or at the very least educational, but I am so fucking tired and wired and tense and can’t fucking wait to go home for party season, just one week… but I will make it count. I’m talking about dick, obviously.
I will see my family too, and by gum! will you be hearing all about THAT, but it is mostly about going out and trawling for men while looking skinnier than last time I was in Ireland. And wearing heels and not being taller than men, and getting disgustingly drunk and not being the worst drunk. And not feeling like a big manbearpigwoman because I am normal sized in Ireland.
And seeing my friends also.
Can’t fucking wait to wear that dress, I have never worn anything so slutty and yet kind of not trashy at the same time. I just have to avoid eating much before I go home as any belly will just make the dress ride up and every mm of skirt length is imperative- I am considering wearing some shorts or something under it at least when I leave the house so my mother doesn’t see how slutty I’m dressing. Oh, just writing that takes me back to my teen disco days…
I have been eating well but little. Well I’m sure I’m eating plenty, but it feels like fuck all if you consider how much standing and working and whatnot… and how bored and hungry that makes me… and I have been restraining myself magnificently.
But I have also been eating enough so get off my back about it, you’re not my mom.
Seriously, look I just made vegetable soup and had home made burgers I froze before the double shift madness commenced. Seriously. I’m fine.
And yet still, customers use me as the model for their fat friend gifts.
I am not fat. I look good now. (twirls)
But they’re all “ooh that top won’t fit Giuseppina, she is too… robust” and then I’m like “hey, it’s not that small, it’s quite big for a size S” (because I am mercilessly trying to sell whatever I can)
And the customer gives me a squinty quizzical look and is like “well… would it fit YOU?”
And I grit my teeth and try the shit on, pretending I don’t give a crap and am totally secure in my skin, but also totally pissed off. Because I have been listening to their entire conversation for the last 40 minutes, not just the tastefully phrased “Giuseppina is robust” but also the talk before that about how Giuseppina looks like a manatee and recently plopped out sextuplets.
Assholes. Just because they are petite, well the joke’s on them because I may still be too fat to be a model and then there’s the issue with my nose… but we’re not going there now… but they are too short. I could at least be a plus size model, if I hit the gym or something. Maybe.
Yep that’s how I comfort myself when petite little women make me feel fat.
But I am nice to them because the double shifts and coffee have made me go a little weird in the head, and not in a homicidal way although that was probably decided by a coin toss. I am not saying Christmas has made me chirpy… but rather the impending celebration of the end of a year. A year that began with a Ryanair flight where I had to wear ALL my dirty clothes one on top of the other to avoid paying the bag check fee at the gate, and it was soo hot and I was sooo hung over… and I was flying back to my miserable and crumby marriage with a total dickwad and sap and arsebiscuit and whatnot, and now the year comes to an end with me 20 pounds or 8 kilos lighter and a lot more confident and also obviously I am legally separated which is fantastique.
So yeah, I’m fucking happy.
Soon to be happy fucking, probably.
I have kind of gone off Fabio because he went home for the holidays and wanted to “say goodbye” to me before he left. I was like, ok cool we can have a coffee, wink wink, nudge nudge, one of these nights… but then I was busy, he was busy, whatevs… so it didn’t happen. But then before he left he was like “oh do you want to come for a pizza with my friends and I to say goodbye?”
And hooooooold your geldings there boy, did you just invite me out on the infamous Italian “group date”? Or worse, did you try introduce me to your friends?
What does this look like to you? The start of something wonderful? UUUHHH wrong!
Please tell me you were hoping I would gang bang your friends and all the pizza chefs on the table, while your everyone rubbed pizza dough on my naked body. I will be a little impressed if that is what you intended, although I will have to decline because I aint taking it up the bum bum, (not sober anyhow) and there’s no point in an orgy without a wide variety of orifices on offer. IMHO. Anyway unfortunately he didn’t have some orgy situation in mind, he just wanted to, I don’t know, eat… in my company. Which is pretty fucking un-erotic, because I either hoover the food into my mouth like a rabid beasht, or I don’t eat at all.
Does he not realise I want to see him so I can burn calories, feed my ego, and tone up as well as get some good woman on top practice which I desperately need,before I move to a country which has men in it that I actually want to impress?
Not sit around with ITALIANS eating fattening food and not having sex, and also talking.
Ugh gross go away.
He’s a sweet guy though, it’s just… not for me.
The idea of this straight laced Italian guy who will eventually be a creepy old Italian guy with memories of me doing the naughty with him when I was all young… something kind of pointless to think about. My mind strays…
I will keep him for sexual purposes until I move. It’s nice to have someone to do sex with.
Even if he is a fucking GIRL about getting enough sleep for college. I guess engineering is hard though. Whatevs.
Anyhoo, I am tired. I have an episode…unforch the last of the series, of Misfits downloaded and ready for action. I recommend Misfits to anyone with a sense of humour and who is able to blur their vision at will. It is pretty gross sometimes in my awesome opinion, but when I was little my cousins made me watch scary movies like IT and Candyman and Candyman 2 and the Micheal Jackson film and I didn’t want to look like a pussy more than I already did what with the peeing the bed that time, so I used to relax my eyes so they went all blury and I just looked a bit retarded, but that way I could stare at the tv and not see what was actually happening.
I don’t know if this is a really common thing everyone does or not but I mention anyway … This is often the way with things.
Where were we? Ah yes, I have stopped drinking wine alone after I got quite drunk and morose one night (think it may have been the night i last posted) and facebook messaged a LOT of people with declarations of my drunkeness, horniness… loneliness… basically the sort of shit that is ok for you guys to read about but is not cool when I write it to my actual friends who know me and stuff. I mean not that they are all “ooh what a loser MFO is, she has feelings and needs the love and sexual healing of other humans” but more that it is totally out of context and I have some vestiges of pride which make me try to cultivate a flimsy image of being ok over here on my lonesome. Even my bestest friends don’t actually realise how freaking miserable I am over here, I think, probably they think when I say I have one friend I mean I have one good friend, when no… I mean, I have one person I can call and say “yo homeslice, what up?”
But that’s a lie because she doesn’t speak English so she definitely don’t understand my personal brand of “not in front of black people” ghetto speak. I may have to alter my way of speaking so I don’t sound retarded or racist or both when I move to London. There were not a whole lot of black people around in Ireland when I was growing up, I mean there was probably one sort of exotic child per class, but in my school that was me. I was the atheist child whose parents didn’t live together and who had two daddies and two mummies, all of whom were pretty fucking out there. So my classmates learnt about differences from sharing a room with me, but I grew up in my bubble of white and now all i know about what’s ok to say and what isn’t and what’s funny and what’s just… offensive, comes from sitcoms… and it’s confusing and dangerous to use sitcoms as a template for real human interaction. Anyway. I’m not racist. I am quite likely to offend most people but that is only because I always say the wrong thing… in every situation.
The other day I was talking to Fabio in between round one and two on my slutty black satin sheets (oh yeah!) and for some reason I started yammering away about my grandmother. I totally forgot about how his grandmother just died so talking about mine must have seemed like “ha ha, I have two grandmothers and now you have at most, one! In your FACE.” So then I realised and started trying to backtrack but the only thing I could think of was, if I mention ALL my family members individually, it means I didn’t talk about my granny for an inordinate amount of time. So then I described everyone in my family for this confused and probably grieving Italian who I am fucking…
“And my other auntie, she’s shorter than my dad. She knows everyone’s birthday in the family. She’s afraid of heights. And my uncle doesn’t work and he has a moustache, and he buys these special cartridges for his fountain pen, which is bullshit because what unemployed bum spongeing off my aunt needs a fountain pen? I offered to give him some of my 20 pack of biros I bulk-bought but he was like ha ha no, I use a special pen, but he didn’t get that I was making a point about his being a scrub, a guy that should be getting no love from my auntie”
Anyway, my ruse probably just encouraged Fabio to think we are at a sharing and caring stage of our relationship. Where really I was just talking because it was otherwise kind of awkward while he pulled off the condom and I was just sitting here naked. So I filled the silence with talk of my grandmother, naturally.
And then all my other relatives.
See? This is why even though I know I don’t have actual racist feelings or thoughts about people, I am sure if I met a new black friend I would probably, I don’t know, start talking inexplicably about slavery. I know when I was first living in South America I made a LOT of faux pas. Things i had no idea anyone would be upset about. But eventually I got past the face palm moments and stopped calling my boyfriend Pocahontas, and it was cool.
Hey look, I only called him Pocahontas because he called me Gringa. Which is insulting. He laughed about it… but other people who didn’t know that would hear me calling him Pocahontas and think I was a crazy racist gringa bitch.
So we are clear: not a racist.
Not that anyone’s keeping track of this, I don’t expect like a medal or something, but I am probably the least racist person in this city.
Italy is so politically incorrect, it gives me white guilt just listening to other people talk.
You know the boogie man? In Italy he is referred to as “the black man”. Eat your broccoli, kids, or the black man will take you. Then there’s a certain shade of brown called “moor’s head.” People come into my shop and are like, “do you have a bag, I’m looking for a moor’s head bag?”
What bothers me most is not that it might be offensive to say “Moor”, I don’t know if it is or not, but I would probably err on the side of caution and not use the term just in case. But brown is a perfectly suitable word for the colour. Brown, or dark brown, or medium brown, or mahogany, or reddish brown, or whatever. If there is a kind of brown you can’t describe the way I just did… well, there isn’t. So it just seems really fucked up to be using what sounds like a totally offensive description, when BROWN will do just fine.
So they are used to saying “testa di moro”, big woop. Break the habit. How are people not even remotely worried they will offend someone? In fact even writing this I am worrying maybe it is racist of me to say anything about being afraid of saying something racist. I just don’t know.
And then there are these chocolates that have a fucking golliwog as their logo. A golliwog. My grandmother had a golliwog when she was little. She showed me her golliwog one time when I was a child and I wanted to have it because it was kind of awesome. My mother wouldn’t let me have it though because it was racist. My granny said that she didn’t see what was so racist about it, she thought they were “lovely little fellows” with the big red smiles and staring eyes and political correctness had gone mad. Anyway, there’s this one brand of chocolates here that are really expensive, and their logo is a jet black face with those red sausage lips like a gollywog. It is pretty racist looking. Italians don’t get it though. I am ashamed of even getting hungry when I look at those chocolates.
Italians just don’t get that there might be something wrong there.
And most of the time they just presume everyone else around, is totally racist like them. They don’t wait til they are around close friends to say something dodgy- they just let their opinions waft in front of me where I don’t know what’s worse, not saying anything and having to feel like shit about being a pussy, or interrupting someone and risking a confrontation over something that isn’t my beef anyway?
One time this guy who used to come into my shop- actually it was the same guy who taught me to say I was a horny sex wolf– came in and started complaining to his friend about immigrants. I butted in because, hello? I’m a fucking immigrant. And I was like, “here, a bit of fucking respect. You can’t come in here where I’m working and say shit like that in front of me.” And he’s like, Uh, I’m not talking about you. And I was like, “what do you mean? I am an immigrant and I’m taking up a job that is pretty well paid and an Italian would get it otherwise” and he just looked at me like I was retarded, and shook his head, and he’s like “Ha, No… you’re fine… you’re WHITE.”
I didn’t drop kick his face, because I am all talk and no action. I tried to say something scathing and turf him out of my shop never to return again, but instead I sort of made a confused sound and told him to go away please and then when he didn’t budge I jingled my keys and said “I need the bathroom.” so then he left and the next time I saw him I went bright red and muttered and there ended the exchange of pleasantries.
I should have just lied and told you I delivered an awesome speech about equality, as well as doing the quote from True Romance where Christian Slater’s dad tells Christopher Walken that Sicilians are dark skinned because their grandmothers were fucked by so many black dudes, except he used the n word but I am SO not allowed do that.
but it would be a goddamned and awesome lie. I didn’t say shit.
I am a whole lot of talk and very little action, but you know that already.
Sometimes I am ashamed of this.
Anyway, I don’t know where I’m going with this. I have that episode of Misfits to watch now which is wonderful and then I go to sleep and rinse and repeat until Saturday. Oh yes. And then Monday, to the deathmobile! I hope I don’t die on my plane, I read those Air France transcripts… what an error that was.
Just… just don’t.
Not a bloggized freakout about flying.
Later, I’ll save the freakout for later.