Oh, wine… ze sings you do to me!

Drinking… not heavily but consistently.

I haven’t been obliterated by drink in ages, maybe I’m building up a tolerance. But I do seem to find myself popping a lot of corks, mulling a lot of wine, and listening to a lot of Jeff Buckley and moaning YES THIS SONG, YES, THIS IS WHY IT IS ALL WRONG OH GOD IM HIDEOUS, IM HIDEOUS AND FAT, WHO COULD LOVE ME?

And then I listen to something a bit more upbeat and I feel like I could do anything, or even just go to a supermarket and buy salad. But I must stay away from the supermarket because while in Ireland I was limited to how much wine I could take home by price, here I am only limited by arm strength and it’s not that far of a walk home.

I’ve been drinking a lot of wine. I’m not worried about my liver, my liver is something I will worry about when I am aware of it, or when it starts to complain. I’m worried about bloating, about getting that puffy alco- face.

I’m not getting drunk every night so I GUESS I won’t get puffy alco face, but I am drinking a lot, a lot a lot.

I want to drink less but all of the get me out of the apartment and socialising activities are drinks based and let’s be honest I don’t have any normal healthy people hobbies, so I drink.

I do love cooking but frankly fresh food ingredients are more expensive than wine, and also more detrimental to the physical presence too.

I have to find an apartment and a job and I am not having much luck with either, or any luck, and I’m sort of hopelessly in love but also very insecure about it all and my French is not improving as beautifully as i had hoped.

So I drink.

But when I find a job I will have purpose and clarity and the threat of a kick up the arse if I don’t sober up and act like a proper grown up so then I will limit myself to weekends like a normal person.

Oh why can’t they just make non alcoholic wine?

Cause it would suck, that’s why.

Anyway you don’t want to read about how emotional I am being and I don’t want to write it AGAIn and AGAIN  AND AGAIN until we all DIE

so I will cut this short, tell you that I am not doing as wonderfully as my initial wave of optimism implied I would do, and I’m still being nice and outgoing but my motivation-reward-motivation system needs the little reward kicker in between to maintain itself and right now I am feeling all out of reward.

Because of course i can’t just be go with the flow like I said I wanted to be and just enjoy the feeling of a man supposedly loving me and wanting me and being crazy about me like I am about him, because he hurt me so I don’t trust it, like he’s just going to shrug me off one of these days and it will be all my fault for lettng him back in.

So.

Tis a lull.

I did my homework though so that was more than I expected of today.

Fucking flat hunting. It’s not making me a happy little critter, it’s making me a sad sodden drooping thing with a wardrobe full of empty bottles.

Oh, wine.

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I was going to use a fantastically clever pun for my title but decided against it.

Dear Amazon,

I am very pissed off with you.

I bought a kindle about 2 months ago, and it cost like 180 dollars or something.

I liked my kindle. I was happy with my kindle. Sure, the internet on it was pretty shitty. Sure, it was black and white. But I LIKED IT. I was happy. I had the best ebook reader that money could buy. I don’t have a smartphone, but I had a smart fucking book reading device.

AND NOW WHAT DID YOU HAVE TO GO AND DO? HUH?

You brought out a touch screen, full colour, movie-playing, super awesome, internet fucking capable kindle and guess what? It costs 199 dollers.

YEAH I GOT JIPPED. In the eye.

I feel like I have just received a full load of jizz right in my eye, and it’s Amazon’s jizz, and it’s painful and it’s humiliating.

I don’t deserve this shit.

I was sucking Amazon’s dick, I was their customer… and I’m repaid with a load of salty insult?

End of analogy.

But why did Amazon have to go and fucking EMAIL me about it? Why? Could they not let me be happy with my kindle for a little while longer?

 

Anyway. That’s that dealt with. Crushing blow. Technology, why you gotta play me like that? You know I’m your girl. You know I never gonna treat you bad. Ok, so I dragged my first couple of laptops around by the cables, and my current laptop has food all over the keyboard, and I took it apart lazily one day and now I have three screws left over which is a mystery to me. But why, technology… I thought we were in this together?

I better stop being upset about this or I will never manage to cope with real life problems. It’s just a little  mini-gripe. I like mini gripes, because ultimately I’m not going to fall into abject depression because of exploring them. It’s a safer way to rage.

Ok what else to talk about?

Ah, I swept the floor today! YEP!

Ok not that impressive, but actually it is. My floor was so fucking dirty, I swept up like a full pedal-bin bag of dust and crud. I found five empty water bottles under my bed. I found 4 euros in coins… small coins. I found hair elastics I didn’t know I had. I found a pair of shoes I thought I left in London. I found some mystery cupcake-experiments in the oven. I couldn’t see or remember what they had once contained, under the white downy fuzz.

That particular smell threw me… but I got back on the horse, the cleaning horse, and gallopped around emptying ashtrays and changing sheets.

OH speaking of ashtrays, guess what?

I’m kinda trying to maybe give up smoking!

YES!

Ok don’t give me much credit yet.

I did decide to quit smoking because over the last 3 days, every cigarette has been tortuously unenjoyable. I have still tried to smoke, despite my sick-breath mingling with the smooth virginia tobacco mix…mmmm….resulting in what tastes like an ancient pervert in a bar ramming his woolen coat sleeve into my mouth.

I still kept trucking, trying to force the smokes… coughing and wheezing and feeling like a disgusting pathetic creature.

I usually smoke when I’m sick, I’m like the fucking cigarette-bride.

In sickness and in health, til death do us part… oh yeaaaahh.

But then I also ran out of tobacco.

And then I was in a tobacconist and I sort of whimsically decided not to smoke, or to see how long til I crack, really. And today I haven’t smoked at all, at all! I am not lying. I normally lie about these things, I always lie when I pretend to have properly given up smoking… but I honestly haven’t had a single one. And I found a cigarette in my sweeping today and I threw it in the bin. And I could half see myself desperately digging through the bins later on to find that single smoke, so I took the bins out!

I am so good.

Anyway yes, I’m better, more or less, and I’m not smoking, and I cleaned the topcoat of dust in the house, and I feel GOOD.

And tomorrow I am going out but only for a low key night with Andrea, and she invited me out so she obviously doesn’t think I’m a MASSIVE FREAK for whatever nonsense I was babbling about the other night.

Life is good.

Well, today I feel that way. More or less. It’s a fucking rollercoaster, I can’t even commit to optimism or pessimism in one blog post. Anyway, I’ll bow out now. While I’m still flying on the natural high of having cleaned my apartment more or less.

Also I had this really cool jacket (I thought it was super cool) that was blue soft leather and I got it in Amsterdam second hand. It’s the kind of leather you would refer to as “buttery”, and it had massive shoulder pads and it was electric blue. It was humungously unflattering to my figure, but I loved it for how awesomely cool it was, 80s style but not in that atrocious lame teeny bopper re-imagingin of the decade that gave us big shoulders, most of the music I like, and oh yeah, ME.

But it got mouldy from when we were living in the damp house. One sleeve was permanently damaged with flecks of mould. I tried cleaning it, no dice. So today I was looking at the jacket and I finally forced myself to admit it- the jacket looks like a heap of 80s crap. It’s ugly. It’s unflattering. Cool it may be, but there’s nothing cool about looking how I looked in that jacket. And then I started thinking, is it even cool? It’s just soft blue leather. It has shoulder pads. It’s not cool… I love it for some reason, but it is not cool…

So before I could start talking myself into keeping it, I hacked off the good arm and cut it up, attached it to a hardback cover of a book I didn’t like, used some glue and shit and made an awesome sexy soft cover for my kindle.

Oh I was so happy. I did this like half an hour before reading my emails, wherein I learned that my kindle is now A RELIC, a black and white tv, a Nokia 3210, a vhs player.

Man I’m so weird about technology, I get these pangs of guilt when I talk shit about my electronic goods. I feel like my poor kindle is going to get all suicidal because I don’t love it. I have an urge to run into the kitchen where my kindle is sleeping (sheesh) and proclaim “I’m sorry, I DO love you!”

So I’m not going to run in and relieve the guilt and put my kindle’s mind at ease. I am going to work on my sanity, the only way I know how…

That’s right, I’m going to watch some Seinfeld. You know I downloaded ALL the seinfeld? I’m starting to work through them from series one to the very end. I have seen most of the episodes many times but I am being thorough because ehhhh I don’t have anything ELSE going on in mah life right now, also, I love Seinfeld.

Peace out.

It’s a slow news day, so here is a post about my neighbours

My next door neighbour is a mystery. I have given up on trying to discover anything juicy that would make her a proper sitcom neighbour. But there was a point, when I first moved in here with husband, all bright eyed and eager to be a super homemaker with a great sex life and all sorts of woks and kitchen utensils for hosting edgy dinner parties…I was going to reinvent marriage in a cool, modern way- when I thought my neighbours would unwrap themselves slowly, become real people with quirks and personalities. Maybe one neighbour would borrow sugar one time, or offer me some of the biscuits they baked. We might become balcony buddies and chat about nothing while hanging our clothes out to dry. A world of possibilities, from each blank window on the building’s face, a fully fleshed out character would emerge with petty squabbles and holiday plant-watering capabilities.

My building has six floors and each floor has two apartments with a similar cramped layout.

In a year and a half of apartment life, I have become aware of the existence of:

My next door neighbour, who I know is eastern european of some kind, and smokes. She is skinny with black  straightened hair and wears tight jeans. She is attractive but not beautiful, and has no ass or tits worth mentioning (but I did anyway, yo). She’s a bit nondescript, really. Husband was convinced she was a prostitute based on the fact that he saw her “out and about” early in the morning (9am) and that meant she must have been up all night and just coming home from her prostitute shift. I suggested maybe she’s a nurse, but he rejected that theory. I suggested she got up earlier than us retail monkeys and went to the market before work or something. He frowned. No. He played his favorite card, the Jack of “I’m from South America so I know more about the seedy underbelly of the world, plus I’m older than you and you’re just some Gringa”. I hate that shit, and anyway you don’t insist you’re an authority on hookers to your wife, it doesn’t get you fucking points, it gets you a paranoid wife and a lot of arguments. But anyway. Neighbour does get a lot of visitors to her apartment, but never very late at night and I think maybe she just has a decent number of friends. The buzzer sounds like it’s ringing in my apartment so I regularly answer and it depresses me because, of course it’s not for me, I don’t have any friends. I see this woman anyway very rarely, she goes out to her balcony to smoke (who does that? She lives alone for fucks sake!) and I never venture to my balcony unless it’s to leave the binbags there when I can’t be bothered bringing them downstairs yet but can’t cope with the smell of them in my kitchen any more, and I always feel terrible shame when I see how neat and nice her balcony is and how revolting mine is. She has a nice rug and some little ugly ornaments and some living plants with potholders, and all I have are some old buckets of paint and a few dead, dried out sticks that used to be basil and aloe vera and even some dead cacti (that’s right, I even kill cacti) and my friend the rotting potato. (I’ll update that photo, the months have not been kind to him.)

My upstairs neighbour, the old man who thinks I stole his sock-

It allegedly landed on my balcony while I was cooking before some friends arrived, and I was in no mood to meet my neighbours. It started raining so I brought all my clothes in and threw them in a heap. He came down and started banging on my door, threw a hissy fit and insisted his sock fell and wanting to see my balcony. I asked him calmly, did your sock fall just now? Yes yes just now! I’m like, right because about an hour ago I took in all my clothes when it started raining. There’s nothing on the balcony now. I checked. No no it was just now! So it was after I had taken in the clothes? Yes yes! Well then, it must have fallen off my balcony too. If it was just sitting on the clothes line, it could have fallen off and onto someone else’s balcony. Later it emerged that his sock was in fact amongst my clothes and if he’d calmed down and told me when he lost his sock instead of screeching at me I would have looked amongst the clothes, but he wrecked my head  over the next three days ringing the doorbell enquiring after his sock, convinced I had done something with it and wanting to search my apartment. He was furious but my massive pile of clothes was not going to be searched through that weekend. We had a guest staying who also had foreign socks to my apartment, and we had a party as well so were a little hung over to deal with this guy’s shit. Eventually I found his sock and gave it back but he angrily said he had already thrown out the other one. Anyway, this man goes through the bins to see if I have or have not recycled properly. (hint: I have not)

The irritable Peruvian family downstairs. The mother hates me because we had a moment in Lidl… I didn’t know she lived in the building, and I was in Lidl queueing for freaking ages, and this guy comes up from the BACK of the queue and just walks up to me (I’m next in line) and smirks and says “I just have one thing” and puts it in front of me like a presumptive asswipe, and I’m not about to be a dick even though he is one, so I just give him a filthy look and shrug, because it is only one thing but fuck him he’s not getting off the hook totally. Then from somewhere behind, this middle aged south american cunt comes up and gives me a smarmy, fake, nun-like smile and says “I only have a few things” (she had like five items less than me) and starts putting them down on the conveyor belt too… presuming it’s fine and I’m just the fucking place holder for everyone who has been queueing less time.. so I’m like “eh… excuse me, no” and she gives me this expression that makes me want to smack her in the face (I told you she reminded me of an old nun, with that stupid innocent, ignorant face…) and she simpers “I only have a few things” and I’m furious now, all my pent up Lidl indignation from years of being passed over in queues: “well if I have to let everyone who has less items go ahead of me, I’ll never get home, and look that guy already passed me so no” and she picked up her UHT milk and hydrogenated vegetable fat muffins looking extremely hurt and went back to her place RIGHT BEHIND ME. I had about 12 things. What the fuck is wrong with this woman? Bitch. but now I see her in the hall and it is AWKWARD. Fuck her anyway. I think she told her husband because he doesn’t seem to be allowed to meet my eyes, but that’s cool I don’t like him either.

And that’s all the neighbours I have ever seen. Oh, except for the bitch upstairs who my husband caught in the act of shaking her rug out over my clean, drying clothes hung on the line on the balcony. This was the day after I had washed the clothes again because I always saw crumbs and dust and crap on my clean clothes if I left them out overnight and this time I had found actual human toenail clippings and oh man that was gross, all over my clean clothes. So I washed everything again, totally grossed out, and this dickfaced old corpse of a woman was shaking her rug, back at the scene of the crime. FYI, the balcony goes around the side of the building too. Everyone has a clothes line where I have mine,she could shake her rug over the street by just turning to her right, and it’s not a busy street, no one ever walks there. Anyway she apologised but I got a drier after that because she still does it and it’s pig ignorant.

So those are my neighbours. I haven’t seen anyone else in a year and a half living here. That’s weird…

Sometimes on Sunday mornings I hear some weird noises like machinery and I imagine it’s some sort of chair lift being used to bring down some elderly occupant of an upstairs apartment. I presume for church or some other futile excercise, and it’s annoying because I work every morning of the week except for Sunday and the noise wakes me up.

It only started a few months ago, just after I put a stop to my previous Sunday morning wake up call.

This former source of annoyance and eye-bleeding was the music of my next door neighbour, the prostitute/nurse.

She used to begin her own day and to a worse extent, mine, with Romania’s greatest hits. You know what that means. Numa numa. That’s right. It used to drive me fucking crazy. Waking up at 8am on a Sunday to fucking Numa numa.

It went on for weeks as I tried in vain to smother myself with my pillow, writihing in agony on the bed wishing I could go back to fucking sleep on the only day of the week I could…

I’m too much of a pussy to knock on the wall. Passive aggression is more my style.

But one Sunday, she changed the cd. (I presume she still uses cds because I am racist like that)

It was the Bee Gees. How deep is your love. Oh man I love that song. That’s like, my song.

I love it. I love it even though I have the voice of a chain smoking rat being fed into a sausage mill. I can’t resist joining in, I don’t care if someone hot is sitting nearby, I could be in a job interview and I’d burst into song.

So my desire to sleep falls away and I’m soon bouncing on my bed (still lying horizontal, but it’s the only way to bounce without breaking the wooden supports) screeching “AND THE MOOOMENT THAT you wonder FAAAAR FROM ME I WANNA FEEL YOU IN MY ARMS AGAIN!!!” And I get really into it, and we’ve just got to my favorite most impossible for my lousy female voice to sing part,

“AND IT’s ME YOU NEEED TO SHOW!!!”

And she switches off the music and it’s dead quiet. And I was angry for a second and then I realised, Eu fucking reka, I just figured out how to keep Numa numa off the airwaves.

So every time she forgets how thin the walls are, I roll up my sleeves and get down and dirty with the worst music on the planet and she soon gets the hint and we have silence again.

Anyway, now you know all my neighbours. I have to say I’m disappointed with the quality of neighbours I have. The only one I don’t despise is the prostitute/nurse. She’s ok, but we’re not exactly swapping recipes across our balconies… I have to say I’m disappointed.

Minor Achievements, yo!

Today I completed two very minor tasks that had been weighing on me heavier than… oh shit man, they should make a cool pop references thesaurus. I can’t think of awesome shit to say, I’m sorry.

Ok so two tasks, long overdue… the sort of thing normal people do before breakfast, the kind of people who eat breakfast, and don’t tick “eat breakfast” off their to do list and feel like it’s an accomplishment (I can never get out of bed in time to have breakfast)

One was pay those bills. Those embarrassingly overdue bills from over a month ago, maybe two months. the next bills will arrive next week, probably. It will be depressing as fuck. But I paid those two fat mothers that have been the bane of my existence for so long. It’s humiliating because I live across the road from the post office, all I have to do is get out of bed, go downstairs in a shift dress and smelling of morning, unwashed body… and take a number, and go back upstairs, have a shower, drink coffee, mess around online, eat fucking breakfast, and every so often twitch the curtains and see what number they are serving, then mosey on down to stand for like a minute before it’s my number. And that requires me to get up 20 minutes before I normally get up. Like, it’s taken me a month to manage that.

But I did it, and I swear the reward system of the human body is AWESOMe. Not only has the guilt been lifted (there’s still more guilt, but that was a big un. Still have to write to my aunt and congratulate her on getting married oh goddammit I have to get that done, she’ll hate me so much, I didn’t go to the wedding and I’m her only neice… shit fuck I’ve left it so late… it was ages ago.) And anyway yeah I paid my bills and it took five minutes.

And I had breakfast.

AND.

Also.

Last but not least!

I haven’t cleaned my bathroom floor in about a month either. It’s covered in lint and debris and general nasty stuff. Every time I go in there and sit on my wooden seat on my porcelain throne, I look at the floor in front of me. And every time, I catch a glimpse of the same dead wasp near my feet. And it freaks me out and I am afraid to look at it, until I remember it isn’t a wasp, it’s a piece of pocket lint or fluff or something, and I finally work up the courage to look straight at it (I have a terrible fear of DEAD bugs) and then I’m flooded with relief enzymes because it’s just fluff.

And every time I use the toilet and go through the dead wasp -no- pocket fluff-  routine, I think “hmmm, I should pick up the fluff and throw it in the bin so I don’t go through this again. And I always shrug and go “meh” (not really, because who does that on their own? A psychopath. No one has ever shrugged alone, probably, apart from the odd serious nut job.) And I never pick up the fluff, and it repeats and repeats and oh shit man, so many wasted stress hormones on this wasp business. So today I finally did it, I didn’t manage to clean the floor but I did pick up the fluff and put it in the bin.

Proud moment.

I’d almost call and tell my mother, but I think she might actually be impressed, and that would depress me because it would just prove how worthless and unmotivated I really am, if my mother thinks this was a good day for me too…