I’ve been feeling guilty about not writing my blog.
I did write something the other day but I was just selfishly writing myself out of a hangover. I wasn’t feeling like I had to get something out, and nothing pretty read back after.
I feel guilty not because anyone really wants a blow by blow account of my every waking minute, but because I DO overshare, when I’m down, when I’m sad, when I’m blue and when I’m afraid if I stop typing the crazy scared thoughts will start again and I will have a brain aneurism or something. That’s what happens when I am very hung over or on a comedown, by the way. Panic attacks or whatever.
I write when I have nothing better to do or when I feel unable to go out and share face to face. So I’m sorry for that, you don’t get a lot of joy here. I did write happy things when I had my lover… trying to think of other happy times I’ve had and they’re all flashes of blurry inebrieation with good friends I could easily enjoy sober.
I drink too much, to the point that I don’t even find it funny most of the time any more. Most of the time. Sometimes it’s wickedly funny and. I have bruises all over, bruises to ruin my first ever victorious not fat moment in a bikini.
In FOUR motherfucking days. FOUR. I will be in a bikini in four days.
I will be pasty and bear purple-yellow signs of drunken fallings, and the only bikini I could find that kept my tits from going all triangular and squishy is black so I will look like a masochistic goth type amongst the permatanned glossy Italians. But at least I’m not fat.
And 10 days with my family in the sun, bored off my pyramid shaped tits but with sun on my skin and salty water sterilising my toxic body. 10 days of holidays I deserve and need more than I ever have, maybe. And then to him, to his house, to meet his family and I’m the FIRST girl he’s bringing home…
But I’m not a girl really. I’m a divorcee… well, in the words of George Costanza, no, a separetee… I’m a woman. I’m afraid of meeting maman and papa and his freres and his soeurs… I’m afraid they won’t think I’m worth all his moping around, I’m afraid they’ll think I’m something bad that happened to him to mess with his head in Ireland. Not that afraid, really… I’m honoured too. Maybe they’ll like me. I’m not good at parents. I don’t have a great filter. Although their not understanding me might help. I can just blush and say je ne comprend pas…. Oui, j’aime le fromage!
Thank you for noticing, I HAVE been practicing my French.
And I can’t wait to see him. It’s my driving force, my mantra, my… sorry I’m just showing off now… raison d’etre.
NO I will not become one of those pretentious fucks I hate who drop random foreign words into their sentences. I’m just doing it now because I’m talking about French people and also… it’s cool when I do it.
I’m gonna spend three.. oh god why only three? Why didn’t I just tell my family I had to get an appendectomy and couldn’t make the holiday, and then I could spent 13 days testing maman’s patience and culinary skills.
Mmm I bet they make me really tasty food. And I don’t need to worry about the calories because my lover will be fucking them all out of me afterwards. Well not out of me, that sounds gross. I’m being coarse, it’s because I’m excited. I think I get all romantic when I’m depressed and then when I am happy or excited I lapse into vulgarity. Maybe, maybe that’s bullshit.
FOUR DAYS and I haven’t even photographed every item of clothing I’m considering and done an excel spreadsheet to work out the potential outfits. JESUS FUCKBALLS this is last minute…
Yeah I usually do that. It’s actually totally pointless and time consuming and even with my excell spreadsheet and photos in my virtual wardrobe… ahem… I know it’s sad, yes I know how sad… but even still, I always wind up on holiday somewhere with only one thing I actually want to wear and nothing that’s any good for the weather.
I’ve done a preliminary pack, but lost enthusiasm halway through, when I realised I would have to leave stuff behind. I can’t choose between my babies. And I’m only allowed one little carry on suitcase. FOR TWO WEEKS.
Four days left.
In this time I am working three days of work, making sushi and having people over to say goodbye to my friend Franco who is moving back to Italy, getting my unmentionables (VAGINA. there. I said it.) waxed and buying a present for my mum’s birthday and paying my rent and ahhh shit my phone bill and having dinner with my mum for her birthday and packing my suitcase.
So I should go do some packing now.
Damn I feel bad, I went bikini and flipflop and bracelet shopping today and totally forgot about my mum’s birthday present. And then I remembered and continued trying on clothes for myself.
Ok, I’m going. I’m going. I had the intention of writing a lot of thoughts and stuff but I think there has been too much feeling and thinking here lately and it’s probably ok to just rant for a little bit about nothing in particular.