Shoppin’, stalkin’, drinkin’ alone, and talkin’ ’bout religion. I’m an incorrigible woman

So, I know I do this every month and some of those months I write whole blog posts about it but:

It was just a period related fat week. I have not put on twenty pounds of belly fat, I have not conceived a baby oesophogaly, and my disgustingly sedentary lifestyle has not finally caught up with me. I have deflated again. OH period, you sly dog. I always fall for your hysterics, every time. Three days ago I was grabbin handfulls of loose flab and making “nyom nyom me hungry” noises and crying inside. Today I have pelvis bones again and if I suck it all in and stand with my bum thrust far back and my chest out, I can look in the mirror and think, damn girl, you fine. Except then I got too excited and tried on the Calvin Klein swimsuit. Ouch. That hurts, bro…

But so long as I stay away from the devil swimsuit, I can pretty much cope with my body this week.

The peep show will go on…

Even the weather is kind of back to normal. It’s a few degrees above 0 today. I feel so enthused by this balmy temperature, I may even achieve something later, like bring down the bins or wipe the kitchen counter. It feels like that kind of day. Productivity, hoy!

I have a collection of disgusting bins on my balcony saved up from the past week or two of snow. It was so cold outside, the bags are all frosty the microbes seem to be in suspended animation so it’s not like there’s a horrible smell coming from my apartment, giving neighbours the impression I have choked and lie decomposing in a puddle of whiskey and vomit.  There is a horrible smell in my kitchen but that’s just… well, I am going to look into that one of these days. I wonder if it’s possible for my floor to be so dirty, that it actually smells bad. It’s pretty dirty because my sweeping brush on the balcony was covered with snow. It’s melted now, I should really sweep the floor.

It’s such a relief, the cold abating. I was worried I would have to go to London next week and just… leave the apartment in this condition. Seriously it’s not like you think, it’s not JUST I’m lazy and keep pushing my responsibilities onto the plate of my future self, but it’s so cold in my kitchen. I get home from work hungry and grumpy, I enter the kitchen… I make some soup, chopping everything on plates with the good knife (I have to stop calling it the good knife now, those dinner plates have really fucked up the cutting edge..) because the counter is so dirty and gross… and I had to throw out the expensive wooden chopping board because it didn’t like the dishwasher and if you are gonna live in my kitchen, you have to learn to get along with the dishwasher.

So I make my soup, and while that is cooking nicely, I start to lose the feeling in my feet. I look for my slippers and find them in the bed. BAD GIRL wearing those filthy things in my bed. I put on my slippers, back into the kitchen. It is still too cold. What to do, what to do….. Hot whiskey. It’s really the only thing for it. I prepare a mug of hot whiskey and shuffle off to bed just to get my temperature up a bit. I sip my whiskey and feel waves of Irishness and contentment wash over me. O, to toast my pinkies by the fire… o, to graze the green pastures of home with my own herd…

I feel a bit misty eyed so I snuggle up under the duvet and watch some Seinfeld. This phase of obsessive Seinfeld watching has lasted a record 3 seasons so far and shows no signs of dwindling. I have also dipped back into playing Skyrim but it is too cold in reality to be hanging around a virtual winter wonderland.

After a while of horizontal relaxation I get up and check the soup…  mmm… wonderful. I put meat in my soup. Everything is better with meat. Or cheese. Meat, or cheese are the best foods in my lofty opinion. If you are lactose intollerant I feel bad for you, son. I got 99 problems but the lactose aint one. Hit me! (piece of trivia for you: They used to call me the Rapmaster. I have had many nicknames over the years, for some reason or other they never catch on. Except for one… The Masturbator. That stuck, like moss on a stationary stone.)

Fix myself another hot whiskey and take a bowl of soup back with me to bed with a stack of bread  riddled with the shrapnel of frozen butter. Oh baby. And there ends my productivity for the evening. I drink more whiskey, watch more Seinfeld, and eat mandarins whose peel I fling overboard.

I can do no more… until it gets a bit warmer. Today is a start, a cheery step in the warm direction. I will do the bins today, definitely. The organisation and packing of all my disordered worldly goods, that can wait until we hit a modest 10 degrees maybe. But it is really happening. I am going to London next motherfucking WEEK. And I have nothing prepared. I am the worst, I know.

And I have altered my trajectory. I was going to London on a scouting mission. Just to check out the lay of the land… party a small bit. But lately I have become disillusioned with my foggy plans. I used to say “hang the expense, I don’t mind slumming it for a bit, it’s LONDON it will be amazing.” But now it looms on the horizon, the moment when I switch from imaginary personality that can cope with being broke… and me, the real person, actually having to go away and be poor and not have all my nice shiny things and spending money.

And reality-me is not on board. Reality me says, no dude, I just wanted the social life bit. I am not really willing to hang around paying that kind of rent and paying that much for transportation and not being able to afford olive oil and avocados, probably.

So we (me) are going to hop over to London purely for hedonistic purposes then head on to Dublin… I would give you a whole bunch of brilliant reasons why i should choose Dublin over England but mostly I think, if I’m honest, it comes down to: I’m chicken shit.

The things I am yeller about vary from “scary underground trains” to “not being able to afford avocados or enough privacy to be naked in my own home” and plenty in between. I have friends in London, but I also have friends in Dublin. Wherever I go, it’s gonna be OFF THE HOOK. I’m excited, very excited. I have probably just transferred by silly optimism from one city to the other, but meh. I know what I can get away with in Ireland. Sure, I haven’t lived there in over four years… not since the worldwide shitstorm mopefest downer buzzkill financial crisis….. but it’s still my city, I know her oh so well…. Although last time I was in Dublin, over New Year, I took four taxis in the space of 2 hours because I kept forgetting where things were and the distances and I got a bit lost. I mean I wasn’t lost. Not really… But I was a little bit lost, yes.

I’m not just going to move over next week, first I’m gonna hit London for a weekend or so because I am stubborn and refuse to miss out on any of my holiday time even when I need every cent or penny I have… But meh. That’s like, my personality. You can’t expect me to just change my personality. It’s all part of my rogueish charm.

So London, then straight to Dublin where I will immediately hunt for a shitty little apartment to rent. I will hopefully find one. I will return to Italy, ship my things, spend some guilty time with my sisters and then back to Ireland to move into my new life. YAAAAYYY. And then I will start looking for a new job. Any suggestions for a job that doesn’t involve me spending much time with other people? Or animals. Or children. I am not good with plants either.

The time is so tantalisingly close now. I have been wanting desperately to move out of this country since I started writing this blog, about a year ago. The whole time I have been relating my humdrum adventures, I have been utterly miserable in my situation. I have had happy moments (wink wink) but mostly I was just waiting out my sentence. If I had been more active in the waiting maybe i would have more money saved. But hey, it is what it is. I’ll learn.. well, today I bought some cashmere tights and a dress BUT IT WAS ON SALE, so no… it seems I never learn….

But the time of action is almost upon me. Very soon I am going to have to say goodbye to people, and I am going to lose some of my independence and luxury. Butt fuck it.I am going to gain a LIFE.

Last night, Andrea invited me out for a meal. No chicken feet this time. Ha ha ha. I turned red and muttered something about how I wasn’t a fan of those feet but I loved the snails…  Yum snails… Oh MFO, just shut up already. It’s over. They must have known I was faking it… I know I’m not convincing anyone when I tell the customers they look good in MC Hammer pants, and that lie doesn’t even involve overcoming the gag reflex.

But it was fine, we went for sushi. I love sushi. But I didn’t realise how little cash I had left… I put my money in the bank and I don’t remember the pin to that card.. I counted before leaving the house and found I had about 25 euros liquid assets. Shiiit (I have since remembered my pin) WHERE does the money go? This meal better be cheap. REAL cheap.

I didn’t know how to broach the subject without seeming like a total bum. I would need to be like, uh how much will this cost, and can I borrow like a tenner from you? But I didn’t want to borrow anything because she is very generous and I knew she would agree but then never let me pay her back.

So we were getting ready in her house, and I fiddled with the question in my mind for a while, eventually blurting  “how much…err.. more or less…” but she wouldn’t say, she just said, oh no I am treating you. And I’m like, no Andrea don’t be silly, but she insisted, “hey you are leaving in a week and I’m not gonna see you again…”

Aww. Man, of course I’m gonna see you again. I will come back to visit my family as often as I can, and you can come visit me. It will be fun!

She was like, “yeah, I know…” but she stuck to her guns. “I’m paying, I want to!”

So I argued for a while, the old polite grown up back and forth… don’t be silly, etc… but secretly I was relieved when she ended the discussion by firming her tone of voice the way my grandad does when he is on the verge of actually becoming annoyed if you don’t let him pay. I didn’t want her to pay for me but like, I couldn’t actually afford to pay for it all myself. So I backed down on the condition I paid for our taxi there and back and my money just stretched to that. The meal was gorgeous and it was a set menu so it wasn’t expensive and I didn’t feel like such a shit for letting her pay.

We ate a LOT. We scarfed down plate after plate of sushi and noodles and when we went to leave we realised we had been eating for 3 hours. It was a great meal. I realised since the night with the crazy food experiments, I am no longer phased by any of the foods i used to be squeamish about. Mushrooms… courgette… shellfish… polenta… broccoli… squid when it’s not deep fried in rings…. I had a lot of food hang ups. But now I’m just shovelling it all down the gullet, yum yum yum. Next time I’m in my mother’s house I am going to try a brussels sprout. (my childhood nemesis)

I also finally conquered the chopsticks. I mean, I was able to completely empty every plate of food that arrived without once resorting to using my hands or even dismantling a california roll in the soy sauce. I was able to eat noodles, although I did get a lot of sauce on my face and the uber stylish hipster dudes at the table next to me looked a tad repulsed. But I made it through the whole meal. I didn’t leave aside a single piece of mushroom or squid tentacle and I didn’t get my hands dirty. This is momentous for me. So after all, the chicken foot episode was a good experience. It has improved me. Do one thing every day that scares you, indeed.

I always do shit that scares me, like google my symptoms, but usually that just makes me lie in bed at 4am, sleepless with a lead weight in my heart, convinced not only that I have one life to life but that it’s about to come to an end because of cancer or HPV or that thing Stephen Hawking has. I lie for miserable hours and wonder whether as a nihilist I should not give a single shit about what happens to my remains and let my family bury me or cremate me or whatever floats their grieving boat, or whether as a non believer I shouldn’t be insulted with churchy stuff even if I won’t know. I usually lean indignantly to the latter and start drafting clear instructions to my family that my earthly remains do not go near a church or a cross or a priest and if I am cremated they are to bury my ashes somewhere and not just fling them in the air where someone is going to breathe them. And maybe plant a tree or something there so they can visit the tree, but not if they are going to make up any bullshit about me actually being the tree. I wouldn’t want my mother getting all freaky about some tree and talking to it and generally letting her grief drive her insane. I would prefer her to just bore people at parties talking about how great I was. Aw I really don’t want my mother to have to go through that. I’m glad I quit smoking, I just wish quitting was like, a get out of cancer free card. It should be.

Ideally, I would like to be buried in the bog somewhere without a coffin, so the bog juice can preserve me and make me into some cool person-jerky like the bog man they have in Trinity College in Dublin. And then when the people who want creationism taught in schools have bullied science back into the dark ages and future humans start to question where we came from, they can use my shrivelled up body as proof that modern humans and whatever kind of Morlocks are feeding on them, once evolved from homosapiens. That would be pretty awesome.  But I don’t think you are allowed just bury people in the bog.

Sometimes I really can’t sleep with all those thoughts so I give up trying and turn my computer back on. And watch tv or compose my eulogy, it is coming along nicely by the way, although it is hard not to sound preachy…  Usually the next morning I have come to terms with my mortality all over again and probably don’t think I have vagina cancer any more.

Anyway don’t google your symptoms. That is just bad scary. Pretty much everything is a symptom of cancer, just like pretty much every emotional state is a sign that you have too many thetans or whatever and need Scientology to sort you out.

Anyway. Not to get too sidetracked here, but it was a great meal and we had a really nice time. I was getting very excited about moving away.

Andrea was quiet, I jabbered on about the streets of Dublin that are paved with proper chunky chips and the summer evenings with the sea breeze and cider as the sun sets… Of going shopping and buying a “Small”, of not being the palest person in the posse… or at least, not by too much.

Then she said, “I can’t believe you are leaving. It’s so shit… Who will I go out with now?”

I was surprised, I guess it just didn’t occur to me that people other than my family would miss me at all. Then I saw she had tears in her eyes. What the? I have, all this time, been treating our friendship as a beneficial arrangement where I get to hang out with her, I get to have a friend, I get to go out and meet people, and drink, and in return she has, so far, tolerated my company. I never really got why she kept calling me up and asking me to go out. She has a lot more friends here, but she calls me up every weekend and we go out, and mostly it’s just the two of us plus eventual menfolks. But she’s much more sociable than me. She has other friends too, the Eastern European group we went drinking with before… the girls are fun. I always just presumed she was being polite inviting me out, or she didn’t have anything better to do… but suddenly last night it occured to me, that actually, what I have here is a proper friend. She actually LIKES my company. Why this was so unexpected… I don’t know. I guess I just spend so much time on my own, and I’m so used to the people I meet here kind of frowning on my antics… I had made several little attempts at friendship before Andrea and each time, I got too drunk, they got too boring, and it petered out from mutual disinterest. Every venture was an exercise in endurance. A game of friendship chicken.. who would give up first?

But Andrea is my actual friend. I managed to, out of all that self-flagellation and ridiculous drinking and terrible ranting and sluttyness and vomiting and being weird and yelling… I managed to make a good solid friend. I never make friends with girls. Never. My best friends are girls, but I don’t know where I picked them up. I certainly didn’t charm them with my personality. I guess they just got used to me and learnt to put up with the ranting and the talking through movies and the self-centredness and whatnot. It was so much easier to  make friends with people in school or college or when I had lots of coworkers. In those situations, there’s no pressure for you to be each other’s ideal friend, you just hang out sometimes and you have your job in common, or your teachers, and then if you get along well, gradually they overflow into your normal life.

Outside those big forced socialisation environments like school or work, you have to really like someone to see them again. You need to make the effort and put yourself out there.  It’s like dating, I presume, because I’m too easy to have ever actually been on a date. I never bothered with making friends in school. I would usually make one good friend and then I was happy, and that friend would just keep accumulating other friends, and then there was a group, and I automatically had all these friends to hang out with. I have no idea if these other extra friends actually liked me or not, because I certainly didn’t like every single one of them… But it was a pretty sweet set up. I got a social life while really only bothering to make one friend. I didn’t think like that at the time, I just realised now that’s how it seemed to go for me.

But somehow this time, without any outside help… merely on my own merits, I guess, somehow I made a good friend. Now don’t think I’m going all low-self-esteemy on you. I know I am a super person. I am the shizz, in a good way. I am the Alpha and the Omega, baby. There’s no doubt about my kickass personality here. It just surprises me when other people, these saps I share the earth with… also manage to see how wonderful I am. I mean, if other people like me the way I am, all hostile and grouchy and unhygenic and vulgar and vain… then what the FUCK is the point in this whole culture of being polite and nice and the terror of people knowing you pee in the shower and masturbate and pick your nose? (not simultaneously, that’s just gross)

Apparently, it seems I can totally get away with my behaviour… I mean sure I’m not everyone’s cup of tea but that is ok, I just need a couple of folks to hang out with and laugh at my jokes. Also if everyone liked me, who could I feel superior to? Exactly.


I started to feel kind of terrible, admiring my newfound magnetism and popularity while Andrea’s eyes welled up.

This was long after they had taken away the wasabi, we were having dessert so it was definitely tears and not the insane amount of wasabi she stirs into her soy sauce. She’s actually going to miss me, imagine that. I’ll miss her too, I mean she’s my best friend here… my only friend I actually like… I know I’m a bit of a cunt when I talk about her, calling her a bitch for being pretty and all that… but I think she’s a lovely person, really. I just get drunk and feel ugly beside her, that’s all. But honestly I prefer having a friend that’s prettier than me than a friend that’s less pretty. I briefly made friends with a girl here who was a bit of a moose, and it wasn’t so much flattering as embarassing. It’s not like, by being the better looking of the two of us, I attracted hotter guys. I just attracted a lot more ugly ones. It’s a bit of a kick to the ego, having these men make a beeline for my companion and not see me next to her even though I am like a foot taller. (Well, I exaggerate.) But it’s not like I really WANT them. She deflects a lot of scrubs, which is actually good as my usual reaction is to either bring them home and regret it, or threaten to mace them for daring to look at my exposed buttocks. (A scrub is a guy that thinks he’s fly, he’s also known as a bus stop)

Anyway, it was kind of sad but flattering to see Andrea all teary. It honestly didn’t occur to me before that anyone would ever miss me based on my crumby interactions here in Italy. I thought like, my family would miss me. I mean they’re my family, they love me…. But the fact that, all depressed and mopey and drunk as I am here in Italy, I have still managed to get someone to think that it will be worse when I’m not around… It’s a real surprise. And I am probably not going to miss her that much, really, after all. I will be losing a good girlfriend, but recuperating a plethora of other friends… My social life is gonna be so much better….

I don’t know what I would have done without Andrea, though. She has been my only real friend here. She has been pretty much all my social life. I have had other attempts, other trial friendships… but I always found myself craning my neck through the drivel conversation of my own group and coveting the laughing hooting party at the next table. Or any other table. I kept going out with these various dry shites, but it was a mechanical thing like eating crackers because you are hungry. You don’t wanna be hungry, so you eat, but you never want to socialise with their human equivalent. It’s a crappy crappy solution to a very important need…..

Most people when they move away from somewhere they lived for 3 years, have a leaving do. They go for a meal or have a party and invite all their friends… I have known people here who spent 6 months in this city, and had a 30 person sit down meal to mark their departure. I’ve spent 3.5 years here and what do I have to show for it?

Who would I invite? Andrea. My colleagues… All four of them. I don’t like the fifth girl, she’s a cunt. And even Gabrielle, my team mate and colleague, is really pissing me off lately. She’s so negative, she makes ME uncomfortable. She also recently came out with this speech about how vaccines cause autism and she would never get a vaccine against anything, and I was respectful but pointed out the eradication of polio but she just ranted and quoted anecdotal evidence that didn’t even make sense. Child got vaccine- child later was diagnosed as autistic. So the vaccine must have caused the autism. Post hoc ergo propter hoc, is it? Fucking ridiculous.

Sorry guys I just haven’t done a wash in ages so I had to wear my RANTY PANTS this morning.

Then there’s bum chum… eww. No.  Then there are all the aquaintances… my failed attempts at socialising. Moose face, she’s just a boring dick…. The Welsh girl I met once seemed promising… until she wanted to go home by 8pm because she had work in the morning. Eh, so did I. It was seriously like 7.30… We never met again…

The Scottish girl I met, who spoke far too quickly, barely breathing, I could hardly understand her… but she seemed nice, she came to visit me at work a few times and stayed for a long chat… I was excited, maybe we would be friends. I would love a girlfriend to talk English with… even if it required my undivided concentration to understand her speech. Then we became facebook friends. She started to appear on my news feed.

“Christina likes Church of the Anunnciation of the Saint of the Virgin’s status: “A woman went to the doctor asking for an abortion. He told her,why don’t you just kill your five year old son instead. She realised that it was true, an abortion is exactly the same as murdering your child.” And “if evolution is so true, then how come there are no talking rocks” and other similar pages, all these religious pages about priests delivering supposedly fatal arguments to Richard Dawkins and Charles Darwin…

I can not be even slightly friends with someone like that. I might have so few friends, in part, because of my intollerance towards religion, but it’s a total dealbreaker for me.

All my friends differ from me in some area of belief. Be it homeopathy, astrology, accupuncture, the Mayan prophesy, ghosts or simply vitamin c as a cure for the cold… there is something to disagree about. I don’t believe in any of the above, it’s a passion of mine… looking things up and finding out if they are fact or fiction, or if there is any evidence for or against, or if it’s an old wive’s tale, where did it come from? I am interested in digging it up… I’m totally skeptical. I welcome the dismantling of my old ideas. Challenge me on anything, I take a deep pleasure (oh yeah) in learning that I have been wrong about something all this time. That, and looking skinny, is how I get my kicks. And I’m not really sure about many things, because so much of life is gray area… not astrology or homeopathy, though. Those are just pseudoscience. I’m definitely right about that.

But I don’t really judge people on those beliefs like I judge them on religious faith. Because none of us are naturally rational creatures. I’m not rational by nature, I just have a strong interest in sticking to the real, the solid, the provable. It’s a sliver of a difference, between myself and the people who believe in things. Where I have a gap in my knowledge, I am happier to leave it blank than to fill it with something arbitrary, but I am sure my brain is still riddled with placeholder myths.. Most people prefer to smooth it over with faith than to have an “I don’t know.” And I don’t think this makes them stupider than me or more ignorant… because in theory, we both lack the knowledge, we just attempt to deal with the hole differently-

I honestly don’t think that is stupid. It is, I believe (based on nothing) one of the reasons humans are so intelligent. Our brains are able to outperform computers because we are not constrained by logic and reason. We can leap, we can make educated guesses. We can presume. And if we couldn’t do that, we would be like Vulcans, and have horrible identical haircuts, or maybe we would be like monkeys, or if monkeys are a bad example then mongeese. Imagination, inventiveness… I have no qualms with those aspects of humanity. I don’t want to be a robot. The problem I have is not the filling of gaps with guesses, it’s that as the gaps close up and there is less space for fantasy left, people are so firm about their fillers that they wind up rejecting the real, knowable answers in favour of the previous best guess.

I’m aware that filling a gap with a god is just the same as filling a gap with astrology or homeopathy or angels or kinesiology. It is the same, irrational, no evidence, leap of faith. But although I wrinkle up my nose when my family or friends claim to be cured by arnica or worry about the horoscope’s warning… I don’t think my family or friends are idiots like I think religious people are idiots, I look at it like they just don’t have the same insistence on questioning absolutely everything. My teachers always said that, that I always had to question EVERYTHING. I wouldn’t believe the text books, or the teacher, about anything “just because it’s in the book”. I would first argue my own ignorantly formed opinion and then I would go home and look it up and 99% of the time go back the next day, knowing I was wrong, and just say nothing. But sometimes I was right, too, and then I would become the most insufferably little shit and my smugness would know no limits.

I don’t think that my skepticism about everything is necessarily right or good. I have been wrong and dogmatic in my own route to knoledge, just as much as any religious fanatic or Mayan prophesy believer.

But I don’t hold astrologists or pseudoscience enthusiasts to the same standards as I do the religious. Maybe it’s because if I don’t agree with astrology, nobody will think I am wicked. Nobody will try to force astrology on my kids, if I ever have them. Nobody will think I am immoral or untrustworthy if I say I don’t believe my personality traits are determined by the planets moving into certain areas of space. The holders of these beliefs are tolerant of my lack thereof, so while I wish they wouldn’t waste their money and cling to redundant ideas, I keep my opinions to myself usually unless I am drunk. And then, as you know, they come out in the worst way possible and I become rude and insulting and make up laws of physics and throw around words I don’t understand like thermodynamics.

I have lots of views about religion and stuff though. If you made it this far, let me tell you, I really have been so GOOD about keeping the rants off here. Seriously I am on my best behaviour. I have barely touched on my feelings about religion.

I don’t want to preach to anyone, honest, I just want to let you in on all my thoughts because it seems a bit superficial if all I do is talk about hot barman and my failed social life and my dirty house when all the time, there is a philosophical battle raging under my pasty white surface.

INCIDENTALLY, it seems that now I am in the home stretch, mere days away from phase one of my big move…

Hot barman has become particularly chatty. Damn it hot barman, it’s too late for us. We could have had something beautiful, but now I’m going…

I have to go now….. go… walk out the door…. just turn around now…

I won’t be back here any more.
Weren’t you the one who tried to hurt me with goodbye not fucking me on the bar top?
you think I’d crumble
you think I’d lay down and die?
Oh no, not I, I will survive
as long as i know how to love get jiggy with it
I know I will stay alive,

I’ve got all my life to live
I’ve got all my love poon tang to give
and I’ll survive
I will survive

Hey hey..

Anyway it’s Andrea’s birthday today but we are going out on Saturday to celebrate. So I wanted to get her a nice present, and I know she likes this cool expensive shop so I went to have a look in the sales there. They didn’t have much stuff left. I have a problem as you know with shopping, I am not very good at buying gifts for other people and not for myself. So I went in, scanned the room for Andrea gifts and there was nothing. Then I saw some nice dresses for myself that she wouldn’t like and I tried them on and they were pretty but I said no, no, bad girl. So I tried to reason with myself, I said you are only allowed buy that… it’s really flattering by the way… if you find Andrea a good present. But there wasn’t a whole lot. The sales are kind of petering out.

I was looking at this one dress thinking… it’s pretty cool… Andrea doesn’t wear dresses really, but I think she would like this. Maybe. i don’t fucknig know, I can’t pick clothes for another woman, it’s too personal. It’s like, either I pick something for her because it is exactly like something she has already, in which case… lame gift… or else I risk it and pick something she might not like. So I was humming and hawing and the saleswoman was hovering around suggesting expensive things and being a really good salesperson, making me feel all pressurised into buying. I caved and told her I was looking for a gift… she brings out this 7o euro scarf. Uh, pass. I reject the scarf but in doing so, furnish her with more details about what I am looking for and my budget. The next suggestion is harder to refuse. and the next. I panic and return to the dress I was looking at. The salesperson jumps in and begins cooing about the dress, it’s so nice, it’s so comfy, it’s so pretty, it’s so cool. Ugh. Fuck off.

But it works I get all flummoxed and stressed and feel like it’s all because of the pushy saleswoman so that’s hardly my fault.

I buy the dress for myself and the one for Andrea, because at least she can return it if it’s not her cup of tea. I will insist on this, I hope she doesn’t feel forced to like it. It’s her favorite shop though and I think it’s a cool dress, so… well anyway, I feel pretty ok about it. I hope it’s not too much… no. It’s ok. Man I am going to obsess about this now, I can feel it. I feel awful buying gifts for people, I hate it.

So I took the dress for Andrea in a gift bag and jammed the one for myself deep into my handbag.

I stopped at hot barman’s bar before going back to work.

Hot barman was working the till so I knocked back my coffee and then like the pathetic sap I am, I wavered by the checkout pretending to think about the sandwiches. I realised I hadn’t actually eaten anything so I pick up a sandwich and go to pay. Hot barman smiled that “oh great now I have to spend the rest of the day in this underwear” smile.

Ohhhh the face… he’s so cute. I usually don’t simultaneously think CUTE and SEXY but with hot barman I don’t know if I want to put my hand out and tousle the curls on his head or drag him out the back of the bar and have loud dirty clothes-on sex in an alley.

Or both.

He made some joke about me having both a coffee and a sandwich today. I didn’t get it but I was like “oh hee hee yeah,” and he goes, “have you still not had lunch yet?” because it was pretty late. I’m like, no, and I put on a really insipid facial expression and say “I had to get a present for my friend’s birthday so I am just grabbing a sandwich, I’ll eat it in work.”

He’s probably really impressed with how selfless I am, buying presents for everyone else while I starve.

He asks me about whether I can eat sandwiches at work, and is it pretty chilled out? I’m like, yeah, totally, tee hee hee…

Oh this smiling, dude… I am probably going to get a wrinkle later in life which can be clearly identified as the hot barman wrinkle. He makes me turn to chirpy mush. If only all men were this hot… I would be a really nice friendly person. Unfortunately if you smile at less attractive men they are inclined to talk to you and ask for your number and then get angry if you don’t want to dance. That’s Italy, anyway. I forget what it’s like outside Italy.

I chatter with hot barman. I stand there for like… five minutes.. exchanging pleasantries.

Then I’m getting into the guts of our nice conversation… have no idea what we talked about but like… it was a great conversation.

And then the other guy interrupts, the older barman who isn’t hot at all. He starts saying he saw me on the bus the other day, and was it me? And I’m like yeah, the 68, that would be me. And he started talking about how much traffic there is there now down by that street with the roadworks and the snow. Urgh.

Hot barman dwindles into the background.

But I talked to him loads today. And he was totally happy talking, he kept the conversation going when I was letting it die… and then, stupid other barman interrupts. Wanker. Foiled again!

Ah well, I get annoyed but really, what is going to happen in the time we are chatting? Absolutely nothing.

Step 1: Talk to hot barman while he serves me coffee.

Step 2: ? ? ? ?

Step 3: Ride him silly on the top of the bar.


Seriously, need some help figuring out step two. I don’t even know if it is possible.


One response to “Shoppin’, stalkin’, drinkin’ alone, and talkin’ ’bout religion. I’m an incorrigible woman

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