The Last time I saw Dick

The last time I spoke to my husband was a year ago, he contacted me- first time since the separation hearing- because he got a letter informing him that he had to pay property tax on our flat, and it wasn’t fair. As I read his name, there was a flood of emotion. Not hatred, not hatred. Just the memory of when his name went with mine, when we were tied up together. His name, his name, the name I was forced to sign after my own on the act of sale when we bought the apartment, even though I didn’t take his stupid name because I didn’t want to, and I already had my own double barrelled name anyway. But they were all men around the table.

There was the ancient white haired notary, impeccable, ivory hands like a pope’s, latest in a long line of king’s lackeys, Oh the money that man skims off the top. The cream of my life’s earnings. Then my father, shaking hands and knocking his fist on the table, asking if it’s mahogany, one piece? What a table. One solid piece of wood. One of these for the office, eh? Waggling his eyebrows at me. So alien to us, the legal, the formal world. He’s a businessman, there’s a certain amount of respect for him even though he’s scruffy and unconventional with bitten cuticles and a battered leather briefcase. Me, dressed up nice, makeup, well groomed for an Irish woman but not quite up to Italian standards. I was just a little girl to them, playing house, peering over the shoulders of the men. And there we were, my dad, my Papi, who was getting more estranged from me every day, and my husband, and then the owner, a weasly man waving his hand sickly to indicate all the properties he owned, who regarded our odd little family with some disgust. Foreigners, and an Italian who didn’t drive or dress in the style he could clearly afford to. Those men, they just looked at me blankly as I said I didn’t want to sign his name after mine on all the documents.

Why should I?  I elected not to take his name when we married. Isn’t a signature something important, something expressive? How could I SIGN a name that isn’t mine? They just looked at me and said “that’s how we do things in Italy.” I said no, it’s not my name. There were so many pages in that document, each to be signed. Each page. And it wasn’t my name. But my dad said this isn’t Ireland, this is how it goes here. I bristled. The little notary added, trying to help, trying to move it all along, because his time was more money than I could imagine, he said “it’s so we know who you are, who the document is talking about.” Without my husband’s name at the end, presumably, I could have been anyone, anyone. I wonder if an unmarried couple buys a house, how the hell anyone knows whose name that is, with the female name, the name unattached to any man mentioned. Who is she, if not someone’s wife?

But this feminist blather, I couldn’t even begin to verbalise. I was outnumbered, and making too much of it, so I swallowed the bile and gracelessly signed around 80 times, 80 times, like I’d been a bad girl, 80 times to drill it into me, Abby Natascha Di Gianni Flicker in Garcia Ramirez, over and over as the men watched until I had hot tears stinging my eyes, and I fell into a place where the words had a beat, and it drummed through my fingers, Abby Natascha Di Gianni Flicker in Garcia Ramirez, again and again and again and my fingers cramped and seized up, it wasn’t fair, nothing was fair, I was buying a lousy little apartment that needed work, and I was the only one of us with any money at all, and I was putting my every penny into the notary fees, to pay the little man, and the estate agent fees, so Graziella could have her Jimmy Choos, the odious woman, almost deformed by her sense of style. Blue mascara and perma tan and frosted lips, and everything so bright and lifted, a sad caricature of youth.

All my money, my grandparents’ generous gift to me, into this apartment with this man, and I loved him still then, but then I know that I had learnt to love alongside hate, too. Stubbornly, because I didn’t want to let go of love wherever I found it, it was too intoxicating. And I sort of always hated him, from the beginning, when he was awful and cruel and used me. And made me feel stupid, or invalid, or like a silly woman, when I was so much cleverer than him. Perhaps that was why he did it.

So I handed over the money, all those thousands, I never saw money like that before or since, and the notary thanked me but it was nothing to him. It was just some kids playing house, plankton, and he had such big fish. But it was all the money I ever had. And then three years later, a year ago, maybe, he emails me, this man whose name I signed with mine, his name brings me back to that table made from one piece of mahogany and impregnated with the metallics of sweat and money. And after his name, after I let myself float off into venomous memory, it subsides, and I can read the message.

We haven’t spoken in so long, it’s surreal to converse with him. Scary, because for so long he’s inhabited a world that’s unchangeable, fixed- that is, the past, but now he’s writing to me and I remember how volatile and poisonous he became, so I’m very aware that this exchange now is not fixed, this is all being written as I write, as I choose my reply. Choose carefully. He holds some power still, to fuck with my life. So I read and reread, and think before I type. He says they’re asking him for property tax, but it’s not fair, because he doesn’t even live in the apartment, so why should he pay? Oh, fair. That word. What is fair? Who teaches us the word, even? What use does it have? The last time you could judge a thing to be fair, I believe it was a birthday party and somebody was cutting the cake with Pythagoras theorems and a spirit level. I point my index finger at the computer screen and its neighbours squeeze tight into a fist. It’s a strange gesture, I’ve never made it before. But I must be physical, or I’ll burst something in my head. My jaw is clenched too.

Oh you you you… Not fair. Not fair to leave me with the whole mortgage, and all those old bills, and never pay, knowing if you don’t I will, and if I don’t, my father has to, because he’s our guarantor. And all the money I put in, and all the money my dad put in, and then you say it’s not fair I get to live in the apartment.

When I told my lawyer, the bitch with the sexless frame stamped in Versace, when I told her he moved out, and never paid me another cent, she told me firmly, you’re a fool. she didn’t think much of my dad or I. She was polite to him, and talked to me like I hadn’t just got married too young, but more like I’d come over from Estonia and given my passport and money to a man in a van who claimed he was a modelling agent. She glared at me as I spoke, her jaw sharp enough to castrate, and I never knew if I was giving her too much information or too little, but she thought I was a damned fool for not trying to get anything from him when we split, and not just that, but to lose money too.

I asked her if I could sue him for the money he owed me, but she said no, there was no point, it would cost more to sue than I’d get back. And he could just skip the country anyway. That wasn’t fair. Debt is an awful thing, it hangs around your neck like a bag of rocks, and it hurts because it’s heavy but also you remember when you picked up those rocks, and you remember that you made that choice for yourself, back then, and you didn’t care it would hurt now because it was good then. It was hard to be stuck in Italy for a year on my own, with a separation, having lost my closest ally in the country, and custody of all our friends, and with my little sisters wanting to cheer me up but lacking the tools, because they were too young. And with that debt, but it was worse still because it wasn’t my debt, and I hadn’t picked up the rocks.

They were his, him, the man with the name, the name they slapped on me, and he left when he wanted, he moved on as soon as he was ready, he met a new girl, kept the visa from our marriage, met his new girl. An Italian. She’s older than me, less attractive, simpler looking. The kind of girl a man would go crazy to love, because she’d make him happy. Not me. I don’t make men happy. I drag them down, and up, and down again. I’m sweet sometimes but then maybe too sweet, and then I’m all claws and pathos and I need, need need. And I’m not sure of anything but I’m passionate about it all, passionately optimistic, but nihilistic, and obsessive and compulsive and impulsive and lazy and hopeless and full of scorn. A woman like that, all simplicity, grounded, real; god, I’ve looked down on that kind of wman but she could make a man happy.

I don’t feel jealous, no, he’s a stranger now, I look at his face and I don’t even know if I remember anything about him, anything I used to know, his secrets, his face, the lines… Oh yes, but there were lines under his eyes, in a sort of network, I remember looking at them, scrutinising his face and thinking he’s older than me, he’ll die first, and I’ll be so lonely without him. But that was another face, and another version of me. there isn’t a grain left of the girl who loved him or cared if he lived or died. I’m not jealous, not of that petty, greedy, mean bully. I’m not jealous. It just feels sad, sometimes, that the people who aren’t good enough for me, supposedly, well, they’re much more capable of finding happiness. Simplicity, and perhaps humility. I find it harder now,because I want so much, and I start to wonder if all my self satisfaction isn’t just self soothing, and maybe i don’t have anything to offer a man after all.

Maybe I’m just young, and men are attracted to me, and I’m intelligent, so I tell myself I’m this full package, this wonderful woman, too good for most I meet. But I’m lonely, now, sometimes. Not in my own thoughts. It’s the physical space, it starts to feel like time for me to move on, onto someone, try it again, more sensible this time, less of a fool, or a different kind of fool. I’m not jealous he moved on, I’m just sad that he’s better at it than I am, that I’m the one still recalling these moments with anger because he’s the last person to share my life, and I haven’t found someone to fill that space since, not really. And tonight, he wrote to me again, a year since we last exchanged some curt, emotionless words, and tonight he asks not for money, but for information. When are we getting divorced? When can we apply? Can we already? Are we good to go?

It occurs to me, he wants to marry his girlfriend. I tell him October. We’ll need a lawyer. A lady told me we could share one, if it’s amicable. I snorted.

Amicable, like our marriage. He never hit me.

He never hit me. But I took a fucking pummelling.

Tonight I tell him October, and I’m about to say we need a lawyer, but I choose not to. I don’t need to enter a discussion with him now. I can’t bear to let him back into my reality. He’s boxed up, fixed, sealed, he stays the same, in the past. If I engage with him now, I can’t… it’s all old. It’s all been pored over, I’ve woven all my own justifications around the past, processed everything, and now I’m firmly in the right, and I didn’t hurt him, no, he deserved it. And anyway I was hurt too.  And he got a visa, and I got his debt. So it’s all set in stone, and let it rest. Please.

But sooner or later i’ll have to not just engage, but speak face to face with him.

With husband. Dick.

The last time I saw Dick was Italy, two years ago, and I had lost weight and given up smoking and I felt so good and happy to be casting off the things that held me, that saddened me. I wore a blue dress I’d bought before our wedding, that I’d considered getting married in but it was a bit tight and then it got too tight altogether as I put on weight.

I had never worn it before, and he didn’t know it was nearly my wedding dress. But I knew, and it gave me a secret power. I wore it confidently, looking great, looking much better than I looked on my wedding day. I felt better. I felt free, or closer to it than ever. In the pit of my stomach was a little twisted piece of pleasure, because I was wearing a dress I couldn’t wear while we were together, and now I was better, a better version of myself without him. We met outside and walked in, the Palazzo di giustizia, big awful hideous eyesore, reminds me always of the Ministries in 1984. Minitru, Miniluv… We walked past staircase A, B, C… it’s a huge complex. A path runs all around, and it takes ages. Lawyers everywhere. The invisible strings of money and power whipping past as heels clicked neatly. Ball stomping heels.

We made small talk. Waited outside the courtroom, finally were ushered in. An old man, a beautiful old man with crinkled eyes and an appropriately gentle smile for us,  in a little room. He was the judge, apparently. I expected an amphitheatre of a court room. Of course it wouldn’t be that. It was a little office. We sat in rows facing the judge. Mari Angela, my lawyer. Dick. Me. I remembered our wedding day. The stony faced registrar asking do you, and Dick bellowed “ABSOLUTELY.” And I was embarrassed, a little, and annoyed that he did it and not I, and then I was going to be the boring one who said I do.

But the judge read our statement made nine months before when we had really split, and the terms of the separation, which I craned my neck to see because I remembered his tears falling on the page and a sick part of me wanted to see the smudged writing. We agreed and signed, and I signed my own name, and then the judge said you are now legally separated, and I wish you the best of luck. And his eyes were on mine as he said that, and I got a feeling of his wishing me well, specifically me, and his understanding, in those eyes, of what I had escaped from, the sad stifled life. I felt he must see so many couples do what we did, and he must catch these glimpses. But his eyes sought me out, and I thought he recognised me and understood. And I felt the whoosh of freedom, and my mouth stretched out into a grin, and I begged myself to stop grinning, to switch it off, go back to the sombre divorce face, it was so rude, so cruel to grin, god, no, and Dick there looking sad and lost. I couldn’t stop smiling so I smirked, but that was awful too, so I strained and strained and covered my face with a hand and scratched my nose, desperately. But the smile leaked out anyway and I was just grateful my body didn’t break out into a dance, or leap into the air, because it felt like it might have.

Oh, to be truly free. October, October. How long will it take and how much will it cost, to get there?

To finally leave him behind, Dick, his name, his face, his part in my life.


Sometimes it’s hard to be a woman, giving all your love to just one man (most of the time) and then also our internal organs are complicated.

I’m going a little bit crazy today.

Sent off the application for one course.

Have to hand write the other one. Oh dear sweet mother of left handed computer nerds, I can’t do it. I can’t hand write. My handwriting was frozen at age 12, it sits there forgotten and no one ever asks to see it, and then sometimes I have to leave a note and people see it and think how sweet, you got your baby sister to write the note. Such good spelling. But no, that’s me. I was a bad penwoman then, and 12 years of lightning fast delivery of Times New Roman’s inoffensive uniformity has done my illegible scrawl no favours.

I have the whole thing typed up and ready to go, I just can’t write straight, it looks like a joke,

like a small retarded child filled out my application. The spelling is of course impeccable but it may as well read

“Wen I groe up I wana bee a teachair”

I wish I could pay someone to write it out for me, but maybe they will then see my handwriting when I’m on the course and know i cheated… but then they can’t throw me out because of handwriting?

And while you’re sitting there thinking, oh, that’s today’s crisis, oh well at least it’s not about men or sex or something, this is a practically solvable existential connundrum.



I have another crisis too.

So today and yesterday I have woken up so goddamned, enviably skinny… why always when I’m home alone, why always when it’s raining too hard to get away with a bikini, why when there’s no man to admire me, when there isn’t even a dressing room mirror involved?

WHY am I getting a skinny day today? Everyone told me at my mother’s wedding, I looked so fucking skinny. Oh the figure on ye. Yeah but no, I did look skinny compared to my previous incarnations but I still had a big ole wine n food bump. A food baby, I joked. But today I’m like, I’d even look good in a tank top, which is I think a short top where your midriff shows underneath. In fact I walked around my apartment (all three metres of it) in hot pants and a short top, admiring myself regularly. I looked damn good.

But then, because I can’t be happy for too long… I remembered. Isn’t this meant to be my fat n bloated week? Amn’t I supposed to be crying into the fridge as I extract cheese because what’s the point anyway, what’s the point if I’m just gonna be fat all the time?

I’m supposed to be getting my period. I’m supposed to HAVE my fucking period. And I know, I know I took the morning after pill like a week ago so that can mess up your period and make you get it late but it doesn’t matter how much I KNOW that’s why I’m late…. I still feel the panic of oh fuck yeah, I’m not in control of my own body and what if the pill didn’t work? What if this is finally it, my first pregnancy? Obviously, obviously my answer would be abort, abort. Abort mission. No way is it sacrifice myself on the altar of motherhood time. But then I also know that pregnancy makes women go crazy too and oh god no it can’t happen to me, I don’t need this.

But of course I’m not pregnant it’s just the pill making me late.


It’s impossible to rationalise this fear, because it’s a pretty fucking big fear.

And I would ordinarily take great pleasure in inflicting this on my current partner, or partner in crime at least. I like to freak them out too because why should I suffer alone? Also it’s worse for them because they can’t even know what I’d DO with the thing if I did get knocked up. Super panic. So I would love to WARP this boy’s mind with this one, really fuck with his head, serve him right for making me fall in love with him and then trying to turn us into the greatest Vulcan love story that never was. But he didn’t reply to my “hey!” yesterday, and I think he left for Greece today, I vaguely remember him talking about some holiday there in a few days after I left, I wasn’t paying attention really because I was extremely horny and it didn’t interest me as it was not regarding sex or a compliment. So I am very pissed off now because if he thinks he can swan around recessionsville in the sun with not a care in the world probably having just finished his dissertation, while I languish at home with a handwritten thingumy to write out in handwriting, and worry about maybe being pregnant because of HIS GODDAMN TASTY PENIS, then that is just bullshit.

I will not stand for this.

I have gone a little bit crazy.

Today I had a few little episodes, imaginary conversations between him and me when I tell him drammatically that I might be knocked up and he says

“no your period is just late because of the pill, I read the packaging”

and I respond, bellowing, furious, and gloriously naked, maybe with a daisy chain around my swollen belly (it’s not actually swollen, it’s very flat as I mentioned)

“Oh that’s RIGHT, Mr. FUCKING SPOCK, let’s LOGIC and REASON our way out of this one too! WHAT do you know, you piece of shit MAN! Am I not allowed to feel????? to FEEL? I AM A WOMAN. I must be witnessed!”

And I collapse on a chaise longue.

Or else I give a sort of solliloquoy about my rights to love someone in my own way, and how does he dare, and I never asked for his love, I never asked for anything! I never asked for fidelity, I never asked him to be my boyfriend, I never asked for A-NY-THING! And if even that’s too much for him, he can go, go and never look back! But mark my words, you will regret this! You’ll never meet a woman like me again, NEVERRRR! And you’ll never get another chance with me! MARK MY WORDS, AGAIN! NEVERRRR! This is it, I’m gone…


But then I think, shit, what if he does regret losing me and then he wants to beg for me back but he takes my “never again” seriously and doesn’t try to get me back? So no, I won’t say any of that. I wouldn’t want to make it seem difficult to get me back again. Sheesh.

Door’s always open, loverboy.

But I’m all over the place. One might hope it’s because I’m pre-menstrual, another might fear it’s that I’m another “pre” word. -gnant, I mean. Both those people are me. I am crazy woman, see and hear me roar.

And also maybe I’m flipping out over this because it’s a really legitimate procrastination tool, the old, what’s goin’ on in my uterus today? And is all that gear even functional? (Hey, I never got any complaints. Hee hee. Sorry)

Anyway. I just can’t write this thing in my handwriting. If only I could just type it out…

and also, how long is he going to be in Greece on his bachelor holiday while I slave over the ink stand and vellum, cradling my worryingly flat belly and telling it, don’t worry, I’ll make dada feel shitty and worried about this when he gets back, don’t worry…. Even if I HAVE got my period by then. He can fucking sweat a bit too.

I do realise that by playing the crazy maybe pregnant lady card, I will send this boy running farther than if I had said “hey, I like spending time with you, how about we see each other some time maybe?”

It’s so the wrong move to play with this one… but I’m reckless. That’s what I am. And he’s just too delicate, I can’t tiptoe around this shit any more, it’s stifling. I feel smothered by it. Sabotage time…

Or I don’t know, maybe I’ll play the long game. I’m just feeling very crazy today. Up is down, down is up, and I watched about 15 episodes of Seinfeld which hasn’t helped.

You know I had never seen the finale before? Weird, huh. I just didn’t have those episodes. I might watch some more now and go to bed, work in the morning… maybe just eat some cheese first and worry about pregnancy and look into French paternity laws… kidding. Kidding. I’m kidding.

He does have excellent bone structure though and blonde hair. And full lips.

Our babies would be so freaking hot. Or maybe they would go the route of Demi Moore and whatshisname’s kids. Bruce Willis. Inherit the worst of both.

They could have my thin lips, his eyes which aren’t bad at all but they aren’t as good as mine, my pale skin and freckles and nose, his giant vagina that he uses to make decisions about love.

No, please don’t let me be preggers with a half French Rumor Willis.

Please not that….

Also don’t let me be infertile either because thinking about it now, I do have some pretty sweet genes that could do with passing on. I just need to find a guy with a nice nose and we are GOLDEN.

And also, he needs to be a grown up. With money.


End of rant.

I’m off to do the purple rain dance.


On hunks, hotties, and… the pain of being incredibly shallow

Ok, it’s whim o’clock, and what is every fibre of my being telling me to do today?

Move to Sweden.

Ok- so you know not to take my whims too seriously. Like when I wanted to go back to college and become a physicist, despite having ditched higher level maths and science when I was 15. And when I was going to become a pizza chef despite not wanting to work weekends, nights, or for lousy pay. Or pretty much any time I have said I was going to do something other than lie in bed and watch tv.

So take with a pinch of salt…


Saying that…

Today I feel very strongly that I would enjoy Sweden.

Reasons to move to Sweden:

1. It’s one of the best places to live, in the world, apparently. Or the best. I don’t care, it sure beats Italy.

2. Promiscuous women are apparently not judged harshly. Neither is drinking too much.

3. Sexism in general is supposedly even lower than my self esteem, which again… beats the shit out of Italy.

4. People speak real good English there.

5. Ah shit, do I have to keep racking my brains to make it look like a sensible whim? I’ll start again.

Reasons to move to Sweden:

1. MEN WHO LOOK LIKE VIKINGS and are ACTUALLY descended from Vikings. For fucks sake, do I need any further reasons?

I don’t know is it just that I am having a particularly horny week, but that doesn’t really mean anything because I haven’t had a low sex drive week since I played with LEGO. And now that I think of it, I used to build little sex dungeons for my LEGO people and rub them up against each other even though they had no genitals. I would sit in my room on my own for hours, playing out these scenes where the pretty LEGO girl with the ponytail would lure the LEGO man with the aviator jacket (he was the hottest LEGO guy I had) back to her sex dungeon under false pretences and then having her genital-free way with them. She was a total slut, that ponytail girl. This is why you should not have just one child, you should have several, and then they won’t be left alone for so long and develop these kinds of mental problems.

So, back to the Swedes…

I mean I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with Danes or Finns or Nor…w…s? (?) I just picked Sweden because of the other reasons I can’t remember now because my entire brain is being used to think of this guy:

And that, paired with, it’s ok to get drunk and sleep with a lot of different guys, all of whom look kind of like this guy, in my mind, well… I actually started looking up jobs and stuff.

But then, I was thinking about my new life in Sweden and I remembered how a few weeks ago I had the same burst of motivation and surety about Canada, after seeing a picture of a hot Canadian, and fantasizing about all kinds of rugged manly men catching salmon with their bare hands out of freezing water and then lifting me with one arm and fucking my brains out up against a sleeping moose…

And I do this all the time, fixate on some nationality… Oh but you’re so hot, men of the world. Why are you so hot?

The really really hot men are just so unattainable. I keep looking for a short cut. Like, if I’m a foreigner maybe they will overlook the fact that probably all their ex girlfriends look like this: (fucking hard to align shit, lower right picture anyway..)

And they will see me as exotic and be all, “I’m so over that flawless skin and blonde hair and blue eyes and ability to get a tan as well as spend time outdoors and be all fit and healthy thing, I want me some pasty lazy uncultured Irish girl”

And bam! I get to score way out of my league.

Ugh If I was a man I’d probably be in Thailand flashing my cash around and scoring really beautiful but poor Thai women. (And in case you are wondering I would be fine with ladyboys too, I’m shallow dontcha know, it’s what’s on the outside that counts…)


At this point my lazyness and desire to understand my surroundings has already got the better of my urges.

I won’t be moving to Sweden.


I also think, it would be really fucking awesome. I just… to be honest, not speaking the language and all isn’t what bothers me… it’s that gorgeous blonde critter to the right. I don’t think I would be able to live somewhere people that attractive are just… roaming the streets. My ego probably couldn’t handle having the evidence for my mediocrity thrust so blatantly in its face all the time. One time a woman who looked like that came into my shop. She was dutch AND taller than me AND had a really nice laugh and I wanted to kill myself for three days after she left the shop. And her boyfriend wasn’t even hot… their presence made me feel both ugly and shallow.

I had a Dutch boyfriend once. Well half Dutch. But when we went to Amsterdam together, I met one of his friends and she was like Doutzen Kroes except in casual clothing. (Doutzen ispictured below)

So not only ridiculously hot, but also all cool and nice and down to earth.

It’s not just the massive good lookingness they have over me, it’s their wonderful attitudes and personalities.. and lack of fixation on silly things like appearance.

I’m the one who gives a shit about this… they don’t.

I’m like a really bad arm wrestler who makes a huge deal out of arm wrestling. And they are all nonchalant, like it doesn’t matter, let’s just take it easy… no need to arm wrestle. And I am like NO I WILL FUCKING TAKE YOU and then they knock me over with their pinkie finger and I’m like ah.


But obviously this battle is in my imagination. We both just know the score. (It’s an unspoken thing between women, I think. I can never tell because they won’t admit it, friends always act like we are all entirely equal on the field of beauty but I am pretty damn sure that we are all fully aware of our and each others places on the hotness ladder. It makes me very uncomfortable, especially because I’m not 100% that this isn’t just some delusion of mine.)

The worst part is I can’t even hate them, because they are so cool and nice. BITCHES.

So no, I won’t be moving to Sweden. I’m already having a breakdown just thinking about Doutzen Kroes and WHERE DO YOU GET OFF, LOOKING LIKE THAT?

I wish I just didn’t care about this stuff, or there was some kind of cool tradeoff to not looking like that, to make it kinda worthwhile.

Like for example, if only really incredibly good looking women were ever raped or murdered, I would be able to deal with it, I’d be like, ok, well at least I can look forward to never being raped or murdered.

But unfortunately rapists and murderers don’t give a crap about how I come to terms with not being the most attractive person on the planet ever. They probably prefer beautiful supermodels but don’t find them wandering the streets drunk and confused and alone, so they would probably settle for me with very little qualms. (what IS a qualm?)

Doggammit, that picture is depressing the pants off me.

I guess I’ve found a tradeoff after all: No woman will ever hate me with such unwarranted passion as I hate the Doutzen Kroes(s) of this world.

… But then, that’s not putting me at ease at all because, since when do I care if women like me?

Ugh too miserable to keep writing..

I’m going to go to lie down so I can give my full attention to feeling bad about myself.

Talk to you soon.


ARK! I was lying down trying to stop hating my appearance long enough to fantasize, but I kept giving up and going WHAT is the point, AS IF my mental image of hunkdom would say that to me… Muhuhhuhuhuuuu….

…. when the doorbell rang. It was the building administrator’s lackey looking for the money for the last 2 years of heating and building administration bills… Basically the back of rocks and shit around my neck that husband landed me with when he left.

I have the money put away for a while now but it feels like my money, I don’t want to part with it and I’ve been waiting for them to send me a revised copy of the bills but that’s just an excuse really… so much money… really, jesus fuckballs, a lot of money. So he was giving me shit about when am I gonna pay and it’s quite a sum, eh, eh? And asking for me to pay off a quota of it now… and I’m like, you know what? HERE. And I gave him ALL THE MONEY.

And he wrote me a receipt that felt like a piece of crap kind of trophy for that kind of expenditure, but that’s it now it is PAID in full.

I have no more debts.

I am freeeeeee… ish.

All my fuck all monies are belong to me now.

Oh yeah…

Now resist urge to go shopping.

you know what happened the other day? I went into H&M and I needed a jumper, but then I tried on these ridiculous beige shorts and I was all, oooh they will look really nice if I wear them with this other top I bought recently that i shouldn’t have, and I was trying to muster some kind of imaginary situation they would be suitable for, and then I’m queueing to pay for them and thinking what is wrong with you, woman? You need money. you look awful in beige, and you don’t need any more clothes.

But I didn’t care.

And then the checkout girl is like, sorry the tills are suddenly broken, you can’t buy things unless you have exact change. And I didn’t have exact change because I wanted to impress hot barman with my exact coins, so I couldn’t buy the shorts.

And that, my friends, is how the universe gave me a gift of 20 euros. But deprived me of a pair of shorts my ass looked really good in.

I must not go back and buy them but I won’t lie to you it’s a possibility.

OH and then I bought boots (sorry, sorry… but that wasn’t a bad thing because I know good leather boots in the sales are an excellent investment for someone moving to London) and I went to put my headphones on as I was leaving the shop but  the shopping bag was in my hand and I poked myself in the eye with the bag corner and that really hurt.

Ok stop writing now I was just so fucking excited about finally being out of debt. It’s all good, I don’t even care if I’m not Doetzen Kroes any more. I bet she’s a real nice person too.


Too busy to get busy? FUCK YOU, student.

Well, this is a disappointment.

I waited ALL DAY to hear from Fabio about what time he was gonna come on over to my place for the sexing and then he finally gets back to me after I lie to my family and tell them I am having dinner with my one friend so that I can keep the evening free to make myself and my apartment presentable, and then Fabio breezes into my inbox at 8pm and is all

“Yeah I have to do this, this and this tomorrow… If I didnt have to get up so early I would come over to your place”


I’m sorry, mr Studentface, you have to get up early?

Fuck you.

I had to get up off my ass and go and have hairs pulled out of my body, hairs that did not want to be pulled out.

I had to get up and leave my bed where I have cmputer games and movies to watch to clean up my messy house so that you and your stupid Italian upbringing would not suspect me of harbouring crabs or something because my apartment is like an extension of my being.

Or smoething.

And I wasted my whole day-admittedly you do not know this because I played it cool apart frm invitiing you over in the first place- I played it way cooler than you did, and yet here you are TURNING DOWN A CHANCE TO FORNICATE.

you live 15 minutes away from me.

You know this.

It was 8pm.

Fuck you.

My apartment is FULL of condoms and I put on makeup and even straightened my hair so it is long enough to cover my boobs adequately while I sit on your dick and DO ALL THE FUCKING WORK.

Oh I’m sorry, you got shit to do tomorrow.

Fuck you.

Do you have any idea how much of my day was spent in preparation for your visit? Of course not, so it’s not your fault.


then I have to tolerate a whole load more of this not going anywhere conversation before we leave it at “another time then”

You know at this point I have spent more time actually talking to you than I have fucking you. Or nearly, anyway.

This does not bode well.

I made my best ever banana bread because the smell of baking really works wonders at masking the stench of hermit woman who never leaves the house and spends a lot of time on the furniture naked.

And then I ate it all because you didn’t come over and my whole Sunday was wasted and I am very angry with myself for depending so much on some arbitrary man for my happiness and fulfillment.

I am worried now, you will continue talking to me and then when we do see each other next time you have a good stretch of sleepy time up ahead you student DICK, then I will already know how many brothers and sisters you have and a whole load of what you say will make sense to me.

I don’t want that.

I am very angry with you now.

I have decided that, as punishment, I will not wax ANYTHING until you give me a good fucking reason to.

You could have come over here today and I wuold have given you enthusiastic “I don’t know you” head and I would have been all kinds of eager but instead I am downloading some porn (quaint huh, I usually just watch online but I found this one video I used to have…  it was the first and only porn video I ever bought, also one of the dudes in it is hot which is nice.)

Anyway now that my Sunday has been reduced to drinking the rest of that wine alone eating too much banana bread (yum, though. I put almond flakes, dessicated coconut and chopped up papaya in it. REALLY FUCKEN GOOD SHIT YO) and watching porn then I really don’t see why I should make any fucking effort for you anyway.

Is it not the case that sex is the best thing? Doesn’t sex trump having got enough sleep?

I have given up a lot more than sleep for my craft in the past and hot dog I’d do it again.

Strike one was the dead granny.

Strike two is the having to get up in the morning.

I am all eager and desperate right now but let me tell you I lose interest quite quickly. My obsessions live fast die young and nobody ever finds a corpse.

So cop the fuck on and get over here fucking pronto.

My porn is downloaded so this rant is over now.


Seriously why do we have to write titles? I’m stumped.

Today I feel like a human person again, thank fuck.
I am..
well no, I was going to be all happy happy joy joy happy happy joy in this post 

but I’m not sure how long I can keep that up for. Oh right… that long. Moving on then…

I only had like 6 hours sleep again… and my hand hurts… although after the self-loathing of yesterday I have to say I only have a slight pain in my personality and think I’m a mildly despicable person.

So lack of sleep.. yeah sorry but you’re hearing about it…

It’s because as I was about to go to sleep like a good girl at 1.30am, I realised where I had left my stupid companion in the computer game, so I launched into that again and of course didn’t just pick up my companion but also went on a bit of a virtual thieving binge…
and then managed to drag myself out kicking and screaming (not really) and finally just as I was about to be cool and unplug for the night, a sneaky little thought…. why don’t I check facebook to see if any of my desperate attempts at engaging fellow humans in conversation had found a foothold?

And I found my…ahem… screensaver… online.
We had a little chat. I tried to keep the molten depression from my words but still, he probably only stayed talking because he thought I might kill myself or something. I tried to be cheery but it came out bitter… dang.

Anyway I tried to intersperse my “why meeeee”s with something that hinted strongly towards I want to sex you again when I’m back in Ireland but I couldn’t figure out a good sentence to write. He suggested doing something that made me sweat to get rid of the hangover blues, and I  was like hot damn that’s my in, that’s an opener right there… but then I didn’t go for it because as a woman, and not talking via webcam, the effect of me pulling off my top and leaping into an arousing rendition of peter andre’s mysterious girl “girl I wanna make you sweat, sweat until you can’t sweat no more” might not have been what I was looking for… and, if it had been, it probably would have freaked me out.

Anyway I let the “sweat” cue die and we talked pleasantries for a bit.
Then I finally admitted there was going to be no place in this hung over pitiful conversation for me to mention sex, and I wasn’t going to go for broke and mention masturbation (that might seem like a terrible desperate ploy to draw attention to the fact that I have genitals, at the cost of appearing like a normal person who can acquire sexual partners… and yes, yes it is. Usually resorted to when drunk.)

So I bid the last person to have seen me naked and sober good night…. and logged off sadly.
It was at least 3am. I tossed and turned and… in amongst all that tossing and turning, managed to pull some kind of muscle in my hand.
Fucks sake… I am still able to type and stuff but it hurts. I doubt I actually pulled a muscle, it’s probably repetitive strain injury or something. I don’t know, it’s surprising because I thought of all the weak nerdy little muscles in my pasty body, the ones in mah strong hand were pretty fucking developed.

Oh and weird… you know bumchum? Yeah you do. Gotta give him another name because it’s creeping me out calling him that, but then it’s probably the best name I can come up with. So bumchum..
The other day I woke up to this weird-ass message from him on facebook. It was sent at 5am so clearly… a drunk dial. Ugh.
He was like “your husband is a piece of shit, he’s an asshole he should be dead he’s a dick”
And then there was another message from like 10 minutes later where he’s like “he’s an asshole what a bastard” or something and I was more than a little freaked out… because my first thought was, husband has finally snapped and done something fucked up. I mean he has a temper:  One time he was like, well if you ever cheat on me I will drag you through the street by your hair. And I was like hey no fair, and he’s all, well don’t cheat on me then. And I couldn’t really argue with that because arguing for the right not to suffer humiliation and violence if I cheated would have been letting him know I had already cheated on him and planned on doing it again…
Anyway…. when I broke up with him he was like “what the fuck, I was nice to you… I NEVER HIT YOU!” like he deserved a fucking medal or something. are you serious? You want to be credited with never hitting me? I know I can be a manipulative bitch sometimes but hitting me wouldn’t have done you any favours, you tool. I have a zero tolerance policy on violence. Not on cheating though. Asshole. All the more reason to leave the bastard. Anyway I was foolish and naive. No more beating myself up about this, please. Ok.

So this message from bumchum freaked me out.
I was all “wtf happened” right back at him… and then hours later he was all “nothing, your ex was just being a dick, he got all angry… he’s got problems”
So then I unleashed my own brand of fury on him because it’s one thing to send a fucked up drunken message, and quite another to just pooh pooh it the next day. He would have been off the hook if he had been all apologetic, but he wasn’t, so I got all up in his grill…

I was like, “that has fucking nothing to do with me. I don’t want or need you to share his rage or your rage at him with me. I don’t want to wake up to fucked up angry messages that only freak me out. If you have something to tell me that affects me in some way, give me information. Don’t just send me some bullshit rage bomb. I understand that you were drunk when you sent it but I don’t deserve to have to listen to this shit from anyone. I broke off contact with 99% of my friends here just so I can avoid any potentially awkward or uncomfortable encounters with my ex… that should give you a fucking good idea of I don’t want to know any more. And if you keep saying you find him so annyoing and such a dick, then stop fucking hanging out with him. And if you’re trying to make me think he’s more of a dick, then don’t. I judge people based on how they act towards me, and based on how he acted to me I already cut him out of my life so there is no need for more vague accusations.
I may get drunk and mention him sometimes, but that is my prerogative because he was a huge part of my life. He’s nothing to you, so he shouldn’t be causing this reaction in you.
So that’s all, I don’t want to hear any more on the subject.
Regards (actually I said like saludos which is friendlier, but it was in spanish you see.)


So. I flew a little off the handle there but damn that guy freaked me out with his overreaction. Who the fuck does he think he is? I’m not meeting up with him again that’s for sure. Ugh he creeps me out… if only I hadn’t let him into my bed.. however the fuck he got in there is still a mystery. I have to stop getting so drunk I don’t remember shit.

Anyway. Then he replied being like “oh sorry I was just drunk and angry, I realise you don’t need that shit blah blah blah” but I’m like, yeah cool but secretly I am never going to hang out with this weirdo again.

So… Another freak. Am I the only sane person? That’s not good. I was talking to my friend yesterday and she agreed he was a freak, just as I was about to start thinking wait did I go overboard in my “schooling” him in why he shouldn’t drunk dial me angry ex-hatred?

I realised, I have to talk to my friends more often. Like, involve them in my decisions. Look at the shit I have decided without consulting my friends:

Going to south america with a boyfriend. Marriage (with a different guy I met in south america). Buying an apartment with a mortgage. Moving to Italy.

Look at what I have decided with a little help from my friends:

To leave my husband. To leave Italy.

Eh, why am I such a pigheaded moron that I always insist on doing things alone and only asking for advice when I know I’ll hear confirmation of what I want to hear? Anyway we made a pact to in future, be super honest to each other about our new boyfriends and remind each other of what we want from a man next time our heads are full of crappy love hormones and we can’t think properly.

I am so sick of being “the cool girl” in relationships. I bend over backwards to act totally chilled out and cool about everything and like I’m not high maintenance, and I don’t buy into the classic romance shit and the flowers and actually yeah screw flowers but still, anyone who knows me a small bit could buy me jewelry or a bottle of 12 year old whiskey, it’s not hard to be thoughtful. I let these men into my life, I let them sprawl all over my personal space and fart and talk to me when they are on the toilet and they see me without makeup and I believe them when they tell me it’s ok to be hairy one time, and then we both become these hideous fat slobs who just don’t give a shit, and eventually we lose the desire to fuck each other because seriously, look at us!

So next time… Imma be high maintenance. I bet I would be really good at high maintenance too, I’m already bossy and domineering, I’ve just never used it on men because I always want to impress them with how I’m just “one of the guys” except screw that, you don’t fantasize about fucking one of the guys do you? No more of that Avril Lavigne bullshit. I’m going to cultivate an air of mystery. How? I do not know… but I have plenty of time to reinvent myself before I move to Londinium…

As usual this is followed by a disclaimer… the intentions to do things / change self for the better/ become a better social creature / drink less expressed above are not binding and are only vaguely representative of good intentions. Do not be disappointed if I wind up living in a trailer with a meth dealer in 6 months. Well.. do be disappointed. But just don’t be entirely surprised.

In other news….

My hair has never looked this good. It is soft, shiny, and awesome. I don’t know why… it is either due to the puke or the fact that when I washed out the puke I didn’t have any conditioner left so I just used shampoo.
Now, I am going to test this out tonight (by washing it with just shampoo, not vomiting) but I would appreciate if any of you feel like joining my experiment for the sake of furthering science and my desire not to buy any more conditioner.
So what you can do to help is, if you are throwiing up any time soon, don’t hold your hair back! No! Work it into the follicles baby. Seriously my hair looks amazing and I got all the bits out anyway, even without conditioner to help with the brushing.
Otherwise, maybe try to wash your normally non vomity hair with just shampoo and report back to me.
But don’t do both like I did, because then we will still be no wiser as to why my hair is so silky smooth.

It’s amazing. Seriously… like you know when you see a small child’s hair and think what a waste, they have such beautiful smooth soft hair and they don’t even go out clubbing, well that’s what my hair is like now.
It hasn’t shone at the tips like this since some 6 week hairdressing course bitch convinced me to bleach my hair so I could dye it brown after all the black… and then cut my hair like an ugly middle aged person. Two weeks before my wedding. It was an ominous sign… for a superstitious person, which I’m not. Fuck signs. But I wasn’t happy about looking so shit on my wedding day.

Tip: when in Italy, always wear makeup to get your hair cut. If you don’t look nice going into the salon, they will treat you like an unattractive person and not bother trying to make the cut suit your face, presuming you just want to make your miserable, pathetic existence easier by removing “all that pesky weight” from your coiff so you can wash it with minimal effort seeing how there is no point in you bothering with your appearance anyway.

Paranoid? Cynical? Moi? No, it’s italy… it’s italy did this to me. That’s what Italy thinks, I don’t think that… it’s Italy’s fault.

Stupid country.

Anyway sorry but I am baffled by the stupidity this morning.
Yeah I’m blogging at work again… my dad is likely to arrive any moment but I am a damn fool and I can’t honestly abide being so bored so…
He caught me yesterday and I was pressing shift F4 instead of Alt F4 so he saw me facebook chatting to my friend and luckily didn’t see the content of the messages… but he wasn’t happy.

Anyway… this morning I had a mother-daughter customer unit enter the shop.
Actually it was mother-daughter-father. The father was placed at the entrance to the shop (annoyingly in my personal space so I couldn’t blog safely as he could look at what I was writing. Asshole.) and he was quickly decorated with various shopping bags and coats. I offered if he wanted to put the things down on the pouff we have for trying on shoes. he smiled weakly and cast a furtive, fearful glance at his wife and daughter before turn to me and sadly saying “no no.. I’ll carry everything.”
They made him stand there (and me, stand their presence) for at least 45 minutes. Seriously. He could have sat down, put the stuff down… he just stood there. What a sad sack.
Way to let a pair of she-harpies slip your balls into a noose. I have very little sympathy….

Anyway the mother flitted back and forth from the dressing room, passing her daughter trousers and tops and jackets to try on. The daughter… and this was weird, right? Was trying on trousers at first with just her bra on. She had a shirt but for some reason wanted to try the pants on without the top, and then she opened the curtain to show me if the pants fit. Like, it’s not weird she showed me her boobs, but like… her dad was right there. She was like 17 or something. I dunno… I grew up with a stepdad and didn’t see my dad more than twice or three times a year so maybe I am particularly prudish (as well as whatever other issues I got, yes yes, it all becomes clear now, sorry to be such a cliche people) about being topless around fathers… It just seems weird to me. Maybe it’s totally normal, maybe normal families with married parents have naked pillow fights after dinner… who the fuck knows. Not me anyway.
Anyway so she’s in her little bra and these horrendous mc hammer pants, and the mother is flustering around trying to find something the daughter likes while the dad surveys his kid and is like “hmm well if you like them, go ahead” and she hasn’t the least bit of desire to cover her boobies.
Anyway. Enough about this.

So the mother enlists my help… I begrudgingly join in this madcap hunt for a pair of trousers… it doesn’t matter, the dad was obstructing my computer usage anyway. Selfish bastard.
So I suggest a different pair of mc hammer pants that will probably look nicer on although still, what a horrible waste of a 17 year old slender body, bagging it like lumpy vegetables, in a hot air baloon where farts marinate and any kind of obesity could be festering underneath, no one knows…
The mother likes the trousers… but I only have them in black. The daughter tries them on. No other colours? Pesters the mother after I just fucking said there was only black.
No, just black.
They would be nicer in green… my daughter likes green.
I swerve my eyes away from the topless teen, and smile knowingly, as if to say, ah yes, younguns and their obsession with green? Like I’m a fellow mother or something… urgh.
I tell her no, just black, but then I root out another slightly different pair in green and she takes that to her daughter who is just standing there in the changing room and could easily put on her top and come out and look at the clothes herself.

I leave them to their own devices for a while as my jealousy over the girl’s perfect boobs is making me stare, and hate her a little bit, and feel like a little bit of a perve.
So I ignore the family and read the news online.
Then the mother comes out with an arm full of crumpled rejected clothing and hangers sticking out of her ample bosom… ha ha her daughter’s boobs won’t stay nice forever, just look what genetics have in store for her! Exactly why she shouldn’t be wasting her hot years wearing baggy hippie shit now. Stupid girl.
Anyway I enquire politely about how the pants were… did the green ones look nice?
The mother dumps her armload of clothes and pointy hangers on my small and less shelf-like chesticles.

“Sorry… no. Well… the green ones were nice, but they would have been better in black. She just can’t see when she would wear a pair of green pants.”


I look down at my knuckles… If I had a hero other than myself I could think What Would THEY Do? Instead I’m like WHAT WOULD I DO? And that’s pretty fucking useless as a moral compas.
I did not sucker punch the woman in the face.
I did not ninja kick her daughter in the cleavage.

The father I had no real beef with, he was just a poor sap who should have been like ok you bitches go shopping, I’m gonna get me a quick lap dance.  Or he could have lied and said “I’m going to talk about sports with some other men” and gotten a lapdance without risking his wife’s wrath. That’s what I would have done, probably. I wouldn’t have married a spirit-crushing dominatrix like that anyway… or yeah, I kind of did. Boom.

But I just smiled at my non-customers and as they shuffled out of the shop on to waste the time of more hard working shop assistants, I hung up the bazillion items of clothing that the lazy bitch could have been hanging up while just standing there flashing her dad and waiting for her mum to pick out clothes for her to try on.

THEN I get another nut job..
A woman comes into the shop alone and asks “do you mind if we have a look around?”
I say of course not, go ahead… and wonder is there a dwarf behind her I can’t see? A small dog in her pocket? No.
She is alone.
Oh… maybe she has crabs and she was referring to herself and her parasites when asking if they could come in. I hope so, otherwise, she crazy.

So that’s all I have to share with you for now. I am sure some more wild adventures will strike me any time. Who knows what can happen… it’s a freaking rollercoaster ride

Can’t get over how soft my hair is. Seriously if it’s not the conditioner thing, which would mean conditioner is a massive scam, then I thoroughly reccommend you try washing your hair with bile.

Because seriously it’s worth it.



Just plucked up the courage to whip off the band-aid covering whatever the fuck happened Saturday night: I asked Andrea on facebook how the night ended.

GREAT NEWS! she was just as mouldy disgusting drunk as I was, and her SOBER boyfriend who drove the two of us home, conked out in his car, said we were fine, and didn’t seem too drunk.

She doesn’t remember anything either. Thank fuck for that! Oh that’s all I care about really… that my friend is as much of a legless mess as I am so I can be forgiven. Hall Ay FUCKING Yoo YAH!

I feel good.

Glossing over my shrill threats to mace guys on the dance floor…

I feel good.

I have managed to survive another night without losing this one last friend I have.


So… next weekend, right?

Next weekend there’s this party. Oh my god I can’t wait. It’s gonna be off the hook… AND I don’t have to work in the morning, so I can get proper messy. Oh dang, I know, I have learnt my lesson… no shots. I swear. I promise. Really. And I will not carry weapons either.

Ok really. I will be good. I have learnt from this experience, probably.


NOW it’s time for happy happy joy joy.

Scroll up to the to if you wanna do this blog reading experience right… If you don’t want to listen to happy happy joy joy twice, I will understand though.

A bird I’d like in the bush, and two that have gotten out of hand…

Today began stupidly but ended kind of sublime.
I woke not fifteen minutes after the last of 8 strategically spaced alarms had been muted, already too late to put on makeup but going to spend 5 minutes anyway because my eyebrows look like crap.
Not today, no.

I woke with 40 spare minutes to spend on myself and my makeup and brushing my hair before I left the house. I was refreshed too, despite staying up like a naughty child until ridiculous o’ clock.
I had all the time I never have, enough to ensure I left the house groomed and awake and with no need to run for a bus.
But I squandered it.

I turned over clutched my duvet to me and tried to mush together an image of sexy bartender in my mind’s lecherous eye… I was too sleepy though and kept drifting off and looking at the clock to find I had jumped forward ten minutes in what was clearly 30 seconds…
Rolled out of bed at the usual, fantastically late time and did my makeup in a rush and brushed the top layer of my overdose of hair so it looks brushed but underneath is a wannabe uni-dread…
I ran out the door flustered and rushed as always, but looking pretty fucking good anyway if I do say so myself. I seem to have become adept at doing makeup brushing teeth giving hair the appearance of being brushed AND picking and putting on an outfit in 15 minutes.
I wore a red pencil skirt and vintage stretchy belt that makes it look like I have a tiny waist to offset my massive hips. I felt like a brunette Christina Hendricks except without the boobs. (don’t make that face, it’s not ALL about her boobs and red hair… is it?)

I made it into work 2 minutes before lateness.
I rushed out for a quick coffee and my morning dose of gorgeous, but along the way I had to pass my usual obstacle… Sexy Homeless guy.

I began inexplicably looking right at homeless guy (I’m not calling him sexy any more).
And as I looked at him he began looking at me. So we were just looking at each other. Nothing flirty or friendly at all. Just blank expressions. I realised in panic that I was getting close and would need to find some legitimate reason to look away or awkwardness… I faltered. My brain failed me.
I passed him maintaining intense but ambivalent eye contact and then somehow some kind of greeting tried to politely emerge from my mouth but whatever it was I have no idea.
I just approached this homeless dude,staring at him, and as I came closest I grabbed my keys from my bag in an act of desperation, to have something to look at, and I looked at my keys held aloft in my hand, dangling like I was offering someone a lift, and muttered something probably inaudible and he probably thinks I was brandishing the keys in the air like “look what I have that you don’t” or something. His eyes briefly registered confusion. I don’t know how he took whatever behaviour I just displayed.

Whatever way he’s looking at it, it’s just increasing my already high anxiety about walking past him every day.

I have no fucking clue what the etiquette is for homeless guys you walk past every day and who you also see sometimes in your local bar where he is a normal customer so clearly not that fucking desperate for cash.
I don’t want him to think I like him or anything… Ugh I have no idea what the correct way to proceed is. He is always looking at me as I go past, he looks at everyone who walks past because that’s what he does, but there is no way for me of looking anywhere without it being obvious that I am avoiding looking at him or his stupid sign. Oh man… I wish I wore shades, but it would be weird to add shades now when I never wore them all summer, I hate shades. Also it’s dark between the buildings in this street, so there’s no excuse.

Then I (hardly) worked, which was boring as hell and I spent most of the morning obsessing over the encounter with homeless guy.
I think I will just be really rude now, fuck it, it’s not worth it just for the sake of politeness… I can’t risk having him talk to me when I am trying to check out hotties in the bar.

So I just stewed in that until a customer arrived who pissed me off  to new heights… She was horribly obese but certain she could fit into these one size fits all shirts, and I was like “uh no they are very small, size 10 to 12. (which isn’t that small but that’s how you have to do with fat people. You have to enter into this plane of alternate reality where skinny means anorexic and miserable and having 30% extra body weight means you are happy and enjoy your life and any clothing that doesn’t fit you is made for an unrealistic body shape)

So I’m like oh they’re veeerrrry small… to appease the beast, (who if you watch Doctor Who looked surprisingly like a Sontaren except more fat) because there’s no fracking way she’s fitting into it and I don’t want to waste her time (read:mine)

But she hums and haws. She doesn’t want to accept my ruling, and she refuses to try it on. She eyes me up. She sees what I consider today’s Jessica Rabbit proportions, eyes them critically… and she drops an insult-bomb.

“Would YOU fit into this?” She waves the top in front of my small outcropping of belly.

I was of course horribly taken aback. Excuse me, I’m a fucking HOURGLASS! How DARE YOU. These are curves, I’m not just a lump like you, I have a nice thin middle part and great legs! How very dare you!… Is what I think.

Out loud I mutter something about of fucking course I fit the top, and she looks back at me disgruntled and adds,

“I suppose you are slimmer…” as if it’s a toss up and I just about come out on top.

Fuck you, walrus woman. Fuck you and your stupid Sontaren face. (that picture I couldn’t manage to line up better is a Sontaren, so you know. No I am not bitter and mean, she really did look like that. Mostly.)

Anyway I finally convince the whale to try it on and surprise of a lifetime, it don’t fit.

She tells me defiantly as she hands me the top to put back on the hanger (thanks, bitch. I told you it was too small) that it would have fit perfectly except that it wouldn’t fit her in the chest. Bull. Shit. Her belly protrudes a good five cms further than her lumpy boobs. She sucks. Out! Begone!

I was enveloped with rage.

And then I did a bold thing and went on facebook, which I am effectively banned from doing after boss-dad found me like 7 times in one day checking my messages.
So I was online and damn it bumchum was online, and he has an annoying tendency of always starting these banal conversations with me, about nothing, responding to my every time-lapsed “oh right” and “haha” as soon as I hit send.
I mean yeah he did agree “what happened happened” and I’m sure I was clear about not wanting to ever go there again ever! But sometimes he invites me out for some drinks and I’m always like “mm I don’t know I am tired, I’ll call you if I feel like going out” and then I never call.
Today he invited me to his house for dinner which flashed neon warnings in my face, but then he said he was having a whole bunch of his friends over because he has moved house. But I already told him Skyrim is out today so eh… priorities!
He laughed when I said that I would probably not go out for another couple of weeks.
He’s like, oh are you going to try complete it over the weekend.
Ugh. What a dumb thing to say.
You don’t COMPLETE a game like this, you make it last as long as you possibly can and do everything there is to do and you ignore the main quest until you run out of challenging shit to kill. It’s not fucking Crash Bandicoot, you don’t COMPLETE it.  Noob.

Anyway he was also like “oh I might come by the shop and chat to you” and I realised I didn’t want him to come to my shop, I wanted alone time, I didn’t want to have to awkwardly mwah mwah on the cheeks, I didn’t want to smell his aftershave and get the full heebie jeebies his presence inspires in me since THAT night. It has become clear he digs the cut of my jib, and any face time with him is just building to the inevitable attempt and rejection and then awkwardness.

I’d cut him off now, but I feel by remaining friends with him I am buying his silence regarding the matter of what happened between us. If I start being distant and short with him, he’ll realise I don’t really wanna be friends any more and he will be free to spill the beans to everyone I know who he knows which is, uh, everyone I know.

And I don’t want that, I got a reputation to think of!

So I have to be nice but also keep him at arms length.

Anyway I’m like “oh no, I can’t chat today I am working all afternoon with another girl, Paola. She’s quite serious about work and doesn’t take kindly to me dossing or chatting to friends.”
He’s like, “oh right what time do you go to work with her?”
I’m all, “3.30pm” which is what time I go for lunch at, but I don’t want to tell him 4.30 because then maybe he will show up earlier when I am about to go on lunch. It’s nearly 3pm now anyway so I doubt he can make it out to where I work before I have to leave for the second shift. That’s what I think.

He’s like, oh well I might see you later then.

He shows up AT 3.30. I am just about to go on lunch. Paola is taking over from me while I go on lunch. Paolo is there and Bumchum is there and he’s trying to converse with me, I actually hang back and the moment for the kissing of the cheeks passes so I avoid that, but he stays and chats to me as I gather up my things and try to think of where to say I am going so he doesn’t know I am on lunch and offers to accompany me? Also, I want to have lunch in my hottie bar, and I cannot show up with some strange and unattractive man. They will think he is my boyfriend.
So I ask where he’s going so I can go the opposite way, but he’s like “uhhh don’t know,” so he obviously wanted to hang with me for a bit. I’m like, well I gotta go this way… so he walks out with me and he’s like where you going now? And I’m like ugh I gotta go check in the other shop because the girl there called me earlier with this problem…blah blah blah… then I have to go back to work in the other shop.”
So I get rid of him although I do have to do the stupid cheek kisses to say goodbye which I hate and then I visit the girl with the problem which I actually hadn’t made up, and then I am free and I run back to my hottie bar… well… I totter. I look nice though, I checked in the shop mirror.

And there… oh beautiful moment!
Is sexy bartender with his lovely face and two of the other staff and NO OTHER CUSTOMERS!
I order a long coffee, and Americano…
Sexy bartender sees me and says hi.

He begins juggling cups and things and basically impressing the pants off me while demonstrating duly-noted manual deftness. There’s no need for this, oh sexy bartender… you had me at “one euro please” (first words he ever spoke to me, probably. Swooooon)
I pull myself together and manage to force a conversation.
I am friendly.
I do the pleasantries… we talk… I sip my coffee as slowly as possible without just pretending to drink it.
We chat.
I am happy.
Some old biddies come in and start whining about their coffee and how much milk they want. I mentally high kick them in the saggy chins.
Sexy bartender deals with them politely but quickly and comes back to me, and chats to me.
Oh he is so hot. He is just gorgeous.
Man he is gorgeous.
Anyway now I have had a little chat with him the door is open for me to single him out for conversation.
He is now the barman I have spoken to most out of all of them.
I am so proud of myself for just forcing a conversation, just like any pervy man would do with a woman…
But reciprocated, baby!

Anyway I was so happy after I left (damn coffee ran out eventually.) that I went to work and began gift wrapping with gusto. I realised at one point that I was actually humming “happy birthday” out loud while I wrapped the present.

That has never happened before, I normally just focus on solidifying my hatred for the customer who asked for gift wrapping into something sharp.

So now I am alternately super fucking happy and proud of my advancement to level 2 of basic socialisation skills… and oh shit what do I do about the homeless guy? How to avoid? He’s right in my path as I go to the hottie bar every day. There is no avoiding him. He stands guard like Cerberus, except instead of having three vicious heads he has one kind of dejected, accusatory looking one.
And instead of actively defending his turf he just sits on some cardboard.
But I can’t handle the tension.
WHY couldn’t I just be a dick and ignore him completely?
I am going to have to get a hat with a visor or something.
I can’t wear shades in the winter, I don’t care I just can’t. I’m not Italian. It’s against my principles…



Friday night kicks off NOW.

Pizza: check.

Beer: Check, yo.



It’s about to get off the hook.

See you in two weeks. (or before, if I risk some worktime writing, which is likely…)


I feel a surge of love and wellwishing for all humanity.

PEACE OUT, y’all

You can stick your umbrella where the sun don’t shine

This morning it is pissing rain.

The Italians, cool as penguins in sunglasses, take snow in their stride.

In summer, when it is 35 degrees c, they strut around in jeans and boots while I sweat and melt and stick to bus seats in the lightest smallest bit of fabric I possess.

But it RAINS, motherfuckers?

It RAINS and chaos. Anarchy. Every man for himself… well, ok, but even more so than usual.

The entire footpath around the bus stop is flooded, although it’s raised above the road which is not flooded. (Nice design, ITALY.)

Everyone is packed in together under the bus shelter even though it is barely raining at all. I have a hat, so I am not degrading myself by putting my body that close to other people’s bodies, especially since I go to work at the same time old people emerge from their homes to stroll around and argue about coupons and generally get in people’s way.

Then there are the umbrellas. By choosing not to dive into the sea of wet, saggy flesh under the shelter, I am forced to go into ninja defensive mode to protect my eyes and other soft bits from their metal spikes.

Italians especially the elderly are mostly shorter than me, so I see them as these grumpy pixie people who protect themselves from tiny droplets of water by shielding their bodies and enough space for 5 more such bodies with a massive golf umbrella.

They wield their unneccessarily dangerous water shields like a puppy wields its tail in a liquor store.

I am lurching and swooping out of the way constantly as nobody around me is aware of the space they take up.

Then some bus comes by and everyone squashes forward and puts down umbrellas and stampedes for what they imagine is a delightfully empty load of seats… they spray me with water and I have to put my arms up to defend my face, my gorgeous face, from umbrella metal.

But it is not an empty bus, it is an out of service bus. It said it on the front, and now the driver tells us. Moaning and groaning ensues. Umbrellas are erected with flumps and fresh sprays of wet.

One elderly woman finds this experience so injust, she waves her umbrella accusingly and shrieks at the driver.

The driver mutters something back to her re “doing my job, it said out of service on the front, etc”.

The woman yells at him saying in a tone that drips with more sarcasm than when I thank my customers

“VERY POLITE, you have a very good education obviously!”

Another old woman beside her joins in berating the bus driver and the bus service in general, and the bus drives off leaving us to fall back into our previous, pre-bus formation.

A woman in a burka (or hijab… look I don’t know the difference, and I don’t care) scours the face of a prune-juice enthusiast who’s passing. I watch the umbrella’s pointy bit dig a furrow through her face, slowly, without breaking the skin or anything, but then it was a plastic tip. She shrieks. The burka woman jerks her umbrella away and gets me with it in the shoulders, but I have my hands up, I’m blocking.

Eventually we get on the bus which is crammed full when it arrives, so we are practically having sex with each other after my stop which is a main train station. Then people hold their soaking wet umbrellas all folded up, against my coat, my tights, my legs. Umbrella water drips down into my boots. I take a passive aggressive stance against this treatment and manage to divert the umbrellas towards more passive and less aggressive companions. I look at facebook on my kindle, but then I can’t hold onto the bar so I have to put it away and stare at the tops of these peoples midget heads.

Several slimey slimeballs try to catch my eye.

I’m not even flattered because I woke up at the last possible minute to wake up for arriving in work on time…. yesterday.

Today I woke up at the last possible minute for leaving the house to arrive on time.

So I didn’t put on any makeup or brush my hair which is GROSS and I mean I never leave the house without at least eyeliner. I look really shit without makeup, trust me.

I arrive at work and don’t even go to my hot barman bar for coffee also because I’m late but I would normally sneak off anyway for a quick shot of coffee anyway. But I look shit so I don’t want sexy barman to see me sans slap and be discover my filthy secret, ie, what I really look like.

So I have not had a coffee yet. Lack of caffeine is like my vitriol-fuel.

Anyway by some freak of random eventitude, I arrive 1 minute before I have to be in work. YES!

Then I start reading shit online. I know I am safe to use the internet this morning because it is pissing rain, my dad won’t be popping in today, he can stay home and be warm.

Then I am just internetting it up, being disappointed with my lack of facebook love, and suddenly BAM out of the corner of my eye, a freaking spider lurking past me with deliberate, menacing movements like someone wearing boots that are way too big for them… ….who is also menacing.

What the fuck? I jump away from the danger area, the computer-equipped danger area, and wait, quivering with fear, for some clever course of action to present itself to me.

I wait, and it becomes clear that I have two choices.

Only two.

First choice is to kill the spider. This is actually not possible for me. I never understood people who are afraid of spiders and yet able to kill them. How can you be afraid of something where you have a simple solution to get rid of it at all times? If I could stomach squishing a bug and having its bug guts VISIBLE to me… ugh no. Can’t do it. I can’t.

That’s that option out.

Second choice is to stay back and hope its trajectory leads it far far away from anything I will need or want to go near, and I can just be on spiderwatch all day. This isn’t a great plan at work, because if a customer distracts me and I lose visual contact with the spider, he will be missing and presumed RIGHT BEHIND ME at all times.

This is the action I took, of course, and I imediately lost sight of the spider as her retreated behind some shelves.

The spider was last seen behind some leather bags, he is considered unarmed and extremely terrifying.

I try to look for him. He is definitely not by the computer right now though so I am safe to type for the moment.

But of course I am jumpy and nervous as hell. I keep imagining his spindly spidey legs wrapping around the side of my face and just as I realise what’s happening, he’s got his icky spider body in front of my eye and because he’s so close and I am young with amazing eyesight, I can see all the cogs and gears that make up his non-human exoskeletal body and it’s wrong and unnatural. And then I see his EYES and he spits spider acid in my eye and I am blinded.

This is my greatest fear.

It combines my two single greatest fears- having acid thrown in my face (leaving me with something REAL to complain about) and my fear of spiders.

Anyway I keep jerking around the place and my eyelid is threatening to come out and get jiggy with it. Damn that shit is annoying. I hadn’t had eyelid- freaky- trouble in years, probably since I lived with my mother. Hmm.

Anyway. A customer comes in and goes straight to the part of the shop I consider most likely to be hiding the spider. I put on some Bootsy Collins so nowI can kind of pass off some of my involuntary shuddering as just bad white person dancing to funky music.

(I didn’t imediately see this side of things, I was just having a little boogie and realised how similar my on purpose dancing is to my ugh spider makes my skin crawl movements)

The customer watches me warily indeed. I stop dancing. I don’t wanna look weird.

He is buying a wallet decorated with flowers, so for some stupid fucking reason I offer to gift wrap it even though I am not mentally ready for anything right now. I have adrenaline raging through my ill-equipped body, telling me to hide or run away. (fight only occurs to me when I am drunk, otherwise big coward)

Normally I am ok with giftwrapping unless I am hung over but this spider thing has me tormented. I am having what can only be described (without too much exaggeration) as a mid-day crisis. I imediately hate myself for offering to wrap the gift. It was a stupid thing to blurt out, it was a moment of insanity and now I have to pay for it.

I smile shakily and select what I think is the right sized gift wrap. It’s not. It’s just too small to close neatly. My fingers try to do some deft shop assistant movements and make nice, but it’s not working. I am trembling like a hung over person and my peripheral vision keeps sending me false alarms regarding the missing spider.

I try to look sick or hung over so it makes sense to the customer that I am looking really weird and my hands are shaking.

I toss aside the giftwrap and take a bigger piece. Then I remember my dad put the scissors in his pocket yesterday, I remeber telling him it was dangerous (it’s a BIG scissors) and he was like “pff” but now I have no scissors. So at this point the customer has been standing waiting for his gift wrapped package for five minutes while I wrestle pathetically with a just too small bit of giftwrap.

Now I can’t cut the big piece so I just wrap it around loads of times and sellotape clumsily at the edges. It looks terrible. I try to slide my creation into a plastic bag without him seeing, but the plastic bag is stuck to the next one and I can’t get them apart with one hand. I crumble and deposit the shittiest gift ever onto the counter and take a bag and then he HELPS me open the bag because he has seen enough to realise I am SPECIAL and not in the good, Fallout games kind of way.


I can’t find it. My nerves are shot. I keep finding stray bits of my hair brushing across my forehead or neck and am ready to burst into self indulgent tears if it’s actually the spider.


Not happy right now.

Anyway it is raining lots and I am sniffling and sneezing which probably means I should get an umbrella because my hat aint doing its job, if you can’t beat em join em, but I am OIRISH! WE don’t waste our time with such inventions.

For those of you unlucky enough to have never visited the nation that spewed me forth from its lovely loins, let me tell you about Irish rain.

In Ireland it rains on average, 300 days out of 365. That doesn’t mean that wherever you are, it is raining 300 days of the year- but somewhere on the island it is raining, yes. It isn’t a particularly huge island, so that’s… well whatever. It’s a statistic, for whatever it’s worth.

Anyway you would think knowing that it rains a lot, that the Irish would be massive users of umbrellas. You might expect us to have monogrammed umbrellas with gold plated handles, or to accessorise umbrellas with our outfits. Or something. But we don’t.

Ireland is too windy for an umbrella to really be a very good idea. It’s too fucking windy. Here’s what has happened every time I have gone so long without using an umbrella that is has seemed like a fantastic invention and I have taken to the streets with one borrowed from an elderly relative (elderly people can use umbrellas because they will probably not go out in the wind anyway as they are too frail, frailer than an umbrella really)

Five minutes of wow, this is great, I’m not even wet, I could READ if I wanted to… my hair is gonna look awesome when I get to work.

Then a little gust of wind turns my umbrella inside out and I have to decide whether to use it anyway all broken and fucked up looking or discard it by the side of the road. Sometimes you see people with umbrellas in Ireland, but it is mystifying. Maybe business people are buying good quality unbreakable umbrellas that I can’t afford. Maybe that is it. All the more reason to hate thier stupid guts.

I hate umbrellas and whosoever wields them.

In Italy it is not windy, so umbrellas make sense. But I still resist them on principle- also, if I carry an umbrella and meet someone on the footpath who also has one, by the laws of I AM TALLER THAN MOST ITALIANS, I have to raise mine over theirs to squeeze by- that means theirs ducks under mine, and flings water onto my head and also my head is exposed to umbrella spikes.

GARRHHH! I hate umbrellas. I wish personal head-bubbles would become a thing, and we could say goodbye and fuck off to umbrellas forever.

I am going out tonight anyway and guess what, after three days of 10 hours shifts to make up for the hours I missed when my mum was over, I actually have tomorrow morning free from work! Saturday morning, imagine! That means I can get shitfaced and fancy free and even footloose if I so desire, and tomorrow I can sleep enough sleep to function as an employee!

Oh man it’s gonna be great.

Except it’s piddling rain.

So hopefully can find somewhere nice to drink and not call it off due to bad weather. My Saturday morning off work will not be taking a rain check, so I have to make tonight a good night.

Anyway. I better do some proper work now. There are no customers but I am too afraid to be near the computer it’s in a corner, if the spider strikes and he could at any moment, I am fucked.




UPDATE: I found the spider. I couldn’t handle not knowing… I shook the shelves by the expensive bags and it came scuttling out and up onto the top shelf. I thought ok, I will let it stay there. We can coexist. (Ie. I wish I could kill you but you are just as scary to me dead) but then the stupid fucker starts making an expedition towards my computer again and my workstation.

This will not stand.

You know how protective I get about bugs coming into my personal space.

So I took off my Clark Kent the pussy glasses and became EXTERMINATE-RA!

Or I don’t know about the name yet, I am working on it. The point is it is my bug killing alter ego who only comes out when I am really truly under siege by some crunchy multi-limbed plague.

So I got my gypsy stick and started stabbing at it through the metal grid back of the shelves as it picked its way across the wall. I said “Hiii— yah!” once but it felt like I was saying hiii-yaa! long after I had stabbed with my stick and the spider was much faster than my stabbing OR my voice so I didn’t continue with that. Then it was nearly getting to the part near my laptop where I would no longer be able to stab at all in case I got bug bits on my precious, so I got real crazy and did a frenzied attack on wherever the spider might hit next… I saw it slip a bit on the wall high above my laptop and realised with some feeling of guilt that I must have mutated its leg a bit. Poor guy. I am sorry mr. Spider, it’s not that I hate you, it’s just that everything about you and your species revolts me and makes my skin crawl. On a celular level I respect you, you are an awesome creature and you have such cool natural abilities that a human with those same powers is a SUPER HERO. So that’s cool. I mean no other creature can say that- maybe an ant. I hate ants too but they are smaller so I can squish them good so they don’t freak me out hence I can allow them to live. Catch 22 yo.

Anyway once I realised I had made it harder for this spider to live its life and catch flies and basically do what a spider does, I decided I could pretend to be merciful if I killed it. It still grosses me out but at least it doesn’t feel like senseless bloodlust. Even though it’s bollox- I only believe euthinasia is right if you can really know if the person wants to be alive or dead. So with animals, I can’t really feel justified with putting them out of their misery… but then luckily I’m not in a position where I have to clarify my stance on the subject.

Anyway I got out the hoover even though this spider was quite large although not very fat, he just had long spindly legs. I know spiders apparently can survive the hoovering process but at least he will be contained for a while. I wish I had some spider poison I could hoover up after him but I don’t. Oh well. I couldn’t allow him to stay living above my head while I blog, that would have been intollerable. That is all, now I can go back to doing nothing.

I’m at least grateful to the spider for giving me something to freak out about this morning as there have been only two customers so far.