Today is my last day of gainful employment for oh, however long I can swing it…
On this spitefully cold, Narnian winter’s day, I leave the ranks of the downtrodden… the servile… the fake smilers.
I will work again, sure… I know it’s not the last time I endure THE PUBLIC or do something monotonous that makes my sense of self want to curl up with a heated body pillow. I will work again, I will sell out, I will sigh and watch the clock and wish it was Friday.
I would so like to never work again. Isn’t that the dream, everyone’s dream? But I feel like it is something particularly suitable for me. I imagine other people have less difficulty just getting on with it. I just feel like I’m being cheated out of some better, beautiful, serene existence. Maybe everyone feels this way, but it’s probably just me, alone, who sees exactly how unfair it is that I have to do stuff i don’t want to so as to be able to afford things.
I wish there was a better way than yucky unemployment… some nicer way than work. A generous stipend of some sort, filling the lazy days with painting on a sunny terrace, eating things Gwyneth Paltrow would approve of, and spending the seasons like a Jane Austen novel, filling wings of houses with friends for months on end. But with more promiscuity. I would like to be a lady of leisure. I would get very good at cooking, or maybe I would never cook again…
In reality I wouldn’t paint anything, that’s just someone else’s crappy dream I copied from a low fat yoghurt ad. I don’t want to paint. I really don’t. I might paint a nude male model if he was very good looking, but I would probably get distracted then and pretend to need to feel his junk to get an idea of the 3 dimensionality of his form… I am quite good at bullshitting so I would make a great artist, unfortunately they didn’t accept me into art school so now I just mock art students. Although they totally are a bunch of saps and I am not even bitter about it any more. (my portfolio was 50% collages I made when stoned, 50% naked drawings in charcoal. Some of those naked pictures was good, but when it was a male model I tended to focus on the genitals.) Art is not for me though. I’m more about applied creativity, like fixing things with sellotape or using origami to solve the problem of messy water fountain drinkage. I don’t have an artistic vision, no way man…
I’d like to write a book, a really good book. It wouldn’t have to be about anything. It would just need to be enough about nothing that people would read it and think it must be about something really but I was just not spelling it out for them and they would think it was really a very subtle and clever work of literature. It wouldn’t be a very long book so I wouldn’t have room to bore anyone. And I guess some people would think “this is stupid” but it wouldn’t matter i wouldn’t have to hang out with those people and I could just act like they were too closed minded to appreciate the genius of my writing but in reality those people would be the only ones I could respect, because they saw right through my crappy novel. But they would think I was a hack… I would get very drunk and disrespect my fans and they wouldn’t mind because they would think I was awesome, but then that would make me feel even more contempt for them. I would eventually just become a hermit.
I always wonder about J D Salinger, what his story was.
Anyway it would still be cool, and it’s about as far into greatness as my imagination will stretch.
Some day, ah some day. Maybe. But of course I would need to sit down and come up with something. I have no problem with the sitting down, or the writing… I could write for hours without running out of things I feel like talking about, the only thing that stops me is the annoying suspicion that a lot of what I write about is extremely boring and the more of my daily life you read about, the more it will start to dawn on you until eventually you just won’t bother any more. But a book, man… it’s not the same as my ramblings about who I am attracted to and how insecure I feel with regards to Nordic women. I have immense respect for the novel, too much to attempt it now when I’m just faffing about. It’s not for me, not yet. I am already pretty spectacular now and I’m only 24, but I will definitely be really super awesome when I am older, and that is when I will write a book if I don’t get hit by a car or something. I like to think when I am 40 I will have a good book in me, and some day I will just sit down and tip it out, and it will pour out of me like a carton of chocolate dessert, and land plop on my keyboard, and it will be a masterpiece of bullshit and meaningful emptyheadedness and I won’t have to do anything else, again, ever, and I can just spend my autumn years resting up and congratulating myself on being so wonderful.
I just have to keep making poor decisions and doing things that make me unhappy and lonely, so I have something to write about. I think becoming unemployed as I am doing now,is a good first step. Being poor is supposed to be good for your writing. I know if I had more money I wouldn’t be writing at all, i would be out buying fancy things and drinking non-fattening alcoholic beverages which I am sure exist if you have enough money. I would also like a panic room in my house. Or to live in a hotel, with my own floor. And I want a pool… And a lot of Chanel.
I wouldn’t get surgery though. Apart from the fact that I disagree with surgery on principle, ie, it’s genetic false advertising… I reckon that if you are rich enough to afford a good surgeon, you are rich enough that it doesn’t matter what you look like anyway. Like the way it works with men, I’m sure the same is true for women… I think the reason we don’t see ugly successful women with hot young men more often is that women probably have more sense than to choose a partner based on looks. So they end up getting with their own peers, successful but maybe not very hot men.
I mean it will probably happen to me too, at some point. I hope I lose my shallow and cop on a bit….
With any luck, I’ll meet someone who could never make me swoon like a hot barman, and he’ll make me laugh or something. Then I’ll be lost once again in the lunacy of these damned human emotions, seduced by the shimmering illusion of a person to fill my lonely. I always believe it, that some other person can fill the void, but it always winds up, I’m lonelier than ever, because at least when I’m single and lonely, I have the hope to comfort me, the hope that some day that feeling will be smothered in me and all I’ll have is happiness. But when I’m lying in a man’s arms, I man I swear I love with every molecule in my body that could potentially be involved in the process of loving, and deep down I still feel the same gnawing… Well that’s just the worst feeling in the world. It’s hopeless. It wasn’t horniness, it wasn’t hunger, it wasn’t a lack of love. It’s Goldilocks, but the baby bear’s bed still just isn’t right. It’s intangible and it’s melancholy, and it’s why people do drugs. The people who have everything they want, I mean. Poor people and people who have shitty lives probably do drugs for other reasons.
Incidentally, hot barman wasn’t working today so I couldn’t even say goodbye in my head while gazing upon his beautiful face one last time. Ohhhh. That was a massive blow. Feels so anticlimactic, like if this was fiction it would never have been allowed fizzle out like this and die without anyone doing anything.
But I’m not sentimental by nature. I really hate to add the burden of emotions on top of real problems. Now I’m going away, a year’s restlessness comes to a head… I’m going, I’m really going. It’s what I want. I’m miserable here. I’m a shadow of myself, I fit in the cracks between Italians, gave up jostling for my own space long ago. I trudge in and out of work, I disappear back into my nest and sometimes I fly away somewhere happier for me. What I have done here has not been good. I’ve been stagnating, barely showing up for work and harvesting money from that miserable endeavour only to spray it back out into the world like champagne with nothing to celebrate. Money, I know you’re good for some happyness… make it so!
I’m leaving loneliness and wasted energy, shame and pain and anger and so, so much loneliness and yet here I am welling up inside about all I leave behind.
My family, I’m not even going to start on how much I am going to miss them. It breaks my heart to tear myself away from my sisters. I am not even going to talk about that, because there’s no point in beating myself up about it, I am no use as a big sister when I am this unhappy… but I will miss them and I am going to miss being a central part of their life. I will go back to the outskirts, only visiting sometimes… I always have to miss someone. I don’t mind goodbyes, it’s not the goodbye that hurts. It’s the slow disintegration of closeness. It’s not painful to me to say goodbye to my sisters, although there will be a yanking of the heart when it comes down to that moment… it’s the being gone from the family nucleus… that hurts.
It’s probably not helping that my current youtube playlist, which is kind of a messed up slightly nonsensical journey from the 40s to the 90s, mostly in chronological order… has hit a choke point in the 80s, with Everything but the girl- missing.
Always stirs up nostalgic things inside me…
It snowed again the other day, I had to go out for Andrea’s birthday and we had synchronised our high heel wearing for the evening, so I refused to pass up the opportunity to look awesome and I wound up running for a bus, 6 blocks in the snow in 6 inch heels and tights. Brrr.
It was a fairly uneventful night really. We drank a lot, everyone kept asking me about my move and my travelling and I kept looking around thinking “no more of these people, no more of these places, no more of these nights and Italians who think I am SO mad and interesting and out of control.”
The most fun I had was when we tipped out of a bar and I ran down the deserted street drawing shapes in the snow on car windows. Guess what I drew? Yep, penises. With some cars, I would be about to draw a dick on the window and suddenly I would feel like oh no, what if it’s an old woman’s car or a family’s car? And then I would draw a smiley face. But mostly I thought fuck it and drew dicks. Several windows received a big fat cock but with a smiley face on the head. I was wearing high heels but I didn’t fall in the snow.
The rest of the night was spent fending off the forgettable guy who… yeah I went and forgot his name again. I remember him feeling my ass in the taxi the other night but decided I had been drunk enough that he would probably believe I didn’t remember or was too out of it. But he kept cornering me and forceing conversation, and offering me a taste of his drink and stuff. I responded to the attention in my usual retarded fashion, by being caustic and cutting him to the bone, which had the usual undesired effect of making him think I am a cool cat and wanting more, more of my rude aloofness.
He pissed me off because he kept saying “oh we will have to come visit you in Ireland!” as if we are some happy gang of buddies and I would ever hang out with his boring Italian face in a country where I have cool people to socialise with, people who are the same height as me or taller and who have a sense of humour. He was insanely short this time, because of my heels. It felt good, but he seemed to not appreciate the absurdity in attempting anything from knee height. Ugh, you get fall-down drunk one time and let some guy grope the top of your buttocks and he like, thinks you’re fair game. Ridiculous.
I wonder, though, maybe we have hung out on several occasions and I just keep forgetting him? I only remember him at all because of the backseat gropefest, it tends to push someone to the forefront of my drunken recollections. If I dig around in the recesses of my mind, there is a vague shadowy figure there talking to me, or rather listening as I flail my arms around and throw out incendiary opinions to see how they sound, and make up news items. Maybe that was him… and maybe he has taken our frequent late night conversation to mean we are buddies and he might get to hook up with me in Ireland? Ugh gross no.I will just tell Andrea, if she is coming to visit me, there is no room for more than her and her boyfriend. I’ll say there is a big potato fair on in Dublin that week and the hotels are all booked up. People are largely ignorant about Ireland so I am sure I can get away with a little white lie.
So that was that, we hopped from bar to bar and then hit a late night restaurant. I never realised such a place existed, but there it was. I had gnocchi alla bava, bava literally means drool but it is actually cheese and cream. It was amazing but the waiter, an old Jeeves type, serving us long past reasonable working years and hours, clearly despised our drunken lairy asses. It was expensive, and the short Italian guy copied me and ordered the same thing but with ham and then insisted on us trying each other’s food. I didn’t want him taking any of mine because it is my favorite dish of all time (I used to be lots fatter) but politeness told me not to yell MINE and cradle the plate under my arm, exposing my incisors and emitting a warning growl like my dog when she is guarding a piece of mouldy bread.
I very begrudgingly let him try mine and then took one from his plate in return. Oh GREAT. His was nicer than mine. Ballsack, this is why I never try other people’s food. Either you don’t like it, in which case… waste of time… or you do like it, and you regret your choice for the rest of the meal and your own dish no matter how much you originally like it, now tastes like failure.
Anyway, it was an uneventful night. The rest of the people we were with, were nice I guess, except for this one very cutting Italian who kept asking me questions and frowning. I was thinking, dude, we clearly don’t like each other, stop fucking drawing me out. He kept pestering me with pointed questions, lifting the rocks in front of my personality and then recoiling from the creepy crawlies underneath. It was annoying. He complained about his girlfriend in a very mean and cutting manner. I didn’t like that one bit. She was nice, but had very low self esteem. You could tell because she was wearing more makeup than me, which is quite something, and she was going out with that scumbag.
I was bored for most of the night, and I felt tired, I was only really there because it was Andrea’s birthday and I wanted to say goodbye to her. I gave her the dress I bought her… as far as I could tell, it was a good buy and she loved it. I said goodbye to her and her boyfriend, who is probably delighted to see the back of me as I am a terrible influence on Andrea and he always ends up giving me lifts home, drunk as a skunk and screeching about men and the cultural differences here and in Ireland.
I’m going, I’m going, goodbye crazy scene… Goodbye people I liked, goodbye mostly people I could happily never see again.
I said goodbye to my colleagues today, Gabrielle who was in a foul mood because she feels like my dad purposefully stocked her shop with all the ugly clothes, just to spite her or something. I won’t miss her paranoid conspiracies…. but we had some really fun times too, and she was so wonderful when I was hung over and destroyed on Saturdays and sat there stinking and shivering and scaring the customers. She wished me all the best…
I said goodbye to an ex-colleague, who I always liked but it just wasn’t that kind of relationship that carried over into normal friendship territory. She told me if I ever needed anything, to come to her. I thanked her and we took the bus home together, although it was a bit out of her way. We talked about what I was going to do, and where I was going to go… I talked a lot and eagerly, but when she kissed me on the cheeks and got off at her stop, I realised that nothing I had said was very sincere at all, and I had fallen into that trap of saying what you think you are supposed to say, and leaving out all the real true things you don’t think other people want to hear. I don’t like that feeling, but then, we were on the bus and I could feel people looking at me, interested in the foreigner and what possible reason she could have for leaving this fine city.
When she was gone I felt naked, because however little I touched on the reality of my leaving town, I still talked at length in front of all these people. I remember busses in Dublin, sitting for 45 minutes with a friend or two, boasting about drinking and scoring boys and skipping school and talking loud, loud, not caring what anyone else might think… DARING them to judge you, triumphantly part of the newer better rougher generation. Until your friends got off and you were left with your stories hanging in the air, shorn of the validation of your peers.
The thought of feeling judged by these mean, narrow minded bus wankers, merely because I had talked about my plans and aspirations.. nothing scandalous, nothing raunchy… just drove home exactly how wonderful a thing it is for me to move away now. I have never felt so criticized and insecure as I have in Italy. The critical eye of Italy has been good for me in ways like, I am more groomed than ever before. I have stepped away from my previous style incarnation, part 1980s, part scraggy hobo. I have started showering frequently and brushing my teeth… at all. So those are good things, but they are good side effects of bad feelings of inadecuacy. I’m glad I have reined in my tastes and my gluttony and drunkeness considerably (yes, I have, you didn’t know me before Italy… just you wait and see..) because I feel like I look better this way but it makes me sad to live in a society that does that to people, takes a happy person who loves clothes and colours and doesn’t see why they have to be locked in monogamous relationships, and bullies her towards black and brown and navy and beige BUT NOT TOGETHER OF COURSE.
I’m going, I’m going.
It was hard for me not to get carried away with the melancholy of my last day. Everything meant something, everything was a “last one”.
I sat on the tram this morning and the sun was shining like the first day of Spring. I crossed the river on the tram and the light bounced off the wavelets, dazzling and beautiful. It’s a gorgeous city, really. People who come here, love it. They find it impressive. But I just never found it… anything. I reached as deep into this city as a tourist here for a week. I paddled around, I tested corners and cliques and places and people, but I never really immersed myself. I lived here, but I never lived while I was here. I took so many holidays… I never had time off to just sit and watch and enjoy this place. It is beautiful, and I am sure there’s a warm heart underneath the concrete and the snow, but I’m just not interested and the city is hardly going to reach out and woo me.
It’s over, now. I can’t say I gave it my best shot, but I gave it the best shot I was ever going to give it. Ireland is a place so unlike this… it’s a very special place. You don’t realise that about Ireland until you leave her behind, and more than that, you don’t realise what’s special about Ireland until you leave Irish people behind too. I’m sorry, Italy, but she’s just too hard an act to follow.
I do feel under it all, some pangs of guilt about Italy. It’s not a bad place. But it takes a certain kind of person to be happy, an alien in a foreign land. I am not a reed that bends in the wind. I am what I am, I’ll break before I bow.
Tomrrow I pack my things, not everything, mind, but my most loved clothes and my most needed makeup. I leave so much behind, but I’m not moving properly yet. I need to find a place to live in Dublin, then I can come back here and box what I want to keep and send it to my new place. So the packing I have to do tomorrow is really more of a tidying up and throwing out and then (because I already packed my suitcases on Saturday) pulling things out and reassessing whether I really need this many skirts if all I ever wear is dresses.
The organisation of my two measly suitcases is, I think, half geeky, half pathetic, and half genius. That’s right, three halves, just like MANBEARPIG. I also managed to fit three halves in each of my suitcases, because for the first time in my life I rolled and folded instead of my usual scrunch ‘n turf method.
I have photographed and catalogued every item I am bringing apart from pyjamas and my various decoy pjs, which are of course cute little hotpants and string tops that I pretend to have as pjs if I have a man in my bed. UGh so not looking forward to being back in my old room, I am still not sure what kind of sound isolation there is between my room and my mum’s room. I don’t know. I’m going to miss being able to make noise when I masturbate. Not that I’m like… “oh YEAH that’s it OH MY GOD DON’T STOP” when I do the solitary bold thing, but when I’m trying to keep it on the down low, it’s like I have to stop breathing as well as keeping my legs pressed against the wall so the bed frame doesn’t accidentally bang off it… It’s very stressful and I find it very hard to smile afterwards, my mouth is just frozen in a grimace of disgust that I even bother with such limitations, and the sinking feeling that if I don’t get up and dressed soon, my mother will knock-and-come-in at the same time (what. the. fuck?) and ask me if I want tea, but really she wants to know when am I planning on getting up today because it’s a lovely day? Yeah I know, these curtains were a piece of shit when I was a teenager and they are a piece of shit now. They don’t block out any light and they don’t block out the scary shadows when the wind blows branches in front of the window.
They never got me decent curtains! Years, I complained about those curtains. Oh the bitterness. I don’t even WANT to stay in my mother’s house. You know the more I think about it, the more I realise that probably the reason I am so grumpy and testy (he he… testes) with my mother is that I can never get a decent stress relief in that bedroom, it reminds me of my shitty adolescence although I used to tackle the masturbation problem by lying on the ground and pushing my feet against the door in case my mother decided to knock-and-come-in. I used to have a joint afterwards, and lie there all happy and grinning. Ugh, must make sure I find an apartment soon.
Happy thoughts, going to have an awesome time socially… who cares if I have to lie on the scratchy carpet to get my rocks off? Priorities, baby!
Anyway. I’m sure I’ll have a rockin’ sex life anyway, it’s gonna be.. OFF THE HOOK, motherfuckers!
I just have to get STD tested when I’m in London and then get a Pap smear in Ireland because I have never had one and oh my god I could have like, vagina cancer and not know and then I could die like Jade Goody who was only 27. So, yeah. Got to get that test. It’s really bad I have never had one, but there you go. Anyway I don’t know was I just too busy thinking about wanting to have sex to pay attention in sex ed, but I don’t remember anyone telling me that it was important to do these things. I mean maybe they did, I just remember thinking “if they think I’m giving someone head with a condom on, they must have no fucking clue what is going on in the world” so I didn’t bother taking anything on board.
So. I’m sure I’m fine…. I lie, I am deathly afraid of having some horrible disease or cancer. But however, I am not going to obsess about it until I get the test. I lie, I am so going to obsess about it… argh.
Anyway. Last day of work… no more customer stories ever, ever… well, until I get another shitty customer service job. But for now… for the forseeable future… no more. No more of that.
I’m drinking beer right now as I have to clear out the fridge anyway.
If you are also drinking then let me raise a toast to ME, and my awesome future, and my not being riddled with disease, and my fabulous prospects in life.
Also, thank you, crazy pervy lamewads that you must be, thank you IMMENSELY for joining me and reading all my mind-vomit and all about my tummy vomit too. It’s been a year, oh how far we have come! Yes, we have. I was far more bitter and there were less of you then. I am going to take you all with me now to Ireland and as I am currently unemployed (I love saying that. I am now unemployed and legally separated, could I BE any more winning?) I will probably be bombarding your inboxes with very regular yearnings for Italian vegetables and olive oil and bemoaning the wind and the rain. It’s gonna be a wild ride, maybe. YAY!
Sorry I have been trying to cut this short for a while but I really just can’t do it.
Anyway, I have been calling myself Chesty LeRoux since I started, but it was just an off the cuff silly pseudonym and I got it from the Simpsons obviously, so it’s not even particularly original. ALSO I don’t have much boobage. I never really did but I was kidding myself about it for ages, I was buying C- cup bras but the elastic would dig into my back and I just refused to buy a bigger bra with a smaller cup, but really… I have to come to terms with it, I am a B.
It sucks, but at least I don’t look as slutty as I really am. That’s the cool thing about small boobs that I would of course sacrifice in a heartbeat in exchange for big boobs- I can, if I want to, look non sexual. I don’t choose to excercise this choice, but it is always there if I want it…. Yeah I know, what a stupidly optimistic way of looking at it. Why would I ever want to look non-sexual? Forget it.
Anyway, so I’m hardly Chesty LeRoux.
BUT I have racked my brain and thought of some other better and more appropriate names for myself.
I haven’t changed my email or username yet but I probably will soon, anyway I think I will be calling myself
Abigail Natalie Flicker.
Oh what? No! No, that sucks!
Ah ha, well don’t worry about that, it’s a bit of a mouthful (ooh arr!)
How about you just call me, Abby N. Flicker.
Yeah baby. That’s me…
I spent a lot of time coming up with other names too but I think that is the most suitable. Just.. if you see the name anywhere, don’t freak out it is just me. Also I reserve the right to change my name again if I think of a better one over the next few days. Let me know your thoughts anyway.
LURKING IS NOT PERMITTED.
Ok, ok, but only because it’s you.
Good night sweet dreams don’t let the genital crabs bite. (What a stupid std. Imagine getting crabs, all you would have to do is shave and they’re gone. I hope I don’t have any stds. I really hope I don’t. Or cancer. Aaaaah. Oh great, it’s gonna be one of THOSE nights…)