I sometimes wish I lived in that town, Pleasantville, you know like in the movie?
Obviously I would not do well in a traditional, closed minded town with twin beds, and I’d turn the bathroom technicolour in about five minutes…amiright? so it’s not like it’s a good solid plan or anything.
I just fucking wish the world was in black and white. I look soooo goooood in black and white.
My problem (one of my many problems) is that whenever I don’t put on makeup or brush my hair, people take photos. Yay! We’re all students! Look at us here eating this food with these people! With this fucking instagram filter and a tactful blurring of the background!
Embarassing. I dodge and hide but then I want to be in the pictures too, I want people to see how well I mesh in this multicultural crew and how awesome I look while meshing, so next time I do the prep work and make up and present my better, less natural face to the world.
And then they’re all like, oooh Abby hates photos, don’t worry we won’t bother you.
So no nice photos.
And I want a hot new profile photo… not entirely to jog Antoine’s memory and make him all damn girl, now I remember how awesome the sex was, let’s do that again, but yah, mostly because of him, yes, because of course I’m still hung up on his scrub- ass.
But I don’t want it to be an obvious self portrait. I’m not one of THOSE girls.
But then aren’t we all those girls?
Whatever. there are greater problems in life of course, but I just really look awesome in black and white and when I have a mirror to coax me into the flattering smile, which of course is not my real smile.
Anyway. I have my period now which is annoying, because club toilets here are unisex and squalid and rarely fitted with toilet paper. And mostly the toilet and sink are in different rooms, which is just retarded.
OH and did I mention my shit teacher?
The first two weeks I had a lovely teacher. Really warm, patient, really good at making us talk and slipping the grammar bits in gently, so gently we barely noticed, like the worst kind of sex but the best kind of teaching.
Grammar lessons should be like a tiny tiny penis going into your well lubricated knowledge- hole.
But the last two weeks we have had this other guy. This guy who oh god when he says my name, in his French accent… ummm do you mind if I mention lubrication again?
But he’s such a bad teacher. And not attractive. He just says my name like a French man and that’s so fucking hot. But no.
He’s awful. He just TALKS AND TALKS. And he starts the class by saying “today we are going to do the subjunctive.” And that’s not what you want to hear. Fuck the subjunctive. If you must assault me with the grammar I so badly need, do it with some foreplay. You don’t start a date with “we’re going to eat some motherfucking dinner and flirt now, and then later I’m going to put my penis near your face until you take the hint”
Sorry, I’ll ditch the metaphor now. Unless you liked it. I can’t tell if you liked it or not. Do you like that? Huh? Do you?
Anyway I have lots more to say about how shit a teacher he is, I could rant about that but frankly I would rather impart my hangover to you.
Because I started writing this then I went out, got extremely drunk. EXTREMELY.
Woke up so dehydrated and pale and covered in bits of mascara, which means I was pulling off my mascara and then rubbing my hung over body with my mascara-covered hands.
Tried to think of an attractive situation with me in it but was just too hung over.
Ran over last night’s antics in my head.
Didn’t do anything too bad I don’t think. Was kind of rubbing up against one guy but maybe he doesn’t realise that was on purpose. I think he didn’t realise cause then I got bored and didn’t follow it up…
Other than that, I just told my flatmate some embarassing stories but only cause she asked. It’s a walking home at the end of the night tradition we have now. She waits til I’m drunk and then asks me to tell her an embarassing story. Last night I told her the bus story. I have probably told YOU the bus story, anyway it involves me and my husband ex when we first met, having period sex on a bus several times in our seats.
So that’s bad but not so bad because really I don’t keep my secrets very well.
Then I have flashes of memories of the bar, the same bar we went to on Thursday. On Thursday the barman gave me the older man’s steady gaze of recognition of a good fuck. He’s older, he’s not bad looking though but I go to that bar so often… no.
Also he has kind of long hair. And he’s a bit old maybe. But that look he gave me… it’s solid, it’s clear, it’s like he came up to me and said “hey, i see you and I see your kind of over the top dress for this kind of bar. I can tell by looking at you, you’re a sex person. I am also a sex person. I’m older than you, maybe too old for you to be interested, but then if I see you going home with one of these Justin Bieber motherfuckers I’ll laugh to myself and lose respect for you because honestly, I could fuck you so much better.”
I may just be getting so horny at this point that I am imagining a rich layer of subtext in mens eyes and it’s not there at all, but also maybe I am so horny I am in tune with the world’s sexuality.
Anyway. Probably not a great idea to go fucking barmen in my local… oh my god. I just realised I’m focusing on a barman already. He’s not hot exactly but he has such an air of being good in bed. Except it’s like my local.
I went in last night and barman saw me, put a wine glass on the counter and looked at me. I nodded. He poured wine. I laughed and said so I guess I’m a regular already? He nodded. I guess I’m a regular somewhere. I’ve always wanted to be a regular and go into a bar and have them just pour my drink for me without me having to pronounce “un verre du vin rouge” which is hard for me because I have difficulty with vowel sounds in French and keep pronouncing vin like “vent” which means wind. I don’t pronounce the t obviously because in French, you just pronouncle like 3/4 of the letters for some reason, but not always, and sometimes you don’t pronounce the end but depending on what word is next then sometimes you do. It’s is HARD.
God I look so fucking hung over.
I took black and white pictures of myself before going out last night.
Today I look like that person except after being in a concentration camp for a few months.
My beautiful silky hair is now a hot, slightly itchy nest.
My careful, careful, carefully applied eye makeup which had three different colours of eye shadow is now just black crap smudged all over my face and due to my horny hung overness, parts of my body too.
I look so unattractive I must vow never, ever, ever to let a man see me like this. NEVER. I must always leave during the night. No more sleepovers ever every every again, that is if I get laid ever again.
Talking to one of the girls in my school, who for some reason looks really hardcore and badass… maybe cause she dyes her hair black and wears dark eye makeup? Hmm… she lures me into this sense of false dirty-bitch camaraderie, but actually she’s not like that at all. She’s just nice. But I was telling her something…
“oh god yeah, you know like those fucking posters everywhere… oh they really freak me out. ”
“You know the ones… how sure are you that you don’t have aids? Man, no one needs to see that on their way to work.”
What do you mean?
“I mean they freak me out, am i right?”
What, you.. you’re not sure if you have aids or not?
“Ha! I mean how sure CAN you be, am i right? Haha. How sure is anyone. What a question.”
“I don’t understand, you don’t KNOW?”
“well.. I mean not for sure like. I mean who does know?”
I’m pretty sure I don’t have aids.
“Oh. Yeah.. I should really get tested.”
The conversation paused there for a while before she told me helpfully,
“you know, you can’t just get aids from having sex. You can only get aids from having sex with someone who HAS aids.”
Actually, that cheered me up significantly. I haven’t heard about any of my exes dying of flu so I’m probably fine, and anyway I nearly always use condoms. But I really should get tested.
And I was quite happy, the hot humiliation of the nigth before and having been for the first time, really really really fucking drunk, and not being THAT bad and not fucking anyone with or without condoms and not telling the WRONG people the bus sex story… well, I felt like I did ok.
I do remember in the latino club, being really really angry about going there… on the way it was pissing rain and I was so upset about walking to the fucking latino club, and I started screeching about hating the fucking latino club. One of the girls who I don’t like much I THINK said to the guy who she was walking with… under an umbrella… “Get her to shut up”
But maybe I was just being paranoid and focusing my paranoia on people who were dry under umbrellas. But also I was screeching pretty aggressively so it’s entirely plausible that someone woulld have said that.
And then in the latino club I decided to get romantically, emotionally affected by the music. I stood with a wistful look on my face and my friends were like “abby what’s up” and I was like… “no, I’m fine… it’s just the music. It reminds me… it reminds me… nothing, nothing, you just dance and have fun”
The music they played in the club was like “te gusta la gasolina”
A black guy with massive whiteheads on his face that at once grossed me out and made me wish I could just pop them in front of a mirror, came up to me and told me he loved me. I tried to explain to him about extremity of compliments and how that’s a bit too much. He laughed and said ok. Then he tried to dance beside me for the rest of the night and then I had my wistful music moment so I pushed him away and said “I’m sorry, it’s not a good time! I’m remembering a better time.”
It didn’t get rid of him but then I was durnk so I didn’t care, I grabbed my flatmate’s arm and pulled her to me and spun her around and yelled “ayyy yayy yaaaaayyy!” and we danced like this for a while, guffawing and whacking the pretty skinny girls who went there to show off their ridiculous dancing skills.
We ploughed through that dance floor.
I lay in my bed this morning for a while too thirsty to get water and I remembered moments of idiocy and bad behaviour and fun and I was overall pretty happy with myself considering how fucking drunk I was.
At one point I went to the bar (the one I am now a regular at, woo woo!) and the barwoman just GAVE me a glass of wine. FOR FREE. It only costs 2.20 for a glass of wine anyway but still, that’s so fucking awesome. FREE WINE. And when the longhaired barman who I think wants to do dirty things with me but I should have an aids test first, he gives me really full glasses of wine too. Oh but then what if HE has aids? oh god. It’s a minfield. Fucking aids, I wish they would just cure it already. Imagine having to call all the people you’ve fucked and tell them you have aids. I wouldn’t even care so much about the dying younger or the sickness, just imagine not being able to have a sex life any more because you have aids and having to tell all the people you’ve screwed… oh god. Who even REMEMBERS?
But I am being ridiculous because I ALWAYS use condoms except for a few times that they broke and with my husband ex… who for some reason I just trusted. I don’t think he has aids though.
Oh god I am so afraid of aids.
Going to get off this topic now I’m too hung over to handle this train of thought.
Oh yeah and then I looked at my phone and I had this message on my french mobile from a random number. It said in french
all the good, relaxed, i behaved myself last night…. all those feelings were replaced by
WHAT DID I DO last night?
I replied “Who is it”
“who is who?”
“Haaahahahaha! It’s Mathilde.”
Oh god. Who the fuck? A woman…
I sat here immobilized with the fear of having seduced some woman last night and she left this morning and I must have brought her home and just not remembered.
I sent out feelers, my usual hung over witness meeeee messages, to all the online people.
WHAT HAPPENED LAST NIGHT?
WHO IS MATHILDE?
I got a few replies like, dude you didn’t bring any woman home, it’s fine.
One guy told me I was trying to kick him, big high kicks for no reason, after we left the club. Oh.
I don’t remember that but my legs really hurt.
But no sign of Mathilde.
I wrote back to her and she wrote back, she gave me her full name and she called me a name that is very close to my name, and French people have trouble with my name, so I thought that just confirmed we did in fact meet last night.
I looked her up on facebook after my less hung over flatmate got up and helped me piece together the night. She told me that I definitely didn’t bring home any women. We came home with the Italian guy, remember?
WHAT? We… did I?
Hahahah NO you idiot.
Did you talk to any women last night?
Of course I talked to women.
I made toilet queue friends, as always. I am so nice and witty in toilet queues. I like to conspire with the other queuers, perhaps the person just ahead of me… I bitch about the girl taking ages in the toilet. I tell my fellow queuer… if she comes out looking really nice we’ll know what she was doing. I tell people behind me that I pee like so fucking fast… they should time me. I encourage anyone in front of me to knock on the door.
When I pee, I do an express pee. I emerge in like 10 seconds and raise my hands and depending on how drunk I am, high five the stunned queuers and yell “and THAT’s how it’s fucking done!”
I always make toilet queue friends.
Last night I made toilet queue friends and I was telling the girl in front to bang on the door and shout “police” because that gives it more weight, and then she did, and the woman came out and was like “WHAT THE FUCK guys I’m wearing a full body suit under my clothes, it took a while to get it off” and I was like, yeah whatever say it to my fucking bladder. And then I peed so quickly in there, and came out and yes I was drunk enough to yell “and that’s how it’s fucking done bitches!”
So I might have exchanged phone numbers with one of these women? It’s possible.
I didn’t know.
I looked the girl’s name up on facebook and the horror deepened. She was like 15 or something.
I told her I thought it was a wrong number. That happens, right?
She asked me what class I was in.
I didn’t understand so I asked my French flatmate. My french flatmate doesn’t drink, doesn’t go out, doesn’t have friends come over and doesn’t wash the fucking dishes. She thinks I am insane and an alcoholic. I knocked on her door today with black crust all over my face wearing my hangover outfit of hot pants, a massive cardigan and a red bra and croaked PLease help what this mean in french?
She told me “what class are you in, like in school?” and then she told me if I don’t remember the person then of course it’s a wrong number, but I was like, yeah a wrong number on a Saturday morning? Coincidence?
Anyway. It was eventually settled that yeah that was just a wrong number, an unhappy accident when I was most vulnerable and least sure of my sexuality/ behaviour.
So today I have mostly been worrying about having seduced a teenage girl, oh and aids.
Anyway. That seems to be the last bit of uncertainty sorted out. Now my french flatmate is hoovering the living room which is INSANE because she never does any cleaning, her dishes just fester, literally, they fester in the sink for over a week obstructing my and my other flatmate’s access to the sink for our own cleaning and general use, and then she washes half of them and then the other half just stay there for another week. I think there is a stalemate going on at the moment in the kitchen, like she hasn’t washed the dishes in so long, she has forgotten that those are her dishes, and maybe she thinks they are mine or the other girl’s. But they are not. So I don’t know why she has chosen today to hoover, it’s probably some sort of attack aimed towards me because for some reason her hideous lack of hygiene is paired with a real neurosis about the toilet door being open. She yells intermittently “TOILET DOOR! KEEP IT CLLOOOOOOSED!”
But I don’t know why, because there’s no window in the toilet so I think it’s better to keep the door open so like, the air can circulate. Anyway I left it open today,
Oh I’m actually really hungry but I have no hangover food in the house. DAMN you self restraint in the supermarket. I have NOTHING in the freezer, just spinach and peas. I can’t eat that shit on a hangover. I need pizza with four cheeses and fruit juice and chips and garlic sauce but they don’t do garlic sauce here or proper chips.
Gaaahhh… and I have to go to the post office to pick up my parcel from amazon, it’s a laptop cooler with three moveable fans. I reckon this Christmas I will be really bored and then I will return to Fallout 3 for a bit. Maybe Skyrim but probably not because Skyrim just got so boring after a bit. It’s a really beautiful game but just… boring.
People have started to resurface on Facebook and they are actually asking me to DRINK today.
Hot wine. Mulled wine. Oh god no
But actually, that might be really nice.
I need pizza anyway, so I guess my first plan of action is go to the supermarket.
NO! Here I am going to do a plan of all the things I must do and then I will leave this internet and GO DO IT.
SEIZE LE DAY
1. Get dressed.
2.Wipe crust and grime from face.
3. Put on makeup.
4. Do something about hair. Actually, fuck it, just going to the supermarket. Put on hat.
5. Find wallet and keys and everything I didn’t give a shit about ever finding again when I came home last night.
6. Put on more makeup.
7. Pick up shoes and tiptoe out of apartment and put shoes on outside so I don’t alert my flatmates to the fact I am going to the supermarket because then they will want me to pick up stuff and I just can’t do it today.
8. Go to supermarket
9. Wander aisles feeling like throwing up and gathering far too much fatty shitty food, more than I could ever eat, and fruit juice oh god so much fruit juice.
10. Have nervous breakdown when the checkout lady asks me something in French.
11. Go home and put pizza in cold oven. Drink some juice. Watch pizza with a feeling approaching euphoria. Soon the pizza will be cooked. This pizza will complete me. It’s all I need, I shall never want again. Fantasize about having pizza on a plate on my lap and a big carton of juice beside me and watching something insanely funny on my laptop.
12. Eat entire pizza which is still cold in the middle and look at belly and tell self I am fat and ugly and look at my face, look at it, I should stop trying to find a nice photo for my profile because I am just horrible looking and people only sleep with me because they are MEN they will sleep with anyone, oh man I’m so ugly and fat no one will ever love me.
13. Throw up from the bitter mixture of improperly heated four cheese pizza, juice, alcohol and self loathing.
Or I could just skip the hassle, save money and just throw up now.
I ditched my list because it was making me depressed, barged in on my non-French flatmate (she’s Swedish and awesome) and told her she needed to come with me to get pizza. She had an omelette so she didn’t want to go anywhere but then I talked about pizza and how jealous she would be when I had pizza, and eventually she came with me. We bought pizza and I got juice and clementines and so much fucking chocolate and those little tubes of fruit puree that they sell here for kids lunchboxes and oh man so fucking happy. The supermarket was way intense. Elin Nordegren (that’s what I’m gonna call my flatmate) and I were like two severely autistic kids in there, startled by everything, terrified by the other shoppers and overwhelmed by the simplest decisions.
Along the way she told me that actually I did black out some memories last night, one was when we were in the club, the weird whitehead guy was hitting on me and trying to dance with us and I got rid of him or tried to anyway by saying “me and Elin we are BIG lesbians. MASSIVE ONES!” and then I started ballroom dancing with her to make it believable.
Also when we were leaving the club and walking home we danced around this light up christmas tree shrieking with joy and then I saw two half naked men wrestling (yes) on top of some big platform or something, I can’t remember, but they were wearing just boxers and I got really excited and stood staring at them cheering and probably trying to hit on them for a while, until they asked me to take a picture of them, but I used their camera so I don’t have a picture. Eventually I had to be dragged away from the naked guys. I can’t remember anything more than just having seen naked guys.
So I didn’t do anything bad but it’s weird being told about stuff you did when you feel like you remember everything but then there’s other stuff.
I forgot NAKED men.
Anyway. My pizza should be done now, and then I will know true joy.