I woke up naturally, feeling so perfectly rested I was sure it had to either be WAY late and my alarm hadn’t gone off, or else it was WAY early and my alarm wasn’t going to go off for another hour or two and I would get to snuggle into my warm cosy morning-bed and just dwell on how happy and great it is to be in your bed in the morning.
I checked my alarm.
It was five minutes before alarm clock time.
A normal person might think, that’s wonderful! It means I feel totally well rested at the perfect time to get up and have a shower, and or once I don’t have to brush my hair while I pee or do my makeup while eating breakfast.
I’m fully rested. I can get up and achieve things. I can pick an outfit that is both flattering and warm and I can make lunch for myself, and have a whole pot of coffee, and bring a thermos of tea to work, and maybe root out that census that needs to be filled in this month or I’ll be fined but I keep forgetting…
No, of course I didn’t do any of that shit.
The decision I made, the decision I always ake, was to snuggle deeper into my nest and force myself to go back to sleep for the five precious minutes I still had “a right” to sleep through.
So then after barely sinking back to sleep, but of course unable to recuperate my dream (it was a good un) I woke up groggy and unhappy and pushed the snooze around 15 times until it was the absolute latest I could get up without being late, then lay there and stared at the ceiling, berating myself for another ten minutes.
I think this actually might be depression. I HOPE it’s depression, and I’m not just destined to wake up this way every day for the rest of my life.
Finally I mustered the strenght to get out of bed, threw on some clothes that were neither warm nor pretty, and brushed my teeth. I decided there was enough of yesterday’s mascara and liner smudged under my eyes, that I could just wet a brush and displace some of it onto my top lids, and save time on the makeup.
(Such a shame sleepy-me is such a selfish greedy cunt. Because awake me is hyper efficient. Imagine what she could achieve with a whole 20 minutes in the morning?)
I left the house in amazing time, 10 minutes after hauling myself out of bed, but I was still 5 minutes later out the door than I should have been. As ALWAYS. And I looked like I’d slept under a hedge, in the rain.
I ran down the road in the snow, packed icy under hordes of pensioner boots, having to vault over old people who were picking their precious way along the path. They are determined not to interrupt normal routine with a silly little thing like the worst snowfall in Italy in like 50 years. Oh don’t worry about dying of hypothermia or slipping a disc or making me late for work, it’s thursday, that means you go buy a piece of fish in the market. Continue as normal.
Selfish, hardy, bastards.
So I slid and leaped through the jagged mounds of snow scraped to the sides of the path, because there was no room to overtake the migration of old folks pushing along on the dry bit like dying beasts crossing the steppe.
My feet were already soaked. YAY rest of the day!
I made it to the tobacconist just as one tram was clattering doors shut and hurtling away. There was another one just behind it though, stopped to leave a bit of distance between the two.
But I needed tickets. Normally I have a monthly ticket but I won’t be here all month so I need to get a few single tickets. I’ve already been fined before, and it was awful, I am not taking that chance again.
Inside the tobacconist, the elderly owner chain smokes all day. It’s totally illegal of course but no one cares. Her shop, like many small family owned businesses here, exists outside time and space and law and taste and decor. The prices are hand written illegibly with Italian 9s that look like “g”s and you can expect to pay around 2 euros for a packet of chewing gum, for example. The window display is made up of creepy sexist toys in faded and battered cardboard boxes made by companies such as “Barbara” and “my small horse” and “just girls fun”.
She doesn’t seem to really inhale her cigarettes, she just second hand smokes them. One is always perched on her bottom lip and she talks to customers without dislodging it. To my left are two fruit machines with stupid names like “farmyard millionaire dash”, illustrated with sappy drawings of cartoon cows and chickens. I don’t know why someone would think that’s an appealing image for a gambler. I would be more inclined to go with pictures of money, or jewels, or casino style hookers, or mountains of coke. Or anything apart from farm animals.
There are two miserable stinking creatures hunched over these machines at all times. the smell is always the same but the customers are different. Always with the clanging and ringing and flashing lights but I never heard a coin do anything but lodge in the machine’s belly.
The owner is smoking. As I approach the counter hurriedly, she rips a scratchcard off the strip hanging behind her and starts painstakingly scraping off the foil. She doesn’t just go for the place where the numbers are, she scratches the whole rectangle off meticulously.
She blows and continues scraping.
“Can I get four tickets for the bus?”
She finishs the scratchcard, does some mental calculations, throws it in the bin, walks off to another part of the counter and begins talking to another old person who was there before me but didn’t seem to be in the queue. She hands them some stamps, returns, gets them some change, then leisurely exchanges some pleasantries and says goodbye.
Rotates a few degrees in my direction. She looks so nonchalant with that cigarette. She really doesn’t give a shit. She’s like the badass Sandra Dee, but I wouldn’t want to see her in a catsuit.
Four tickets for the bus please.
Pulls out a string of perforated tickets. Looks at me, doubtful.
Four is it?
Four yes thanks.
One… (taps a gnarled, yellow finger on the first ticket) Two.. three……
I reach out with the exact change and make a hasty grabbing gesture with the other hand.
She rips them off and begins folding them back on one another, neatly, in an accordion.
ARRHH! Grab grab grab goes my hand. She’s in no hurry. There!
I snatch the tickets and dump the coins on her counter. Turn to leave.
I’m at the door.
What? I turn back. Did I maybe give her too much?
Eh, you only put four euro down!
Yes, four euro, four tickets.
NO! That would be SIX euro. Four tickets, SIX euro!
She looks horrified by my blatant attempt to pull a fast one. The gamblers swivel around and shake their heads, dimly gazing through the smoke.
“They cost a euro each.”
“NO! YOU KNOW they cost 1.50 each. THAT’S 6 euros not four!”
What? They always cost one.
The price went up.
Yesterday I bought two tickets and they cost one each, like they always did.
The price went up TODAY.
Oh right. I see. Well I didn’t know that.
She points to some tiny sign somewhere out of the way. I heard someone “tut” at me.
I extract my wallet and fling two coins at the indignant shopkeeper with her arms folded.
I rush headlong into an elderly lottery player who enters as I try to leave the shop. The tram pulls away as I push past and out the door.
The road the next one has to come down is empty as far as I can see, no sign of salvation. Damn. I’ve missed two now, I am going to be so late. FUCKING tobacconist cunt.
For a moment I fantasize about calling in an anonymous tip about her smoking indoors, to the authorities, but I’m no rat.
I’m going to have to walk though. I start walking in the snow. All around me, hordes of pensioners. Lidl must be having a special offer on prune juice. I think if I got up earlier I might miss the rush hour of the living dead, but I happen to start work late, when all the college and office types are already tucked away for the day, and the old folks deem it safe to emerge.
So I get the worst of it.
I rush past them slipping and sliding. The poke me with umbrellas and emit confused sounds, turning slow, like a pig on a spit.
I make it five blocks like this and then I see it, the 68, in the distance, stopped at a traffic light. I run. I am so going to snot myself now.
I throw myself forwards, nearly land on a metal bin, skid on past, the bus barely overtaking me and as its doors open I reach it and clatter onboard.
I might be on time now. It’s possible.
The bus chugs along,keeping pace with the arthritic pedestrians outside.
I lean forward in my plastic bucket seat, urging the 68 on its way…
But an orange snow ploughing tractor pulls out in front. The jig is up.
Get to work late, late, late. No time for coffee, no time for hot barman sandwich. Destined to freeze and starve and not even have a hot person smile at me this morning.
Cold cold cold.
Of course I probably could be warmer, if I wore pants. I am still wearing my dresses in spite of the snow. I am wearing tights and woolly over the knee socks which give warmth without being totally sexless. You can see I have skinny thighs, so that is important. The important thing is to allow the body to be so cold it starts, I don’t know, burning more energy to warm up. Either that or it will store all my available energy as fatty insulation, and make me sluggish. I really hope that’s not the way it works but honestly… I have no idea.
I definitely wouldn’t enjoy Sweden or Canada. Hunks might keep me warm at night, but they probably aren’t going to hang around me all day rubbing my toes til the blood begins to circulate.
I’m glad it snowed though. It’s the best snowfall I’ve ever seen. I’m used to the slushy wet stuff that mixes with the city grime and turns grey and brown. This is powdery and and immaculate. It falls slow and fluffy. Underfoot it’s dry, soft and crunches like tiny polystyrene balls. Apparently this is the kind that skiiers and snowboarders love.
I took some photos yesterday. It’s pretty tough for me to take photos in public, because for some reason it makes me embarassed and self conscious. It’s not just the hyper-critical, stare-happy Italians. It’s also me. I have a problem.
I went to Argentina and I was too awkward to take any photos… or ask for directions. When I got lost I would get in a taxi.
I took some photos, sure, but for instance when I visited La Boca, this really famous poor neighbourhood where all the buildings are painted in loud cheery colours, I didn’t take a single photo. Even though there were loads of tourists around taking the exact same photos as each other, the exact same shots I wanted for myself, I couldn’t bring myself to join them. It’s a horribly underpriviledged neighbourhood. It was settled by fishermen, but the river is so polluted you couldn’t eat those fish any more. The smell of that river permeated the streets and nearly put me off my steak. In the summer the whole neighbourhood smelt putrid, like a dump…
The bright colours on the walls were because the residents couldn’t afford house paint, so they used the stuff left over from their fishing boats. But it’s famous for its “character” and lively colours and everywhere, fat tourists grin in front of the houses and the locals perform tango in formal wear and try to bully you into their restaurants which just pisses me off. (The bullying, not the tango. Although I have no interest in tango. It’s too… culture-y for my tastes. Big whoop, you can do a special dance. Also I am incapable of following a man’s lead.)
But among all the vibrance and tourist traps I was told, the people who lived there were not allowed to sell those houses or knock them down or fix them up. The houses were an important tourist attraction. If that’s true, it totally sucks. That place STANK and the houses were not in great nick. Imagine being stuck living on a street where every single day, fat Yanqui tourists would be standing outside your door posing for photos with massive Nikon cameras and an easy forearm resting on your wall and bellowing at each other about souvenirs.
I went up close to one and the shutters were broken. Inside I could see a bare concrete floor and a manky ripped mattress on the ground with a lean tanned person sleeping on it. The interior wasn’t painted, or the paint was flaking off. There was no furniture, it looked really fucking dire. Of course, I was living in a similar set up, just in a safer neighbourhood. But I felt weird taking photos there, like it was a sad, grotesque place and I was way too close to people who were actually poor in a way I could never comprehend. I was slumming it in Buenos Aires but I was slumming it with 10,000 pesos saved up in the bank, and a whole lot of family I could hit up for western union moneys in an emergency. I was only slumming it because I was cheap and wanted to put off working again for as long as I could. I don’t even know, maybe they made a shitload of money out of the tourism and lived well. It just didn’t seem that way to me. So I haven’t got a single photo of La Boca.
In Italy I still have a problem taking photos but for different reasons. I feel under tremendous pressure. Like everyone is watching me thinking, “oh yeah, nice shot, amateur. Ooh yeah take it from low down, makes the statue look all big and imposing against the sky. REAL artistic shit there, bet you’re still using it on automatic, aren’t you?” (yes) or, “oh look you think that’s a cool looking tree with snow on it? Yeah so does every other tourist dipshit” So I get really paranoid and nervous and sometimes I wait until the cars go by because even people in cars put me off my game. And then I will snap the building but then a car will fly past anyway and I will go bright red and the photo will be a blur.
I managed to get past that yesterday and I took some photos in the snow. It was snowing hard so it was difficult, because the camera kept focusing on the snow that was falling and the background was too dark. I am not very good with my camera so between the snow and the fact that it was dark outside, I didn’t get many good shots.
I went down to one of the big piazzas, down by the river, and took pictures there. People stared at me but I fought off the mind gremlins with the argument that “I’m wearing a hat and scarf, they can barely see my face to remember me and think I am a weirdo for taking photos”. I’m so jealous of those people who not only can take photos of famous monuments, but can also take ones of themselves in front of these monuments, doing crappy poses. I wish I had some posed photos of me but I’m far too stupidly self conscious.
I saw some civil defence dudes in galoshes with “prevention of snow and ice” written on them or something along those lines, and they were all huddled up on this little bus, and two of them were out on the road digging the bus out of the snow with big shovels. I wanted to take a photo of that but there were too many people around so I got embarassed. Stupid jerk.
Then in the piazza, there was a woman with a massive wolf-like puppy. It was probably part wolf. It was beautiful. It bounded around the place like it was being shot out of a cannon, nearly knocking me down a few times. It was awesome. And the woman starts SCOLDING it, in this nasal whiney voice, wagging a superfluous finger. “Veronica! COME HERE! VERONICA! come here NOW!”
Veronica, she has a wolf and she called it Veronica. Fucks sake woman. What a waste…
Veronica the wolf didn’t pay a modicum of attention to her silly human though. She charged up and down and around, snow flurrying through the air. That was a happy looking critter. She was panting and kept running up to her owner and then rushing off as the owner tried to lurch forward and catch her.
“Ve- RON – i-CA! Come here! I’ll leave. I’ll leave you here, would you like that? Huh? I’ll do it. I’ll leave you, I will. I AM NOT JOKING VERONICA! You’ll be left here all on your own! Right, that’s it I am going! Right! I’m leaving you, do you hear me?” She screamed hysterically at the frolicking beast.
Seriously, threatening to leave it there only works on small children who understand human language, and only like once or twice and then they know you are lying. Dogs, as far as I am aware, can understand tone of voice. I tested this on my dog, who comes when you yell “Ru-unt!” or “mongrel!” or anything, provided she hasn’t got any other plans in which case she will completely ignore anything you say anyway. The wolf was just having a good time, it reminded me of my dog although my dog is an adult dog and “somebody” should have trained her by now. (my mother’s fault)
The woman eventually caught the dog and dragged it away. I bet she only brought it down from her 40 square metres of apartment to do an incognito shit in the snow.
I grew bolder as my feet became numb. I ran around in circles. The snow on the roads is constantly being cleared and salted and so you can’t see how much it has been snowing, but down in the piazza, it’s mostly untouched and there’s about a foot of it. I ran around and felt quite giddy and carefree. It would have been lovely to have a few friends with me to enjoy it, and a bottle of whiskey or some mulled wine.
As you can imagine, productivity at work has reached an all time low. I used to be a lazy piece of shit- now I am at the point where I’m watching documentaries on youtube because frankly it makes no difference what I do, there are no customers and I may as well learn some new facts to liven up conversations, when and if they occur. I watched one about Lake Vostok which was pretty cool but as with most documentary programs, it went into way too much speculation and interviewing people who talked about the problems there might be drilling into the lake and spent very little time on the actual facts, but that’s kinda fair enough because they don’t know anything about the lake yet. Anyway if you are inclined look up Lake Vostok on youtube it is pretty interesting although I did browse reddit in another window as my attention span is not quite read for a whole documentary on its own.
I learnt nothing of use though. I tried to share this piece of education with my family over dinner last night and there was no clear fact bites for me to regurgitate. I just wound up giving them a vague impression that there is a lake somewhere under ice, and it is big and might have gross but scientifically important insects in it.
My sister is learning all sorts of bullshit in school. Either her teachers are fucking ignorant, or else she is just absorbing her facts wrong like I guess I do too. She told me last night, “did you know that dogs are incapable of feeling full? If there is food they will always eat it. They are always hungry, they can’t stop eating. the only reason they EVER stop eating is because their owners limit the food they give them”
I’m like, no that’s bullshit, I have a dog (well, it’s my mother’s dog now) so I know that’s not true, but if you want a neat doggy fact, they ARE incapable of sweating, that’s why they pant.
My sister furrows her brow. “No that’s what my teacher says, they will just keep eating forever.”
I’m like, “sure, dogs might eat past their hunger like humans do, winding up obese… but they definitely do stop eating at some point. They aren’t “incapapable of feeling full”, they are just able to tolerate some discomfort for the sake of tasty food, just like humans do.”
Fucks sake. She’s always coming home with tidbits like that and she always argues “well that’s what my teacher said”. I wonder about her teachers.
Oh maaaan it is cold. I have stacked some opened out cardboard boxes on the ground behind the counter to stand on. It helps somewhat. and it’s hidden from view, but there is no one here to see my hobo decor anyway. People seem to have more sense than I give them credit for, they are staying at home being warm.
London soon.. London and I’m leaning towards Dublin these past few days.
I just don’t think I’ll be able to hack it in London, being all broke and commuting on the underground and not being able to afford anything or live alone with a double bed (a basic human right for an adult, in my opinion).
I think Dublin is where I should be.
Starting to reverse-engineer my changing decision, finding pros to Dublin and cons to the UK.
I have a flight booked for London in 11 days, but I can go there for a few days and then move onto the greener pastures of home. Where it is probably just as cold, but it’s not frowned upon to drink hot whiskeys all day…
Oh Ireland, i miss you..
I was standing behind the till on my sheets of cardboard. There was no one in the shop, I was just chillin’, counting my hours… speculating on my move to Ireland…
A teenage girl enters the shop. Her mother stands in front of the door eating a slice of pizza.
The girl asks for some thing, I show her the one we have and it’s not what she’s looking for. The mother swings the door open and ducks her head in.
“Is that… is the other woman, is she here too?”
What? Oh these people and their nonsense questions.
“The other woman, she works here doesn’t she?”
What other woman?
“You know the one, there was a woman who was undressing the mannequin outside.”
WHAAAAT? (there is a mannequin outside with a shirt and a skirt on. I can’t see it from inside the shop but it’s heavy and the clothes are really hard to get off her quickly. So no one has every stolen anything…)
I run outside. Sure enough, the mannequin is topless. I look around. Where? Who?
The mother tells me “I saw a woman taking the shirt off, I thought she worked here. Then she put it in her handbag and walked off. and then i saw, she had a red umbrella and why would you have an umbrella at work?”
The daughter is outside now too. I lock the door of my shop and ask which way she went. That way…
I start running down the street, pretty sure I will not find the culprit and just wind up looking foolish. A red umbrella… a red umbrella.
I run two blocks in my indoor jumper. It’s so cold… the footpath is icy. I think I will have to turn back, there’s no one around with a red umbrella and how would I deal with the situation anyway? She must be long gone. I wouldn’t hang around after thieving something in broad daylight like that.
I survey the street as I jog, about to give up, when I spot a flash of red. . I KNOW it can’t be her but fuck it I’m here now.
I approach her.I don’t know what to do but somehow I burst out with a gruff “OPEN YOUR BAG.”
And I’m internally freaking out that she’s going to be all offended and refuse and say “how dare you” and it will be a big ordeal and very awkward and I’ve made a mistake but she’s opening her handbag and her hand is shaking and there’s the shirt crumpled up.. and I pull it out and check there’s nothing else from my shop in there. She mumbles “I’m sorry, I’m just a bit…”
I have the shirt, which was my goal… I don’t know what else I should do, but I can’t exactly frog march this bitch to the police station, it’s pretty far away on foot… she looks a bit crazy too. My mace is in my coat pocket back in the shop. What’s the procedure here? I have the thief. But there’s nothing I can do, really. And I have the shirt….
I scan her face to remember it and jog back to my shop.
The woman who tipped me off about the theft was in giddy spirits.
“AHHH! you got it! I saw that umbrella, i thought… that’s weird, why would you go to work and have an umbrella in your hand?”
Yeah and why would you go outside the shop you work in, undress the mannequin, put the shirt in your handbag and walk off down the street? But I thank her profusely for the help and briefly consider giving her a discount on something but then her daughter buys a crappy 50% of scarf so I can’t lower the price any more.
I thank the woman again.
She is blushing proudly and repeatedly tells me how it happened, how she saw the woman and thought she worked here and then saw the umbrella and her suspicion was aroused. I thank her again.
I’m a crime-fighting hero that’s what I am. I consider embellishing my story to tell my dad. Tackled the thief to the ground. Thief wasn’t petite woman, thief was tall agile gypsy. Wrestled shirt from her… no, from HIS grasp. Saw a flash of steel… let him go…
No. No. I’m not a very good liar.
I’m just happy I got the thing back. After that time I chased a thief with a bag full of my favorite clothes and shoes, and lost him, I felt pretty shitty. Because I made all the effort to chase after him and got really bad acid indigestion and ruined my weekend, and all for nothing. So this time I feel a nice sense of accomplishment even if it is pretty minor.
But the thing is, I keep trying to stop writing. To cut this off and draw a line. ENOUGH for today.
But stuff keeps happening, nothing massive really but the sort of thing that I can’t not inform you of.
Like, after my drammatic low speed foot chase, I worked for a little while and then took my lunch.
I was looking pretty unattractive after skipping the hair and makeup this morning, so I felt like i should scrub up a little before I unleashed my face on the city streets, even if only to buy a sandwich. If it wasn’t for hot barman I would probably never wash my hair and slink into work in… trousers or something.
I coated my frostbitten ruddyness with my ghostly foundation. I don’t usually wear this stuff but I have all these red marks where I picked at my spots. The foundation covers them up nicely but leaves me looking ill or scared. I don’t have any blusher or lipstick in my bag. Shit. So I just rub my cheeks vigourously until I have some colour in them again. And layer on some mascara. And there I have it, I look reasonably presentable. I haul in the mannequin and and lock the door, set off for hot barman’s bar.
I know, I had pretty much given up on hot barman.
But then like the day before yesterday, I went in for my sandwich and coffee and he leapt up to the till all enthusiastic, gave me a lovely smile which I am under no illusions as to being exclusively reserved for me, but still. Makes my cold badass insides melt and my brain turn to mush.
I make involuntary sounds like “arp!” and “mork?” when he smiles at me suddenly.
He asks me with a flourish of barman charm,
“So how do you like all this snow we have here?”
I have a technique which I totally recommend if you too suffer from the inability to be positive about things.
So I say whatever grouchy shit I have to say, but I say it briskly and with a big beaming smile and then I add some phrase about how I don’t mind anyway, or it’s lovely anyway, or all countries have their pros and cons.
I grin, twinkle my eyes, and say “Oh it’s too cold! The snow was lovely for the first two days but now it’s such a pain to get around and so COLD! I’ve never seen so much snow!… It’s LOVELY!” And to drive home that I am a positive and fun loving kind of gal, I laugh at the end.
Well he had to make someone a coffee then so he wished me a good day and went back to work, and I beamed from ear to ear and rushed off to my shop.
But he talked to me, he talked to me. I know he’s friendly to everyone… but he asked me about the snow and seriously I am so rarely the recipient of any kind of hot person’s attention that I will take it as flirtation of the highest order. Anyway I hit the falafel place first because I am sick of pizza and sandwiches and that’s the only other option for a late lunch. You can also get “piadina” which are like wraps and initially they seemed like the healthier option… until I read the ingredients on those wraps. The bread itself contains LARD. It’s one of the first couple of ingredients. What the fuck? White bread, with LARD in the dough? Why? Is this necessary? It’s not even that nice. The arab bread is much nicer. Anyway, I get my falafel…
As I’m rushing back hoping hot barman is on duty so I don’t just waste my money, I hear someone passing me exclaim
“Hello!” and I turn around hoping it’s not sexy homeless guy or someone I don’t know tricking me into some face time.
It’s hot barman, he has just walked past me with a couple of friends and is still smiling expectantly in my direction. I whip back a hi and a flicker of a smile, and continue. Oh my god oh my god.
I mean if I was just passing him, head on, it would be nothing. Our eyes would meet and we’d HAVE to say hi or risk being rude. But he passed me at speed and a good three metres away, and I wasn’t looking that way so he could totally have not said hi to me. But he did say hi. Oh hot barman. You sly dog. I was nearly moving on with my life…
Now I’m all melted again.
I don’t even know what I’d DO with hot barman if I ever got the chance to jump his bones.
What would I do with him? He’s like… 4 years younger than me and looks all golden and innocent. He’s a lovely looking guy, he radiates sunshine and happyness, like someone as yet unkicked by life. It’s probably what older men like about younger women. The brightness, the light movements, the eyes that shine and the robust health of not yet having had to choose alcohol over a proper diet.
I moon over hot barman and think all sorts of silly little points about youth and lust and discard them all instantly. He’s just a hot guy, I’d feel exactly as hopeless and strung out if he was a really hot 40 year old. He’s not even that much younger than me, it’s only me imagining romantic notions of myself as a tragic divorcee with wasted potential and oportunities and I’ll never get some part of my innocence back… etc. You know. I am aware of how ridiculous I am being. I can’t help it. I’m drammatic. I’m 24, I like to think it’s not so bad because I am aware of it and I stop myself from languishing too much in the “damaged goods” category.
I’m just so stagnant here. I’m bored of it all. Hot barman… he’s just a pretty face.
I don’t even want anything to happen, he’s just something to fixate on when all my hours are spent in bed with comedy and in the shop with boredom.
I feel like I’m winding down in this cycle of sluttyness. Ready for something better, hopefully. Not that I feel ashamed… I don’t think there’s anything wrong or shameful in having sex with people whenIwant to have sex with then. It’s that more and more, I am having sex with people as a form of masturbation. I select one to fulfill my need for sex, to bolster my confidence. But it only works a little bit.
Really, I would like to meet some nice man. In intelligent man. A man who makes ME laugh.
But that can wait…. I just feel the cogs turning. This was one hell of a rebound….
But I’m not saying I’m an iota less obsessed with sex….
in fact, I’m thnking about sex RIGHT NOW! But I am thinking maybe I should stop with the self-imposed part of the loneliness and instead of barricading everyone out because they are inevitably boring saps , maybe I could try to do a sort of selective barricade, like… figure out if I like someone before letting them in. And try not to get too drunk around men.
Now that I think about it, maybe that is what having standards is all about. I will give this some hought.
I started wrting this at work yesterday but it was going nowhere and it was too long. So I thought I’d go home and prune it but inevitably I can’t edit for shit. You know what happens when I try to edit my posts?
I read through a paragraph then find something else I thought of that I feelt like shareing and suddenly it’s twice as long. So I tried but then I had a lot of hot whiskeys last night. IT is helping my throat and cough which I could feel about to hit me at any momentt.
So I am going to get up now and go meet some friends. YEAH. Totally. It’s cold, I have to get up now.
I will read over this later and edit it if I can but if I don’t post it now I never will.