Moving, shifting.

I moved house last night.

Out of the cold, old, dilapidated apartment with space for things and a good solid table to be fucked on. But it was too cold and old and the wooden window frames trembled at passing buses and I found myself retreating into my bedroom, first, and then my bed, where I lay with my solitude and my drinking and never wrote anything.

Yesterday my long suffering mother, still mothering me long past the gestation period of an adult, helped me move into my new place. Maybe I’ll get some writing done here.I’m all excuses. Recently I spoke to an artist, an actor, and he told me I needed to DO things and get up in the mornings and live my life like it’s not the waiting room for something else, and I felt like crying because he was right, no, not because he was right, but because I’d let my guard down and forgotten that intelligent people can see right through my flimsy bravado. I must have relaxed and let someone see me for what I am, my sadness pouring out in excuses and defence of doing nothing.

I feel happy, I have the symptoms of happiness. But I’m not independent, my life is paid for by the state, my mother shouldered more than half the weight of the fridge-freezer. I’m just like so many others. But I feel wrong, like this. You can justify any lifestyle, I believe, from housewife to banker to lunatic to whatever I might be, as long as your life doesn’t injure or abuse and you can pay your own rent.

It’s not my fault I grew up now, when rent is commonly half a person’s wages, and everyone feels entitled to avocados and parma ham, and craft beer. And suffers without them. But I’m a little ashamed that I grew up now, if I did indeed grow up, and failed to adapt to the world, as it crumbles and swells and freedoms are legalised and then encroached upon, and finally we’re told it’ll all sink into the sea. This is my generation. I’m built for it and by it. Maybe if I lived in the Chelsea hotel, and paid a pittance to live, I’d have been right, or right-on, there’d have been room for my dreams, but this is a bit sad, me, lamenting the fall of the starving artist, in post celtic tiger Ireland, like  a less impressive, less grotesque Ignatius J Reilly with his copy of Boethus.

I’m broke, I’m penniles, I’m cold and I’m a chancer. I’m Sebastian Dangerfield with a vagina. But I’m not, I’m not, I have cognac in my wardrobe and three avocados in varying stages of ripeness, a chilean one and a pair of new zealanders. And I have all these skirts and heels, and when I’ve worn them more than thrice they look old and like they belong to someone I haven’t been for a long time, or a week, but then I shed my passions so quickly, and I shed my skin, and need to buy it new. Because the shoes are worn from climbing walls at 4am and the skirts have been worn thrice and pulled lustily over my head by rougher hands than mine as many times. All my clothes with tags, a look of approval, lust, a compliment. From that moment, the clothes became his, like a lick of paint on a sheep. The skirt I wore to meet Jack, and it was all he thought about, lifting that skirt, he told me later, lifting it. The Shoes that Adam loved so, the ones that left angry red marks on his chest, his neck. The dress I wore for dinner with Antoine, dinner in my flat, with the candles and a tablecloth and he saw me and said “what a dress.” and I wore stockings and he’d never been with a woman in stockings before, he was so young. And he didn’t know to leave them on, when we made love. He took them off me, and I could see he wasn’t sure if they should go, because socks are bad in bed, or stay because they were sexy. And in the summer, I wore those shorts, my little shorts that barely held me inside, and Max watched me paint the sign for the bar in the sun while he sawed planks and sent a breath of sawdust onto the wet paint. And I didn’t mind, because he was so gentle, so adoring, then. And he held me while I was in crisis, not sure what to do or where to go, on the verge of tears at any time, and he made all sorts of promises. He should have let me be and stayed away, and he would have stayed away, but then I would were those shorts.

 I bought them for myself, for how I’d feel, who I thought I was that day and how she would look. But those men, they like to own things, and maybe the don’t know they do it, but they wear me down and they take possession of my clothes, and then I don’t feel like that girl I wanted to be in my skirt any more, covered in fingerprints. Perhaps I just want to give myself fresh to each new lover, and I’m afraid he can see the wear, and it’ll remind him how my mouth isn’t new either, how many hands have reached under my hair to release a clasp. Perhaps it’s not, it’s just there’s so much hope and possibility in new clothes. I remember when I bought my little black playsuit with the high neck and the short shorts, and I saw it in the mirror and thought I looked so sexy, and glamourous, and like I belonged draped on a couch somewhere fabulous drinking something expensive. But then where did I have to wear it, really? I wore it to Bob’s kitchen, to dance to 80s music, which was lovely and fun but my little playsuit went to waste. And then I wore it to the Market Bar, and it was too short, and I felt uncomfortable, but I looked great. And then I went home with Steve, and I shouldn’t have because he’s so wrapped up in himself, he can’t even tell that I don’t care about him, so there’s something insulting about how he never calls or sends a message later. These clothes have too many memories.

What I’m trying to say here, essentially, is that I need a new dress, and I hope you understand how I need a new dress. It’s not wrong, to want a new dress, when you can see how all my other clothes are tarnished so.

But ah, what was I telling you? About the move. Out of my hermit’s cave, into a bizzare houseshare of over 20 inmates, an old hospital of sorts, padded handrails down the corridors and three floors, and everyone has their own fridge, fridges littering the two kitchens and when I scurry down the corridor to the bathroom there’s a ladies and a gents.

And the inmates are friendly and some seem lovely warm people, and others seem obvious like characters written lazily by someone lacking imagination. When I was a child I entertained the thought that I was the main character, and all others were minor, or bit players, or extras. When an adult chastised me I felt sorry for them, that they were written that way, their only contribution to the world as a fleeting villain.

I eventually grew out of the idea that I was the centre of the universe but I never gave up feeling sorry for those people who were written by hacks.

It’s strange to be back in shared living… but it seems like a good thing. It’s warm, I’ll be less inclined to go out every night, maybe, maybe I’ll save some money too.

But the thing that struck me straight away is that I now find myself in a censored environment. For months I’ve surrounded myself exclusively, truly exclusively, with people who I can be so open about, tell every secret, every filthy secret and thought. And now I’m in this area where I don’t know the people, and some will be open minded freaks and perverts, too, but some will not, and so I’m keeping myself to myself, a little. Which is odd for me.

I got so used to being just me, living in a world of my own creation where nothing in nature is twisted, or dirty, as a man said long ago, I think it was Servius.

Changes, anyway.

I hope I write more here, I hope I do. I’ll try.

But it’s not, as people close to me who don’t write seem to thing, some kind of muscle I can get up in the morning and knock out 20 reps of 100 words.

I could write 50,000 words right now, and I’d forget to eat, drink, pee, masturbate, yes, even masturbate. But what kind of words would they be, and is there any point?

My friends tell me to just DO it. Do it and you’ll have written, and you can edit. But I don’t like to edit, because then I read back and it’s not the voice in my head any more, it’s something I’ve crafted. And why did I do that? It’s the honesty of writing I love… and beautiful turns of phrase, and sentences that make something lurch inside you like arousal of your sense of harmony. But mostly honesty, and when I edit I think why did I do that? What am I trying to say, and what’s the point?

And I collapse in nihilism, and I don’t do anything, and I feel bad about it, because even though I don’t think anything matters, it matters to me that I don’t fade into a sad future. Also, I don’t edit because I don’t know what’s good.

People tell me to just write. Just write, write all the time. You have so much free time, you should be writing. I know. I KNOW. I know. I just need to… do it. I know.

In my old place, you see, it was too cold. It was so cold, I couldn’t think, my fingers were cold, my brain was occupied in being cold and suffering from it and overcoming it. In France you may know, I thought I’d recreate the misery and solitude of my life in Italy, without being so miserable and solitary that I’d hate it, like in Italy.

But it seems it’s either one or the other. I’m too unhappy in Italy to live. I wrote there, maybe nothing great, but I was so unhappy I wrote like my writing was my friend who understood me and it just kept me from the abyss of true misery. And France, oh I didn’t speak French, but I learnt French. And I didn’t know anyone, but I met people, and I met wonderful people and they made me laugh and I somehow made them laugh in my awful French. But I wasn’t truly happy because I was like the dumb princess, the little mermaid, clumsy on my legs and deprived of my singing voice.

The prince didn’t love me without my gifts, but he was compassionate, he thought me charming with my strange ways and my clumsiness. But that’s fine, for a short time. In France there were men, but none of them loved me for what I was, they just loved what they could see, a ballsy travelling girl with a love of wine and food and a tendency to make clumsy puns that didn’t really work in French. And they murmured things in my ear, that sounded less beautiful as my French improved and eventually just made me roll my eyes. Fucking French, everything so doomed and poignant. On a beach somewhere near Bordeaux we watched a sunset together, feet curling in the sand, and one lover told me he was glad the clouds were there, on the horizon, because had it been any clearer the sunset would have been too much, too cheesy. “I ‘ate cheesy” he said.

“I ‘ate you”, I remember thinking. But I loved him a while longer.

I missed my wit and humour and I felt dulled. I drank far too much and snuck my bottles out of the lovely, jolly house I shared with 6 people so they wouldn’t know how far it went. I couldn’t write there, because I was learning French and my head was full of French and I was being pestered by romantic men who felt no shame in throwing themselves at me.

I had so many friends, there, I couldn’t muster enough loneliness to really write. I was aware as I made this excuse that I could never make myself be lonely, Italy was a mistake, I was trapped there with my husband and my mortgage and my debt. I’d have run home, long ago, had I not been caught that way. I told people I moved to France to be lonelier.

Really I think, now, in hindsight, that I knew full well I was moving to France to have a legitimate and shameless reason to be lonely. I was desperately lonely in Ireland but I was from Ireland, there was no excuse, how could I not find the right people? And I couldn’t write there either, because I had to work in this awful call centre and I didn’t have time to write because I had to work from 9 til 5.30 and didn’t get home til 6.30 and then I was tired and sad, and needed to relax and watch something absurd and funny and forget about my life, and I’d do that til 1 in the morning and then I had to go to bed because i had work in the morning. And if I tried to write anything I’d write how I felt, and god, that was awful, and I didn’t want to think about how I felt because I felt sad and hollow and like something really awful had been done to me and I was being made pay for it. Some awful wrong, my whole life was an awful wrong that had been inflicted on me by my parents, my teachers, my friends, my boyfriends, my parents, my parents, my parents.

And I was such a lovely girl with such a sweet heart and I loved so strongly and why did they all do that, tread on me and make me so sad and break my heart so now I haven’t been sweet or loving in years.

So I didn’t like to think about that, it was too dark and I cried so much when I thought of how I felt and who I had become or was becoming. And my eyes would be puffy in work the next day. Maybe I’d write at the weekend. That’s it, I’d get a bottle of whiskey and lock myself in my bedsit, quite a nice bedsit, not really suited to drowning your sorrows, but I’d make do. And then Friday I’d be half drunk and thinking of typing a few words about something, and I’d get a call from some man I’d vowed to stay away from because he kept giving me false hope and then hurting me, and whenever that subsided I’d remember he was no good, not very interesting and not at all impressive. But I’d be lonely so I’d go and meet him, and sleep with him, and start to feel the rumblings of emotion again, and then I wouldn’t write because all I’d write about would be how I liked him, and maybe I didn’t, and why wouldn’t he call when he said he would.

and what’s wrong with me.

Well, that’s all sort of gone now. I’m not that kind of unhappy now. I’m quite happy, really. In the short term. Long term, I’m not sure, because I need to prove to myself that I am what I claim to be, a writer, and that I’ll do something with that and not just be a drain on family and the state. Not that I care about being a drain on the state, because look at everyone else, and look at all the corruption. But it’s still not right for me, personally.

I am quite happy, really. I don’t cry, I don’t feel like I’ve been hideously wounded by life any more. I feel like I’ve been wounded just the right amount, to make me someone I could respect, if only I got off my ass once in a while and contributed something to the human experience. Because no, it doesn’t matter one bit if I drink and fuck all day and get old and then no one will want to fuck me any more, but it matters to me that I leave a little bundle of pages behind, with something in them that can be picked up, and read, and maybe enjoyed, and maybe someone will read and know me through them, and my life will be in there, and all the silly things that you couldn’t invent, that don’t matter at all, but that contain everything of me but my DNA.


Half assed pledge to do less whining

Ebbs and flows, ups and downs.

Last week I felt great about myself and shit about where my life was going.

Today I feel shit about myself and not too worried at all about my life.

I have a lot of friends, a lot of people I enjoy, I’m still young enough to start something new and then when is anyone too old for anything? Whenever I beat myself up about my life and where I am it’s because I’m comparing myself to other people- other people whose lives I wouldn’t want anyway. I’d happily take their friday night putting 60 euros into a pub till without thinking is that nice wine too expensive, how will I pour this naggin of whiskey into my empty glass without anyone noticing, should I leave now or how will I get home, I can’t afford a taxi? 

I’d take THAT part of their lives. But I wouldn’t put in the 35 hours a week of sitting on a swivel chair in an air conditioned room for minimum wage and someone else’s interests. 

I wouldn’t do it for long anyway. 

I had a dream last night I was in a call centre and I was so fucking miserable throughout the dream. I had a dream a few nights ago that my parents’ dog and cat had turned rabid and wanted to kill me and I spent the whole night trying to lock my pets in a room without hurting them while they tried to tear chunks out of me. And that wasn’t my worst recent nightmare, the call centre one was much worse. 

I should stop eating cheese so late at night and maybe have a nice sex dream instead.

And then lately I’m getting sick of sex. Not sex itself, just the… I’m getting sick of the people I don’t care about. I found myself having sex with my fuckbuddy recently purely because I had eaten a lot of cheese that day and I don’t want to get fat. I enjoyed the sex but frankly the cheese was a lot better. I’d give up sex and just eat cheese all day except the two must go together or I’ll be fat. But then would I even need to be skinny if I was just living a sexless life with only the cheese witnessing my flabby midriff?

I’m not having any deep thoughts here. GOOD. FUCKING GOOD! 

I’ve decided to stop being so morose all the time and just shut all the bad thoughts away and be happy because my life is totally sweet right now and if I occasionaly got up off my arse I could make something wonderful with my time.

I’m doing a little bit of work for my dad’s business online and it turns out when I don’t have to deal with customers face to face or get up early I’m actually quite motivated with this retail thing. It’s not much money- shit, it’s barely any money. But it’s good to do something and it’s good to feel like I’ve done something useful and even a hundred quid is a fucking big bonus for me right now.

I’m going to buy a pair of shoes because at the moment I only have two pairs of shoes.

Two pairs of wearable shoes. I have lots and lots and lots of shoes but they are all high heel deals which I bought when I had lots of money and a little less sense. I only have more sense now because having very little money is great for sharpening the wits. You start to find savings everywhere.

I’ve always been a massive snob about mould. But when it’s me buying the bread and me paying for the bins (well, no, it’s me trawling the streets at night looking for a skip to throw my bins into, but still.) then it’s a different story. Yesterday I scraped mould off three bits of bread and ate the bread and it tasted exactly the same as normal bread. And I probably killed an infection, I’m bound to have some kind of infection.

And then there’s cooking, if I just cut back on elaborate grocery shops for making myself special treats all the time I could afford nice wine and a pair of shoes. 

Anyway. Main thing is, I’m going to stop being such a crybaby about being poor and lonely because I’m poor because I choose not to earn a shitty wage doing a shitty job, and I’m lonely because I choose to live alone and I like living alone 85% of the time.

End of.

No more whining. I’m a grown up! YES I AM!

(This is me psyching myself up, it’s not a statement of fact)

Post weekend self pity party. Wherein I voluntarily spend the night in the police station

What am I doing? And where did it all go wrong?

I’m young. I’m young but I’m not that young any more.

My adult life started out like a joke, and no one was doing anything serious anyway, and I just seemed to be having all the same kinds of fun as everyone else, maybe a bit more sometimes, maybe more of the time, and maybe with a little less thought to the future. On the surface we were all just fucking around, doing nothing of note, making friends, setting up the wrinkles we’d eventually get, putting ourselves out there and seeing what happened. Experiments of all kinds.

And now I’ve been an adult for eight years and my friends have jobs and lives. Boyfriends, jobs, maybe not excellent jobs but they’re somewhere on a ladder leading upwards.

And I’m on the dole and I have a flat which I love, very close to the city, cheap enough to afford on the dole. I can go out when I want and see who I want. I cook nice food for myself and I chat to people online and they think I’m interesting because I’ve lived in a few countries and done a few unexpected things. But I haven’t done very much, really, I just moved my laptop and clothes around Europe a few times.

And now my stuff is in Dublin, I live along again, which I like, but it’s hollow too. There’s no reason for anything, I just wait for my pay day and then I wait for the weekend or sometimes I don’t wait and I just drink anyway, with company or without, whatever’s easiest… the weekend comes round again anyway, whether I’m hung over when it comes or whether I land there thirsty and vibrant. And then I feel sorry for myself and wait for my payday.

I’m unemployed and my life is going nowhere. Going nowhere fast.

My grandad said that about me to my mother the other day. She felt it necessary to tell me. It hit me like a kick to the stomach. That girl’s going nowhere fast.

I want to curl up and cry about my life. It’s not fair. I didn’t know it was for real, nobody told me. Nobody told me.

I want to blame someone else for the position I’m in, the position… it’s comfortable. It’s comfortable but lifeless. Like a permanent day off, a permanent lie-in. It’s only bliss to have time off from something, or sleep in an extra hour or two or three as a treat. I feel like doing stuff, being productive, sorting things out, building myself up.

But I’m not doing it, because I’m sort of stuck. I feel like it could be much worse. I could be really depressed. Perhaps it’s getting that way, but I don’t feel unhappy. The complaints I have, the sadness I feel- is reasonable, reality-based. I’m unhappy because I don’t have any money. I’m sad because I can’t afford to do what I want to do. I feel lonely because I haven’t got very many people to see during the week. But at the core I’m ok, I think. I’m just not sure what to do with myself. I’m very aware that I’m not doing something I’d respect in someone else. I’m not living up to any kind of potential, and I’m not putting anything into my life that will give positive returns later.

I spent a few more quid on gambling before I gave that up. Because I’m definitely not going to win anything. I needed to really be sure of that or else I still had the glimmer of hope….

So no more gambling for me, hooray. That was a quick and light and relatively non destructive gambling problem.

The Friday night I went out and had a few drinks with friends and woke up in a taxi slurring “I don’t understand, I thought I had 20 quid?” and the taxi driver is telling me “you don’t have the money? I need to get paid”

And I’m saying “where are my friends? Where is everyone?” and he says I was on my own, I don’t have any friends with me. He says he’s driving me to the police station. I tell him please do because then we can straighten this all out.

He drives me there and fills out some kind of report. I don’t remember much but I sat in the police station waiting room all night, confused, penniless, next to heroin addicts and various troublemakers.

I tried asking the police officers about my situation and they got sick of talking to me and went into the back room. I was too drunk to make any sense. But they were not nice to me, not at all. They didn’t seem to think a girl that drunk and confused needed any treatment other than go home you’re drunk, you owe the taxi driver 20 quid.

I made friends with two people there, an Eastern European woman who didn’t seem to be all there, and a 35-ish Irish man whose car had been impounded for some reason. I wept in self pity on the steps talking to them, crying hysterically about everything in my life that isn’t fair and isn’t my fault. My divorce, my mortgage, my lack of education, my lack of success in any area when I was so clever as a child. I cried and cried. I just wanted someone to come and tell me it’s all ok and they’d look after me and I wouldn’t have to go back to the phones and I wouldn’t have to claw my way up some shitty career ladder because of course I deserve better.

Instead I got the Eastern European girl… Monica? I think her name was Monica… telling me I should get with the guy on the steps beside me, I should go out with him. “He a good guy,” she said. “Has own van. Very good. Not easy to meet man like this today, you should be with him. I think you two very good together. He has own van.”

I asked him through my drunken tears, as I swigged wine from the plastic bottle I had with me, on the steps of the inner city Dublin police station, “how much money have you got?”

He said a few hundred quid.

I said no, I need a proper rich guy. And I finished my wine and stopped crying and wondered what I should do. I didn’t know where I was. I didn’t recognise the area and the police were refusing to talk to me because I guess I must have really annoyed them with my drunken crying. In fairness I think they could have been a bit nicer. I was really not in a good way. I don’t remember ever being like that, but then you wouldn’t remember it, would you? I didn’t sober up until around 7am.

Then my new friend, the guy with not enough money to look after me, said he’d give me a lift home when his van was released, unless they found his stash and charged him. I said ok thanks. But then he said it wouldn’t be til 9am.

So we waited and waited. I got so cold on the steps, and so tired. I started to fall asleep and a policeman walked past and said MOVE.

I started to wonder about homeless people and feel really really sorry for them in a way I never have before.

I chatted to my new friend. He was nice. We went to McDonalds when it opened and I scraped together 1.30 and bought a cheese toasty. The cheese toasty was disgusting. It was like plastic, hard plastic, and it scraped my mouth and stuck in different places in my throat. I wanted to lay down my head and sleep but I couldn’t. I was so afraid of being moved along by someone who mistook me for some junkie vagrant instead of a drunken middle class girl.

What’s the difference anyway. I don’t even think I can consider myself middle class. I’m unemployed. I’m uneducated. I have done absolutely nothing with the priviledge I once had, and it’s gone now. My dad has money. My dad could help me get on my feet but he says I’ve had too much help in the past and just frittered it away. He’s right, but it doesn’t change the fact that I do need help. I need someone to help me somehow because I’m a fucking mess of a person. I’m not anybody. I’m just eating and drinking and taking money from the government and watching movies and fucking people I don’t really like that much and getting dressed up nice and going out and pretending I’m just like everyone else and witty and interesting and charming for a few hours before I’m back in my cheap, cold room, weighing up the pros and cons of calling that guy I don’t really like that much to come over and keep me company for a few hours.

Pros: get to have sex, feel briefly like I’m good at something. It’s a good workout. Being fit and skinny would make me feel better too.

Cons: have to shower first. Don’t feel like showering. Will feel kind of shit about myself afterwards.

I usually call him anyway.  Sometimes I skip the shower.

My new buddy gave me a lift home when his van was released. He wasn’t charged with anything. The police took what they found and must have kept it for themselves because there was no mention of anything. Bastards, he said. I said well at least you don’t have a charge now. Yeah. I should be on cloud nine, he said.

He drove me home and I was too tired to think any more. It didn’t occur to me that I shouldn’t have got into a van with a strange man I met in the police station. But in my mind it was just us versus the police at that point. I always felt like the police were these friendly helpful guys who are there when people like me are afraid or in trouble or whatever. The kind of guys who’d tip their hat to you. Sure, I’ve done illegal things before but I never got in any trouble. Because I’m not scum, I don’t get the scum treatment. But Friday night I was treated like scum and I can’t help but feel like fuck you police. My new criminal buddy told me, because I was worried about how I might have behaved, he told me that when I was brought in I was very polite and just seemed a bit lost and confused and upset. Not rude, not shouting, nothing like that. But then he really did hate the police so he may have been biased.

Anyway. He didn’t rape or murder me. On the way home he yelled “morning Jack!” or some name out the window. I said who was that? Surprised he knew someone walking in my neighbourhood at 10am on Saturday morning. Ah, the old lord mayor of Dublin, he said. He’s a friend of my dad’s. I wondered after all if Monica had a point and I should have got together with this obviously well connected man who had his own van, a few hundred quid and knew an ex lord mayor of Dublin. But then I thought, fuck it, if I’m going to be shallow enough to take wealth over chemistry and attraction I should probably aim for a bit higher. Like a man with a few thousand and a merc, or something.

Incidentally Saturday I was contacted on this dating website by quite a nice looking young man. He wanted to take me out, pay for everything, pick me up and drop me home. He said he has a mercedes and his own company and a house with 7 rooms in it. This wasn’t his opening shpiel, it came out over the course of the conversation.

I smelled a rat but then he gave me his linkedin and his company name and it seems legit.

I told him a bit about how crap of a person I am, and he offered me a job working for his company doing sales. On the phone. I would absolutely hate to do sales over the phone and would probably not be any good at it, but it’s one of those funny little things that comes up in life that a person in my position should take advantage of.

I’m way too intimidated by a guy like that to get anything romantic going on. Younger than me, wealthy, successful? Hopefully his profile picture was really flattering and he’s actually ugly. Then I might stand a chance. Yup, still hoping for that free ride.

I think the problem with me is that my expectations from life and what I’m willing to put into it are entirely unequal.

I just look at the people who got lucky and think, well then why should I slave away at some crappy job just to get a minute fraction of their success? So I do nothing instead. I’m just glad people can’t see what I actually do with my time. I’m surprisingly happy most of the time doing nothing.

For example on Wednesday I bought groceries and made sushi for two friends who came for dinner, and then went and had pretty nice dirty sex in my neighbour’s house.

Thursday, I made myself a pair of slippers and did a painting I’m not happy with of a naked woman. Then I watched seasons 3 and 4 of Seinfeld and had some more sex, and then Friday I drank wine by myself at home and made my own pasta from scratch and then I went out and got anihillated as you know and then yesterday and today I caught up on seasons 5 and six of Seinfeld and played some Fallout  New Vegas.

I’m a lot less bored than I should be, really.

If I had a man I liked, I’d be completely not bored. But probably very clingy…


Anyway. I’m tired. I’m going to watch some Seinfeld, play some Fallout, and then it’ll be Monday. Monday I’ll do nothing. I kind of really want to get a part time job now but the longer I’m unemployed the harder it is to get past the fear of being in some weird situation doing stuff you don’t want to do for someone else and not enough money.

End of weekend. New week.


Maybe this internet stranger will give me a job?


Ok. Three or four posts today… Thanks to my blog family who are actually reading through all the insanity!

SO I still feel like utter shit and depressed and all but I am making brave plans,

I decided to go to the Stone Roses gig on Thursday, just decided to go and fuck it, and I found cheap tickets last minute and I’m going, and my best friend is going and so are some other cool people so YEAH!


I’m not saying I don’t feel like crying, I’m just saying I am able to look forward to something, and it’s only a LITTLE TINY BIT about him seeing the cool photos of me having a great time and looking skinny and missing me. It’s only a little bit about that.

Also the guy who took the amazing photos of us together on our last weekend together, he’s going to be there and I was talking to him and he said if I was there he’d love to take more pictures of me. Because I’m so photogenic, well he said that when we were at the party anyway. So there, Frenchie.

There will be lots of really flattering pictures of me having fun at a concert and then you will be sorry.

And come back and be with me again.


But look it’s improvement, definitely. I actually am looking forward to this…

And photographer guy is pretty hot and cool…



No weird, common aquaintance-incestuous revenge fucks! Remember the lovely… oh. Yeah. No more FUCKING people. Want looovee and affection!

Might try to masturbate about someone else though tonight, see if I can do that without weeping.

Now what am I going to wear to this concert in the rain so that I look hot and like I am having a good time and so he regrets leaving the best woman he is ever going to meet for a few years anyway?

I think I might wear that dress, the black and white one with the stripes. I wore it the first night we met and I was all bloated with beer and period, and I still looked pretty damn good…. Now I’m in fantastic, frail shape… We shall see… It’s my sexiest dress of the moment anyway. It’s cool. I’m in fantastic shape thanks to a month of intense bedroom gymnastics and three days on a banana, some oat cakes and a cup of miso soup and a half a bowl of pasta. I’ll just stick on a pair of boots and a shitload of makeup and oh my god, this is lots of progress.

And I’m starting to be able to think, fuck him.

Like really, fuck him.

Just a little bit. Just a small bit… I’d still jump… but…


But it’s progress.


Shall I compare my job to a summer’s day? A summer’s day where you sit in an office and everyone else is outside drinking and getting tanned and being interesting

I hate my job.

I hate my job.

I hate my fucking job.

I sit at a desk and I look at the screen and think of all the people out there, people with jobs they like and jobs they enjoy and jobs they maybe don’t even need but they just get up and do anyway because it’s part of who they are.

I wonder about those women who you ask at a party, what do you do? Who can answer without an apologetic “well, it pays the rent”. Those women who you would want to talk to, whose answers lead to questions and whose questions make you want to know more and more…

People who help people, people who make fantastic amounts of money, people who are responsible for things we eat and watch and think and feel and want….

I don’t want to be massively rich or famous, just not….

I’m a telemarketer and I earn minimum wage… or maybe a little more than that, but it’s awful. It’s awful and boring and shit and it gives me a headache and makes me comfort eat. If I stay in this job for too long, I will become a fat telemarketer and I will have nothing to talk about and I will just want to spend time with other fat telemarketers because at least they will laugh at my impression of the creepy Albanian guy eating his beetroot out of a lunchbox and will ooh and aah at my latest report on the office bitch. Then I will be a completely uninteresting person and I will probably forget all about how miserable I am and just start aiming for minor promotions until I marry some boor with neck acne and a Dunnes Stores shirt because he’s the best looking guy I see daily, and maybe he’s the office alpha male and his same wage as mine but no shopping addiction allows him to impress me by buying rounds, and then I’ll be bored and I’ll become exited about maternity leave and I’ll wind up living on the outskirts of Dublin in some nice big house and there I will DIE a boring fat telemarketer.

I don’t want to do this, not even for a few months, because that is definitely what will happen to me and I know myself, I leap into things so it would all probably go down in a space of two years.

But what ELSE can I do?

All I want to do is write.

I want to write but I feel like the people whose jobs are writing have either done the time in college or know the people or have some secret ingredient that’s just missing from me. Those people who just push themselves forward and seek out what they need to get what they want and I just languish, pining after the end result with no idea of what to do to get that.

I had another great weekend, a long weekend with a Bank Holiday Monday and I spent three solid days and nights drinking and taking drugs and having fun and laughing and smiling and people I didn’t know came up to me and told me I had a wonderful smile and was a wonderful dancer and when I danced I looked so happy… And they were on drugs too so that’s probably why, but I felt like I was at home again, and everyone was lovely and I felt like part of the city.

I took the bus in to work on Friday and I sat in the back facing the wrong way and watched the streets fly past. Dublin welled up inside me and I thought about why I came home and I felt happy and excited and told myself this is it, this is where you want to be and you don’t want to just be some asshole living for the weekend. Go out, lose control, get into stupid situations, say yes to drugs, fuck a knacker you don’t want to see again, hang out on the steps smoking joints and don’t worry about sitting in pee.

When I was wild I was vulnerable and I always got hurt but man, I love who I was. I would be proud to be the one who gets hurt again because now all I do is skirt around anything scary and I meet men and I’m not very nice to them and I act like I’m being the open and honest one but all I do is tell a different lie than they do.

I used to throw myself into the traffic of men, and they ran me down and again and again I wondered what was wrong with me. I’m still meeting the same imperfect candidates but now but they don’t really stand a chance now….

I went out on Friday afternoon and I stayed on the session til Monday morning. I brought friends back to the bedsit and we drank bottles of lukewarm buckfast and Jameson from the bottle and cans of Dutch Gold. I met an old friend I had never had a single romantic thought about and I said to him inexplicably in the pub, what do you reckon? And he said about what? And I said what do you reckon? And he said… good Dj? And I said no… WHAT DO YOU RECKON. And then somehow that made sense and we got into a taxi and went back to my place and had sex but mostly we didn’t have sex, mostly we just kissed and held each other and fuck it felt good, although the sex barely even registered… Neither of us were in a fit state, but it felt good to touch someone…. Maybe it was the ecstasy, oh yes it was definitely the ecstasy but I remembered how nice it was, the other bits of sex. I haven’t been close with anyone in years, because all the sex I’ve been having has been unfeeling on my side at least. I keep looking for the wrong things. I haven’t found the right thing either but it’s like, it was just nice to lie there with someone I feel at all close to. He’s just a friend, and an old friend I haven’t been in touch with lately… I’m sure it would be awful and awkward and not the same if we tried it sober, but it was a good feeling.

I’m getting lonely, properly lonely.

But I’m still happy.

I finally have a social life with people who will stay on the session for three days, not like the Italians with their three drinks and then go home…. People here you can wheedle and coax and bully into staying, regardless of work in the morning or family comittments…

Ah I needed this…

And I am probably not in the best mental shape after that weekend.

But ahhhh…

I’d like to meet a man I like. An older man with filthy suggestions in his eyes and interesting tales on his lips. A man who neither sleazes onto me, nor waits for me to TELL him we will be making the bactrian camel later. I like a good hand on my waist, the suggestion of claiming my body… Ohhh I’m horny.

And I have my job to go to in the mornings and my bedsit to come home to at night.

The weekends are all hope and pressure to enjoy it all.

I spend all my money at the weekends…

I want to quit my job and be a writer and write with my energy instead of coming home from that shitty, awful job that’s chipping away at me, and feeling like writing but then realising I need to wash clothes and they never dry outside and I have to wash my hair and iron clothes for my shitty job.

I’m writing today because I have nothing to watch and because I have been meaning to write for ages, but it’s like… blerg. I don’t want to just be complaining, it is still kind of the nasty depressing aftermath of a long weekend. I just wanted to get some of this out….

Man, I hate my job.

But I’m still happier here than in Italy.

I just wish I didn’t have to do my stupid job….

A good old fashioned bender

Ahhh just even starting to explain this whole thing to you …. jesus.

Fuck balls.

There is no way to tackle the bastarding monster that has been this weekend, there’s no point of entry I can see but then I am so hideously drunk/hung over right now. I’m alone, I just woke up under the impression that I was lying in bed while the party rages on outside, and I finally hoisted myself and my pretty slept-in dress along to see, to join the posse, and it’s 5.27 am and everyone is asleep on couches and it’s dark and silent. Tomfoolery must have continued in my absence, I just went to bed, I feel terribly left out because I just went to bed… i didn’t want to leave the party, dude… I don’t know how I did leave. I can’t remember. Dancing.. then nothing.

So there it is.

Looking at the state of it all in memory banks shifting now with a bit o sobriety, it doesn’t appear as glorious and beautiful…. Yesterday we felt wonderful. We were carry it on forever drunk, and happy, and feeling good, and now it’s starting to cave in a little bit….

But it was GOOD.

Have been doing a lot of drinking since London, but it has clearly escalated since coming back to Ireland.

Thursday, my oldest friend came up to stay for the weekend and we hit my local pub and shrieked about jagerbombs. It was a quiet, middle aged kind of local pub and not the kind of place for that sort of thing. It was silly embarassing the next day, but now it pales into insignificance next to the following debauchery. Woke up Friday and had a few whiskey coffees to take the edge off.

Friday, was it, a lot of drinking, a lot a lot a lot. My best friend since childhood staying with me at my parents’ house… my step-uncle came for dinner and stayed to avoid driving home drunk.

Drank a lot, don’t know exactly how it escalated from wine over dinner to dancing to 90s pop in the living room, but somehow we made it to bed in the am. Must have hit a few solid hours there… four, five, probably no more. My friend and I, sharing my old single bed and single duvet with the flowery cover… not entirely conducive to good sleep. Woke up earlyish, Claire is gone… where is she? I follow her out and hear roars of the still drunk, and music loud and I think urgh what no, I was hoping to hang over with dignity. Claire is up dancing, everyone has resumed drinking except for my mother.

I’m not entirely surprised to see my family and friend having a little mini party in the morning, we slept very little and are all still pretty drunk. The energy to dance and talk to each other the next day usually only lasts about an hour of optimism before it dies and everyone goes back to bed or couch….

The drinkers offer me a whiskey coffee and wheedle me to join, so I do, and I notice I feel a little bit less than great. My uncle offers me sugar. No… ah just a bit. Tips half the bowl in. Actually yes that’s pretty good thank you. Drink up. Realise that is the second bottle of whiskey we are drinking now. I had two litres, that’s the second one gone…

Pissed again. Feel awful, can’t tell if the whiskey is helping. Maybe the coffee is, maybe it’s just nice to drink something warm. My throat hurts from all the stupid smoking. My mother is in bed, everyone tells me she is upset and I should talk to her. I’m so hung over it feels like the absolute cruelest thing anyone has ever asked me to do, to comfort someone sad but I go in and find her crying and I hug her but it doesnt make it stop, it unleashes it, it gives her motivation for crying. She wails at how much of a pig my stepdad is being. He’s still pissed, he’s being HORRIBLE. The things he said. I try to smooth it over but it’s like putting out a fire with booze, she’s loud and upset and I want her to be happy but all I can do is hug her and agree he’s being a pig. She says she hasn’t been able to eat all morning because she can’t bear to go out there… have everyone looking at her crying.

I notice she is being melodramatic in her hangover. My stepdad is being a total pig but in his defence, she was trying to drag him out to Ikea or something and naturally that is a ridiculous thing to expect of a hung over man. But she says he told her mean things and I think, well so what? I don’t get upset when people say mean things. This is a total lie, I sulked for a good while just the other night because my stepdad told me I was a very argumentative person. (I am inclined to disagree)

But I’m getting a bit pissed again, and all I want to do is leave the bedroom and the tears so I proclaim I will be her champion. I really, really don’t want to do anything. I wanted to be in bed and enjoy the sloth of the hangover, I don’t want this crying people thing. I go out and tell my stepdad he’s a pig, and to be nice to my mother. I am a blunt instrument, it’s not really  good idea to use me for tact and slippery situations. I yell at my stepdad a bit, he yells back. Fuck… I don’t want to argue with him, I just know it’s not right that my mother is upset and he is the cause. It feels so wrong to think of someone crying while I feel so bad. You mean it’s possible to feel worse than this? I’m in awe… But I can’t back out of this yelling with my stepdad. He IS being a pig. Claire and uncle Jack are staying out of it but they tell me I’m in the right, but they let me tackle my stepdad alone, and I do a terrible job. Eventually my mother comes out all red eyed and potters around noisily. My stepdad begins ranting at her again. She sniffles and I try to smooth things over using shouts. URgh.

My uncle is looking for his keys. Where are they? I need my keys. Don’t give him his keys, he’s pissed. No no, just to get a change of clothes from the car. Oh why do you need to change? I’m going to the pub. No you’re not. Yes I am help me look for my keys. I pick up a few things but they are not the keys. I’ll have to go wearing this. No you are not going. You can’t leave us here in this horrible atmosphere… It’s bad enough for me here with my mum and stepdad yelling and crying and sucking out all the air in the room but quite another for Claire who is my friend, a guest, staying with us.

We’ll come too… we’ll come with you.

Jack nods. He probably doesn’t want us coming with him, but he knows my family situation… he’s witnessed a lot of crap. He knows it’s not pleasant when it’s like this. He probably wouldn’t be leaving at all if it wasn’t for this awful tension in the air. He’s a lovely guy, I am sure he is willing to bring us with him, away from the horribleness.

I’m not sure though. I tell her no, we are not going to the pub. Oh come on. No. Fuck no… It’s gonna hit us pretty soon, reality… Don’t make us be somewhere unmellow when that happens. Please no.

She goes to change clothes. Argh shit no, don’t unleash your drunken vigour on the public… I am not allowing you to go, as your best friend I command you to stay. No, I’m going, you can come too… come on.

I picture a pub with normal customers watching the rugby in silence and my friend flailing around, screeching. No… please don’t make me be the sober one at that party.

I refuse to go anywhere. My mother is doing things and washing clothes and my stepdad is sitting at the table, drinking, and looking like utter shit. He’s not saying anything, he’s not commenting on the drunks. He’s just drinking. He’s not drinking for pleasure, like we are. He’s an alcoholic, he just drinks. It’s not obvious to me at the time because I am drunk, that man sitting at the table, concentrating on the whiskey before him… he’s drinking beyond all enjoyment. He’s marinating in his rage and he has no intention of feeling better or making his hangover subside.

When he speaks, he spews forth a barrage of senseless anger that isn’t really directed at my mother, but her sensitive nature likes to get in the way, a bambi that runs before his drunk driver. It’s not her fault, but she steps in and takes it personally and fuels it with pathos too.

I can’t be in this house. The panic is setting in. I haven’t had a panic attack in two years, and here I am, my jaw held tight with nervous energy and my head pounding danger.

I remember what it’s like now, I can’t stay here for even two weeks. I need to find somewhere to live, and fast. The energy is repulsive. The whole house… it’s a much bigger house than it used to be, but instead of having somewhere to go to get away from the shouts and tears, they have just spread their sickness to fill out every corner.

There is no going to bed to sleep it off. We are too sick in the brain. I tried to lie there when I woke up but my brain wouldn’t allow it. You did this to me, you will pay the fucking price.

It’s around 10 or 11 am.

Jack is still looking for his keys. I really don’t want to go anywhere but still, the pub starts to seem like a reasonable option. I sip my whiskey. It really isn’t so bad, I’m beginning to feel a little bit better in the head. But my stepdad… he’s polluting everything. My mother is sad and that’s wrong, but I can’t think of how to solve anything. It’s obviously not something I can do, but at the time I feel entirely responsible. Only one person is allowed be mean to my mother, and that person is me. Every time I go to hug her, she wails and sniffs and begins naming the sins of my stepfather. Because she’s crying I can’t argue with her, but it begins to gain dimensions before me, it’s not just one person being mean to another, there’s also a massive nest of uglyness spanning nearly two decades, most of my life, and she’s as guilty of buildng it as he is. I don’t feel entirely right any more, in my outbursts to my stepdad. I just want them to be nice to each other, and for him to go to bed and leave the party because he’s not fun and it’s actually pathetic.

I start to get really, really sad about my family. It’s not normal, and I was used to it as a child but it’s not normal.. I can see that now. I feel a heavyness and I really don’t want to be in this house right now. I want to leave and forget it again and go somewhere that’s mine.

My mother and stepdad are acting out a pantomime, showing off their dirty laundry like it’s a badge of how much shit they have to put up with. I don’t want to be here watching this, I want them to act it out and then get over it. It’s obvious I can’t stay here.

Claire invites me to the pub again. I nod. I’m going to get changed. I put on a dress and cardigan. Try some makeup… my face doesn’t seem too bad really. My eyes are quite red, but my skin is the best it’s looked in days. I’m a bit puffy but the makeup although a little shakily applied, manages to bring me up to a pretty decent standard. Claire joins me briefly in my room to sigh and declare “I CAN NOT PUT ON LIQUID EYELINER RIGHT NOW” and promptly leaves before I can even think of saying, well I’m definitely not the best person to do it either. We emerge pretty much finished, just as Jack’s 40 something year old friend arrives, stone cold sober, to pick him up. Oh, there are also two young girls coming with you? Oh… okaaaay.

My mother and stepdad descend on us as we leave.

“What? Where are you going?”

She’s distraught.

“I’ll be on my own!” her voice is shrill and desperately unhappy. “He will go out!” He’s not going out, he’s not, I tell her. “Well he’s being horrible to me.” I’m sorry mum, I just can’t be in this negativity right now. “It’s him! He’s horrible!” I know, but I can’t stay here it’s not your fault. My mother is like a big frightened deer or something… right now she seems like another species to me… I want to explain, to help, it’s ok… but I honestly don’t know how to communicate with her. I try but she always makes me feel like I’m a horrible bitch and she’s the innocent victom. I have mostly given up. It makes me really, really sad.

The worst is, everyone sees how I am with my mum and tells me I am mean or she is so nice I should be nice, but I can’t help it, and it’s a very difficult dynamic. I love her very very much but I was an only child in that house, I had no brothers or sisters and I had no cousins and all there was was my mother, my stepdad, his drinking and her denial, and me in the middle. I find it very hard to have a lovely relationship with my mother because if she’s such a lovely person, why did she make me endure their toxic nightmare of a relationship? Her sweetness is sickly, there’s something wrong about it sometimes. She’s a nice person.. really… but she’s so SURE she’s a nice person, she doesn’t see when she’s being incredibly selfish. It’s like she labelled herself “nice” years, years and years ago, and since then she just hasn’t thought to check if sometimes she isn’t in the right.

I forgot what it was like, staying here… I really didn’t expect it to slam into my face so violently. My whole childhood rushing back at me… The two of them playing their little game with me in the middle, feeling guilty and wanting to patch up their relationship.

It’s hard to convey this… when I try to explain to a friend or a boyfriend what it was like… it just looks like I’m being dramatic, talking about feelings and negativity and expecting to be treated like some sort of victim of abuse. But it was abuse. I’m not saying there were no smacks but they weren’t the worst of it, the worst was the days of misery in my room, alone, knowing the entire universe that I was free to inhabit was full of poison air except for my little bedroom. My little bedroom I’m in now, with two doors between it and the living room. I listen for the vaccuum sound of the first door, I can almost hear it… someone about to ruin my peace. They come in ALL THE TIME. They knock and enter at the same time. What the fuck, people? I’m not saying I need to masturbate all the time, in fact it’s pretty difficult in this horrible bed that reminds me of unrequited love and text messages that were never answered, but I am an adult woman, I need a bit of respect. Knock, and wait, how hard is that? Also I don’t appreciate being disturbed anyway for trivial things and to be informed of shit or asked questions.

I just want out of this. I knew it would be awful being back home even for a few days, but I forgot how awful. It is so sad to come back here, to the house I was raised in, and see my family like this. My dad in Italy, he never had any idea how horrible it was. My dad and his wife, when they are angry with me, they shout and then it’s over. There’s no subtlety, there’s no twisting the knife in your back, it’s just what it is, you get over it, you fight and you argue and you draw a line under it and move on. I could have told my dad I guess, but I grew up in this house here, and to me it felt like this house was the normal house. Back here again… Jaysus, I mean I love Ireland, I want to live in Ireland definitely, but I really miss my dad and his wife and my sisters, all so innocent of this type of bullshit. They would never sit at a table and drink and wallow and force hate and rage to continue long after it should have just collapsed on its own. I could never sit at the table and hit the whiskey coffees either… but that’s cool, I am starting to think this open alcoholism and cross-generational sessioning is… not entirely as brilliant and positive as I was brought up to believe.

So with all those thoughts dragging me down, far down, much further than the whiskey and further than my own hangover… I hug my mother with involuntary coldness and we head out to this new guy’s car. He’s sober… he’s sober. I don’t feel good. Claire is bubbly and kicking and running and she’s had two whiskeys. I know it’s going to hit her soon, the uneasyness, but I just hope she can manage to be hung over in her own head and not try to offload any of it onto me. I have just enough to deal with myself, thank you.

But Claire is an extroverted type of girl. She shares her happy more than I do, but she also brings you along on her adventures in misery. I brace myself for a worse headache than I have now…

We drive and drive and hit the bar. Be good… don’t be too lairy. Jack tells us to keep our cool. I point out to him, if he is bringing us to a bar where we have to behave ourselves, anything that happens is his fault for being so foolish. I will try to be quiet though, I promise.

We enter and head straight for the bar and sit up on stools. I order a bunch of bloody marys, knowing with all beautiful certainty that the bloody mary is all that can save me right now. I love bloody marys, I could honestly drink them non stop but they are very expensive. I knock back my first and start to feel absolutely fucking WONDERFUL. The heavens have parted and sunlight shines down on my mental state. Life is great.

I am beside my uncle and his friend.  Claire immediately swivels around and starts talking loudly to this group of men around our age. I talk to Jack. We say numerous witty and hilarious things. We are so totally smashed, I don’t even know if he had any sleep and we definitely didn’t have enough to sober up. A couple of hours, maybe. That damn single bed is not big enough for Claire and I to sleep through a hangover. I feel like I might have tonsilitis, there’s some weird pain in my throat but it’s only on one side… urgh. Will deal with that later. I woke up today to a message from the std clinic, I have tested negative for ghonnorhea and chlamydia. Oh YEAH! Boom! Wonderful news. I didn’t think I had anything, but still… I had never had a test before. Very bad. and those are the two most common stis or stds or whatever. I still need to get a blood test too and a pap smear but I’m just really happy about the chlamydia thing because my friend freaked me out about it recently saying if I had it for ten years or something I would be infertile. And you know how much I value my fertility.

Anyway we drink at this bar… The barman eyes us impassively. He has no fucking idea what the dynamic is between these two middle aged guys and these two absolutely shitfaced 20 something girls. But he doesn’t allow his face to find us challenging, he just makes our drinks and throws back the occasional quip. I tell him he’s making these bloody marys too damn good. Stop that!  what a good complaint, he says, smiling just a crack. I have had two.. now I’m drinking beer because, bloody marys cost a lot of money and also it’s my round. Claire is in the centre of this group of men being drunk. They are all monstrously attracted to her, and she’s being charming. She yelps out “YOU HAVE A MASSIVE ERECTION!” to someone who it turns out, had been over talking to her with a very obvious hard on. I start to feel jealous. I want attention…. I want to see hard ons.

She’s quoting Anchorman left right and centre. “SIXTY PERCENT OF THE TIME… EVERY TIME!” and “It means a whales vagina!”

She turns to me and grips me by the arm every so often, as I wallow in feeling insignificant. “PLEASE stop me from talking to those boys… What am I doing? UGH… Stop me.”

I’m like, maybe a little bitterly, “Well just stop being so damned witty and charming”

She chuckles. “I can’t help it I’m just too damn charming!”

and she returns to the collection of panting 20 something guys, throwing out one liners and cheeky comments… she’s on fire. I’m just really impressed.

I have a sneaking suspicion that the less animated guys who are not really receiving her attention, are defending themselves by sort of taking the piss out of her. I can’t tell which feeling dominates though, whether it’s more wow hot girl being hilarious and talking about sex and being fun, or look at the state of them messy up all nighters with the two old guys…

I am half jealous of the attention and half embarassed of it. I decide to drink more. I somehow reach the nice place. I try to get Claire outside with me to have fun in the sun, she shrieks “I don’t want fun in the sun, I’m not into scissoring!” What’s scissoring, ask the boys. Shhhh I say. Don’t explain scissoring to these people… “Well you know women don’t have penises… so they have to have this…” makes scissor actions with her hands, interlocking her fingers. “LIKE A PAIR OF SCISSORS!”

Hey… she says, catching sight of me… You have really beautiful eyes!

Thank you.

I take my role as the responsible, sober one even though i can barely walk I am so drunk. I admonish Claire, I try to wheedle her outside. She refuses. Fine. I go outside for a bit, two of the men arrive out for a smoke. I have become a smoker again just for today… I am briefly the centre of attention. The other men realise I am absolutely muntered too. I thought you were the good polite one? No that’s bullshit, it’s just mother hen mode, it happens when my friend is a little bit drunker than me, I start to mother her.

It’s just a habit I got into some time ago I guess.

Back inside, I am talking to one of the guys. His name, he says, is Fionn.

Claire tells him oh no, I could never have sex with you. My brother’s name is Fionn! (she’s not lying) He turns to me instantly. what about you, is your brother’s name Fionn? I say, yeah both of my brothers are called Fionn. Really? Yeah totally. Claire wanders off and he talks to me. I interrupt. WAIT A MINUTE, did you just “Plan B” me?

“Nobody Plan B’s me!” I try to snap my fingers in the air like a sassy black woman on daytime tv but I remember I can’t snap my fingers.

He gets indignant, no! I wasn’t plan b-ing you!

YEAH YOU WERE. It’s ok, I’m not offended, it’s just… aint gonna happen BABY! I don’t want no scrubs!



I decide to be cool and stop babysitting my only a tiny bit more drunk friend. I yell sometihng like “spring break, woo!” and declare “I’m not gonna be mother hen any more, it’s not me, I’m gonna get OFF THE HOOK!”

Claire says great! Fionn says Go for it! I feel wonderful, wonderful. I’m being totally charming and hilarious too…. What an idiot, sitting there all jealous when all I had to do was let loose and be fun….

Fionn looks at me… “wow, your eyes are amazing, they are really pretty…”

I grin and say, “yeah, I know”

He’s like “Ha I like that, you just say I know, you’re not modest about it.”

I shake my head. “No! It’s only because my friend just told me the same thing a few minutes ago…that’s why… I already know, like.” He seems to find this amusing. The guys are thoroughly distracted by us from the match they were watching. I feel a surge of happiness and like this is exactly where I should be. In Ireland, where we can just be happy drunk people and buzz off each other.

“I like you, you seem really nice,” says Fionn

“I’m not nice,” I tell him.

“You seem nice.”

“I’m not it’s just, I give that impression because…” (I wave my arm towards Claire) “I’m not saying I’m ugly or anything… but because my friend is so pretty, people just presume I am nicer.” I feel like that’s a really clever observation I just made. But he jumps in with the right thing to say, obviously.

“What? But you’re like… stunning too!”

(I grin from ear to ear but wave his compliment away as irrelevant) “well thank you, but you know… yeah I don’t think I’m ugly like, it’s not asking for a compliment, my friend’s just better looking you know? It’s no big deal it’s not like it makes me feel shitty. I feel pretty but she’s just… a different sort of pretty, you know?”

He looks at me unbelieving. Maybe he can’t tell if I really mean what I am saying or is it a trick to make him say my friend is prettier and then burst into tears or something. I think I was originally talking shit trying to seem cool with it but as I said it… I realised I totally, totally meant it and didn’t feel remotely unhappy about anything. I felt great, actually.

I wave him away and continue. “You see, she’s like, the outgoing pretty popular one, so naturally people presume I am smarter and nicer and more serious. I’m really not. Seriously, we are both really similar, but we get labelled differently.” I realise as I say it, and by the way it’s the first time I ever even think this thought, it’s like… it feels really honest. Claire arrives and squeezes in.

“What’s happeninnnnn?”

Fionn tells her I seem nice but that I said I’m not the nice good one. She sides with me.

“She’s not good! She’s way more… um… wild.. than me…” She’s like Samantha from Sex and the City. Seriously! She’s OFF THE HOOK!”

We high five each other. We have been saying everything is OFF THE HOOK in a kind of Cartman voice all night. It’s something i always say, and I have infected Claire with it. We said it probably at least 2000 times over the course of that one day. Also, we high fived each other and the lads and the men… too many times. We woke up with sore arms. And legs. And bruises everywhere. That was probably from all the dancing….

He asks me, are you really like Samantha? I say yeah baby. He’s like… yeah I kind of see it now… And I’m like… hey you aint seen nothin’ yet… and wiggle my eyebrows suggestively. Actually scrap that, I say… I am not trying to flirt I’m just having a laugh. I leave him and turn to Claire. Claire seizes an ancient white haired man by the hand and exclaims “I LOVE YOUR RING!”

He is wearing a pinkie ring with a clump of semi precious stones attached with beads and a bit of elasticated string. He says it’s not real, I don’t think, but I like it. She tries it on. She likes it a lot, I can tell. She says no it’s not real, it’s costume jewellery, but it’s very beautiful. WELL DONE YOU!” She hands it back. She has made that old man’s day, he is just beaming happily. She leaves him to his Guinness and comes back to me.

We screech “OFF THE HOOOOOOOOOK!”  together several times and collapse into  hugging each other yelling “you’re my best friend! you’re my best best best friend!” while the guys make appreciative cheering noises.

We pull apart. Claire pauses then yanks up my skirt and spanks me particularly hard across the buttocks. I shriek DONT FUCKING SPANK ME IN PUBLIC YOU JERK! She has a tendency to spank me, sober too, but normally she doesn’t pull my skirt up to do it.

I hear one of the lads pipes up with “hey hey what did I just miss?”

I pretend to look annoyed at the attention and pull my dress down indignantly and storm off to the bar. MORE BLOODY MARYS! I have had like four of them now and a couple of pints of beer. It’s around 2pm. The barman says he wants a good tip now for making the bloody marys so nice. He walks off.

Claire whispers to me… “Here’s a tip.. stop dying your hair black.”

I giggle hysterically and only then notice the barman has really badly dyed hair. I am very glad she chose to whisper this time.

I talk to people about my marriage. I tell my uncle and his friend about how I used to have to get up at 3am to take a dump in secret in the bathroom because I didn’t want my ex to know I had a disgestive system. That was probably weird, but fuck it. We laugh. Then it goes back to a sort of dark mood, we talk of death.

I discover Jack’s friend Ned just lost both his parents recently. Like, very recently. It’s the first time he has been persuaded to go out and have fun since their passing. It dawns on me just how inappropriate it is… for Claire and I to tag along with my uncle and his grieving friend, pissed out of our skulls and ranting and roaring about scissoring. I try to be cool and not say anything insensitive. I say flippant silly things and say life is beautiful and death is horrible but it makes life so much more precious… and he disagrees. It’s not like that at all. Well, I say, don’t mind me… I’m just drunk and say things before I think about them. He tells me actually I’m pretty coherent and not being bad at all.

I puff up with pride but wish he would leave me alone, I’m drunk I don’t need this depressing talk.

We’re leaving the pub. Claire wants to stay with the boys. I tell her there will be other, better boys. OK!

We walk along the street, a dubious foursome. I have my head hanging in respectful drunkeneness and I am being talked to about grief. I manage not to say anything rude but my head is pounding at me saying get out get out of this conversation. We arrive at the second pub which has just opened. It’s four pm. We are INCREDIBLY drunk.

Claire enters the second pub yelling about her drunkness. I am skipping and running and whooping. My uncle sits us down the back somewhere, in a nice dark corner. It’s very dark. Hooray! I love this pub. It’s the nicest place I have ever seen. I remember being here when I was 16, and drinking two pints before being asked to leave. We made a huge fuss and the bouncers were called and we were made to leave and it was very embarassing because of all the men we got to buy us drinks. Underage… ohhh..

Well it’s a nice pub. We get a few drinks in. I notice my uncle is absolutely pissed too, for the first time. I think he was just on his best behaviour in that other pub. There is a statue of a naked venus or something and he grabs its nipples and goes “Biddly biddly biddly!” I try to avoid being cornered by the grieving friend. I am somehow drawn into a conversation- he insists he read a scientific study where water that had been blessed with positive energy had chemically different properties than water that was not blessed. He says he doesn’t mean blessed like religion blessed, more like… positive vibes, man.

I tell him I don’t discriminate between mumbo jumbo, it’s all the same to me. He swears it is a real study. I tell him I am a skeptic and darn proud of it. I want proof baby or there’s no point… He swears he’ll show me proof. I say I will wait for the proof… that’s the whole thing about being a skeptic, him saying the proof exists is not good enough for me. He still insists on continuing to talk to me about it. I don’t want to be a dick to some guy who wants to believe in things when his parents have just died but I don’t believe what I don’t believe, and it’s annoying having to play the tolerant atheist for one day, even if I am absolutely shitfaced. I say all the hypocritical rubbish that the tolerant atheist says like,

“Yeah of course it’s possible, I mean I don’t KNOW there aren’t ghosts, I just don’t believe in ghosts unless I find proof of a ghost. And I mean if I found proof of ghosts I would be FUCKING DELIGHTED! And fair enough, maybe water does change based on observation, I just have never seen the proof of that.”

He tells me we are all 90% water, and if water changes its structure based on good or bad vibes, then that’s amazing, maybe positive thoughts can cure people?

And I’m like… urgh.

“Yeah I mean who knows… it’s just that my entire, absolute point is not, this is my opinion of what is true versus this is your opinion, it’s like… all my opinions are fluid, but they don’t get swayed by drunken argument and being told something is true.”

Anyway I said a lot of stuff that isn’t true about my open mindedness. I’m not agnostic about ghosts, any more than I’m agnostic about a god. I don’t think it’s impossible for there to be ghosts, but just because I admit I COULD be wrong, doesn’t mean I have to keep an open mind about ghosts in preparation for maybe finding ghost evidence. I can safely be sure there are no ghosts because as a skeptic my mind is still open. Deciding there are absolutely no ghosts is only a definite statement that can’t be reversed, if you are a devout believer in things. I decide there is no god, if I find evidence of a god it will change my TOTALLY 100% made up mind because that’s what my mind does. It changes, even when it is totally decided.

Anyway this guy kind of wrecked my head, but he didn’t seem to mind my disagreements. I was nice and diplomatic enough even in that condition, that he said I was great and had a great way of looking at things. Yeah, because it’s not my real way of looking at things. I know what a nice tolerant person would say, but it makes me cringe when I say it. Anyway you’re grieving, I’m drunk.. it’s not the right time to educate you on nihilism.

I grow really bored and excuse myself. “TWO MOTHERFUCKIN JAGERBOMBS IN THE HIZZAY!” Claire is talking to a strange middle aged woman and her husband.

“you’re AMAZING!” Claire tells the woman. “I don’t have any money, can you buy me a drink?” The woman says ok. “JAGERBOMBS BABY!”

I approach Claire. “I didn’t pay for this drink!” she yells at me, hanging off the arm of her benefactress. The husband engages me in conversation. He calls me “jagerbomb girl” which I think is weird because why would he call me that? He tells me I have been up at the bar several times buying jagerbombs. I don’t remember that.

I tell him about my marriage and separation. He tells me I am interesting and strong.

Well… I grow louder and boast to the man for a little longer and then lurch off through the dimly lit pub, finding the beer garden and for some reason this random elderly man is offering me a job. I accept the job. Sure thing, I’m great at administration. I’ll get your number later. Yeah! Oh… I don’t want to give this old man my number. I have to… go over here now. I back away and find Claire again. We are eating crisps and have more jagerbombs. We realise we haven’t eaten anything all day and we are hungry.

The barman comes over with some menus. Would you like to eat something?

YES! Oh my god yes! I didn’t know you did food!

I look at the menus, they are for various take away restaurants in the local area. For some reason I don’t think that is weird that the pub has these random menus and not… like… its own menu. I think maybe they will order us a takeaway. I look at the menus but I don’t want anything. I tell the barman I actually had my heart set on a poached sea bass. He grins and tells me that can be arranged. REALLY? I was just being annoying. Can I have it on a bed of wilted spinach, with some onions on the side that have been gently ashamed? Yes. He writes it all down on a pad. My friend wants a steak, medium rare. Actually I wish I was getting a steak. I realise the menfolk will want some of my sea bass and I don’t want to share, so I order a portion of chips for them. I might have some chips too. Make that TWO chips!

Sure thing. The barman goes away.

Claire and I beam at each other excitedly, I’m sitting on my hands rocking back and forth.

“I cant wait for this food it’s gonna be…”


We sit for a while chattering about our food. I clear my stuff off the table in preparation.

Jack comes back to us.. are you coming outside for a smoke?

“No we have to wait for the food.”

“What food?”

“Uhhh… I didn’t know what you wanted so I got you chips. I’m having a sea bass. You can… you can try a bit…”

He snorts. They aren’t actually making you food. It was a joke.

What? A joke?

They don’t make food.

I don’t believe this. LIES! I stalk up to the barman.

“My sea bass… I ordered a sea bass.”

He laughs. The whole bar laughs. I am unembarassed. I feel like, it’s more shameful for the bar staff, taking advantage of naive drunk chicks, than it is for me. I pull myself up to my full height, swaying on battered mid heels like an ancient tree in a storm. I will put you people in your places.

“Yes… ysss well. I may be ugly, but you’re sober. And at least I’ll be drunk in the morning.”

I am of course aware that I am misquoting, but I find it is better to just SUGGEST to people that I am drunk but they are ugly, but fuck it up completely, than to actually tell them that I know I am lairy but gorgeous. It’s like… reverse psychology, or something. But I am pickled from the inside out. My eyes are red, my cheeks are red, my face is white as old portraits of sick princes who died when they were 10.

There are roars of patronising laughter. I am sure we are more entertaining a party of drunks than we are an annoyance. It’s a pub… it’s a pub, that’s what they are for. I chat to the barman for a while. He claims he is going to get my sea bass out of the car. I continue to ask him about my sea bass every time I see him actually. It’s probably annoying. Who cares, I am fun. I am king of the world, I’m charming the pants off everybody. Hooray!

In another room, I find Jack and Ned. Oh hello! I join them, radiating joy and entertainingness. I am here! The party is back on track! I don’t think about why they have left the room we were in. I presume they are looking for myself and Claire, the life and soul of the premises. YAY!

Claire barges in behind me and slumps onto the bar. She begins interviewing the barman, for some reason. Loudly. She holds out a glass or a straw or something as a microphone and bellows questions at him jovially. Behind him is a young barmain, giggling and blushing. She pleads with the barman, she wants to serve us… Can she serve us?

He nods and smiles, steps back and lets her come to the bar. Claire begins to interview the barmaid instead, who seems to find it all brilliant and hilarious although in some part she is also laughing AT Claire. But she is getting a kick out of it, that’s for sure.

“So how does it FEEL to be here today?”

And then one minute, I think I hear a guy beside me mutter something about going outside to get away from these annoying people. The horror… the fear and misery and despair washes over me.

Do we… do we annoy people?

Are we not cool and nice and fun and hilarious and witty and warm?

I thought we were being the life and soul of the party, but maybe… is it possible I am wrong, and maybe we are just drunkenly leering around, assholes and dickheads, boring everyone and making them want to leave us? I turn to Jack and Ned and whisper sadly… “I think those.. I think those people hate us.”

I want to cry, I want to crawl down into a hole. I didn’t realise people might not appreciate our antics.

Jack says no, of course no one said that. I’m being paranoid.

Am I? No, I don’t think so. Why would I think that?

Jack is drunk too… he leans over to a woman near me and shouts “did you say the girls were annoying?”

AHHH! Cringe! No! I insist to the confused woman who is shaking her head… “I didn’t tell him that! Shut up Jack I didn’t say that! Sorry! Sorry!”

The woman insists I must have misheard. I’m not surebut I am embarassed now. I go outside to get away from the shame. I come across the man who I think maybe said the thing about us being annoying, and a woman with a shaved head. He storms off imediately. Ok I’m not being paranoid. I sit down with the woman and talk to her about myself for a while. She laughs at my jokes, and as she speaks it occurs to me that she either has a REALLY OBVIOUS American accent or I am just hopelessly drunk. I interrupt her.

“I’m very sorry. I can’t tell if this is a racist question or not. If so, I’m sorry. But… Are you by any chance… an AMERICAN PERSON?”

She laughs. “Yes, I am an American person.”

I am so relieved. “Sorry that was like… I didn’t know if your accent was like… my imagination or not. You see maybe I’m paranoid. Because… I thought this guy said I was annoying so I was upset, but maybe I’m paranoid?”

Claire lurches out to me. “HEY BABY!”

She addresses the American person as “Sinead O’ Connor.”

I don’t remember how this was received. I know Claire was giving everyone nicknames. She told Ned he looked like Toad of Toad Hall. That wasn’t appreciated, probably. At one point Ned began telling her she was “very sad” because of her behaviour. She disagreed. She said she was happy. He tried to tell me my friend was sad too. I argued. No, she’s happy. I haven’t seen her so happy in a long time…

He insisted, it was the behaviour… she could end up getting taken outside and raped, being so flirty with all the guys. I was really upset by him saying that stuff. He doesn’t realise she is like that with men and women, it’s not flirting, it’s friendliness.

He says, she could get into a lot of trouble.

I’m like, “You know what, man? She is friendly and I love that she is friendly. If she gets raped it’s not cause she’s too friendly, it’s because the rapist is fucked in the head. It’s not her fault she is attractive to men, and I would rather she was friendly than standoffish because it’s people like her that make the world a lovely fun place to be in. You know dude, I’m not half as flirty, I take a lot of care not to accidentally give men sexual signals, but I wind up in so many worse situations than she does. It doesn’t mean you’re in more danger, being over friendly and bubbly. It’s a lovely thing.”

He shakes his head. He doesn’t believe me. He says I’m just standing up for my friend…he says she is “damaged.” I’m like, well you’re entitled to your own opinion and all…. but you’re wrong.

He tells me my friend should be more like me, and I am really sensible and sorted and together. I realise when he says this, he hasn’t a fucking clue what he’s talking about at all and I stop bothering to argue with him. I just shrug and go back to yelling “OFF THE HOOOOOK!” and asking people about my poached sea bass I wanted. My mother starts calling and asking in a sad little voice, when I want to come home? “Uhh I don’ wanna… I’ma having fun now ok”

She doesn’t sound impressed. Meh. I’m having far too much fun. I want to stay out forever…

I am drinking pints. I wonder how much I have drinken.

Claire has disappeared again. I find her in the midst of a group of musicians who are waiting to play a gig. I tell them they are really good. Then I remember I haven’t heard them play yet, so I tell them, well sorry maybe you are shit. I mean, I’m sure you aren’t but how would I know? I go away and leave Claire with them. Outside I am with my uncle Jack and Ned and American Sinead O Connor and the guy who said we were annoying. Jack confronts him about it. He says no, nothing like it. I am really embarassed and angry. He’s lying. He’s lying to us because he thinks we are all so drunk we won’t know…

My mother rings again.

“Do you want to come home?”


Jack shouts “Ask for a lift!”

“Can I have a lift please home mum?”

“I thought you didn’t want to come home?”

“I don’t.”

“Where do you want a lift to then?”


“Are you sure?”


My mother arrives soon after. I drag Claire away from the musicians and some guy who apparently gave her coke. We’re leaving…. Okaaaayyy… Bye guys!

We get in the car. My mum is all sober disapproval. It’s me, Claire and Ned in the back. Ned is coming back with us. Why? I thought he was having a shit time, apparently not. Apparently he had caught up with us and was drunk and wanted to keep partying on. In the back, Claire and I are shrieking “ITS OFF THE HOOOOK!” and more quotes from Anchorman.

Ned lectures us… “Your mother is being a wonderful woman picking you up from the pub like that, you should be nice to her.”

I nod and fall silent. The car stops. At an off licence. Why are we here? Why is my mother ENABLING us? Her and Jack leave us in the car. Claire and I take their absence as a challenge to make the most noise. We start yelling and scrapping.

I tell her “DONT THINK I WONT FUCK YOU UP, BITCH, I FUCK YOU UP! I FIGHT DIRTY BABY!” and she starts biting me in the arm and giving me nuggies.

ARRRGH! I bit into her arms too. We are kicking and biting each other and shrieking fightin’ words. “Bitch you DEEEAAAD!”

My mother and Jack return with a bottle of vodka and some whiskey or something. I find that really weird… How? Why? Since when did we have any money left? Why isn’t my mother being good and cutting us off while she has the chance? Why is she allowing us to continue our ridiculous bender?

Me and Claire calm down a bit. I pat my mum on the back on the head and tell her gravely “thank you for picking us up,mother,  you are truly a king among men”

We all thank her.

We get back to the house. Drinking ensues… I make a litre of bloody marys, but I am utterly fucked right now and just put a whole load of things in there… it’s not very tasty. No one else wants theirs, but I drink mine and then some. YAYYYY!

But I know it’s near the end because it fails to make me feel like I’ve just guzzled a pitcher of happy juice. I start to admit the idea that our awesome festival of debauchery will come to an end. There’s dancing… We are all dancing. I sit down because I’m starting to feel shitty. My mum is at the table sitting with me and starts talking to me in non-drunk language. I can’t take it.. it’s giving me a hangover. I can’t hold a conversation with my mother. She’s actually not sober, she picked us up at 8pm from the pub apparently and it is now like midnight, I am just missing a huge chunk of memories. But it feels like my mother is sober and wants to nag me. Everyone else is having a great time…. I’m starting to crash and burn. I smoke a joint and it bangs the last nail in the coffin for me. I’m off. I’m fucked… Good night everybody. Good night…

And there it ended. The best, most awesome fun, improvised bender I have had in probably around a year. Claire and I used to have the most incredibly fun times together when we were briefly in college. I blame each other for our dropping out before the beginning of first year. But we have the best times. She sweeps people up with her charm and friendliness and I contribute some other kind of madness to it, and we have the BEST times. I mean, maybe it doesn’t come across, the fun we had…. I hung out with my step-uncle and his friend, two men aged forty five or so, and we all had a brilliant time. Maybe we were mad bad and sad girls, squawking inanity at each other and everyone, but I don’t think so. Jack and Ned reassured us the next day. That’s what you have pubs for. Drunk people. That’s what drunk people are like… if you’re lucky. They admitted it was one of the best times in ages, we said the same. It was something that would go absolutely tits up if you tried to plan it. You can have a massive house full of booze and sexy beautiful people you like who are fun and young and crazy and not come out with a day like that. It was gloriously fun, and silly, and inappropriate, but it was fucking fantastic.

And it’s exactly why I moved back to Ireland. Not so that I can go off the rails and drink enough to kill a bus load of Italians, but so that if I do get drunk and go out, I will laugh and laugh and I won’t be ashamed of the sillyness, only the badness. And here I am now, it’s not the day or the day after, it’s Tuesday and I started writign this at 5.30 am on Sunday morning with the fear and the depression and I still don’t feel entirely well or mentally fit yet…. I’ve been having panic attacks for three days now which isn’t pretty but as Sly Stone said, the nicer the nice, the higher the price. I think.

When it comes to serious drinking, there is no piracy. You gots to pay for what you take. And I’m not happy about paying but in the long run, I’ll remember that day and I’ll forget the hangover. It was… seriously… OFF THE HOOK.

About the whole reality thing, and the being in my parents house… yeah, that has my brain pretty damn fried too. But I am sure I want to be in Ireland. I just don’t want to be in this square kilometre. So… tomorrow hopefully I will have produced some new seratonin and can get back to writing my cv.

And as to the whole… alcoholic family and my terrible, terrible approach to alcohol… I am entirely aware of the hypocrisy and badness of it all. I’m not drinking again now for a while, really. But anyway, I would never have gone to any pubs during the day if it hadn’t been for the awful tension in the house and all. I fell and landed on a bender, that’s what happened.

And I haven’t abandoned my blog, I was just too drunk and hung over to type anything.

I have to stop sleeping with the locals.

Well, and hi to you too!

I haven’t written anything in a while- no, I have actually. I started writing things a great many times. Once I even wrote a 6000 word account of a night I went out with my friend and we got drunk and she puked and I didn’t. Pretty much nothing happened, I just described it in detail and before I hit publish I thought, wait, have I just resigned myself to literally posting every waking thought and detailing every step I take an move I make I’ll be missing you? Can’t youhoo see, you belong to me…. every sooooveayayayaaaa…


I just haven’t posted anything, because I keep arriving at some point and pausing to think WHY am I writing this, what is the fucking point, and how many times am I going to report back on the same fucking topics and the same paranoia and how many times will people actually find it interesting to read about me blushing in front of men I fantasize about and flogging myself for saying something weird?

So with that attitude it’s pretty much impossible for me to write my blog as usual. I am a little bit depressed really. But it’s ok I’m going to London in 3 weeks or so, a factfinding mission that might be permanent if I pull my shit together and find a job quickly. Until then, I’m being even more reclusive than usual, but when I do move you can expect to read more exciting things here,maybe. Unless I go too far the other side of uncool and actually get a life, and choose interacting with awesome people IRL over, you know… this. No offense, like. I like you guys plenty. But I can’t have sex with you. And I won’t either, so don’t go private messaging me any indecent proposals and shit. (Actually if it was a real indecent proposal, put your offer in the subject line of the email so I don’t accidentally reject a serious cashmaking opportunity. I will also, for money, write that you had a massive penis on here, even if you are a woman. And if it involves bum stuff or proximity to vagina(s), I will need that to be at least 5 figures. Anyway no one is offering me money for sexual favours, the most I ever got paid was 20 euros for a taxi but then I took the bus home so I consider that to have been a kind of income, and then when I lezzed out that time at the festival I got a really nice jumper out of it. Anyway. Moving on. Away from the prostitution talk. Sorry.)

So. I have not done a Captain Schettino on my blog or anything, (Could I be any more topical right now?) I am just going through a period of existential crisis and also largely, lazyness. Because it’s pretty easy to claim I want to protect my readership from the dullness of my everyday paranoia and then instead watch tv. Everyone wins.

Why write anything today then you might ask, if this was a conversation and not just me, me, me, hammering away at my sexy black keyboard with the white letters. This keyboard makes a beautiful sound. It’s the best keyboard I ever had on a laptop but it would be so much better if only the letters were illuminated by a customizable colour backlight. Just fucking saying, is all. Anyway the reason I am posting something today is that I am hideously hung over and the soft clicking of my keys and the warmth from my overheating laptop are soothing to my dehydrated and scrambled brain.

OH my beer-swollen gut,  I just remembered that for once, “Yesterday MFO” left me a good surprise to walk of shame home to. I made a quiche or pie type thing AND a fucking loaf of banana bread.

HELL to the yes. Of course I also left all the mess that goes with my cooking adventures, but it’s Sunday, if the lord had wanted me to load my dishwasher on a Sunday, he wouldn’t have made me an atheist. Ergo, today I feast and tomorrow I deal with the fact that I mashed banana directly on the kitchen counter to avoid getting a plate out of the far away cupboard.

Yummy yummy yummy. Sometimes yesterday MFO does nice things for me. Usually her gifts are things like, oh yeah, this fucking hangover and depression. But silver lining to the cloud of pain and regret and confusion…

It’s pastry time.

Anyway sorry sorry sorry getting sidetracked here.

I am going to proceed and in case you are the sort of person who doesn’t want to read about my disastrous sex life in too much detail, stop reading now and maybe this is not the place for you. The internet, I mean.

So. Last night, I put on a very very short dress, it is black and covered in black sequins of varying sizes. So it is sparkly and slutty but not too… Oh who am I kidding, if I raise my arms you can see my southern hemispheres.

I chose to wear heels too, despite Andrea saying she had sore feet and wouldn’t wear heels out and she is already considerably shorter than me. I didn’t care, I like being taller sometimes. It eliminates a lot of time wasters, it gives me an edge to go with my shyness and inability to make eye contact with any men in case I accidentally give them permission to sex me. I like tall men, and standing on my tippy toes makes it a lot easier to see who is tall enough for me to feel properly squished against a wall later, and for him to have any chance of being able to pick me up… otherwise I am relying on blurry drunken vision and my atrocious everyday spatial awareness. Excessive tallness is also a defense against the feelings of shittyness I encounter when Andrea gets hit on by ALL THE MEN.

Oh I am flattered if you think I am above memes and other internet tomfoolery but then you probably don’t think that, in which case you are right.

To quote-rape Oscar Wilde, “I am in the gutter, and I sure aint looking at no stars”

Apart from Alexander Skarsgard. YUM.

So, back to my riveting narrative-

When I am taller than people, I tell myself they are only not hitting on me because I intimidate them, like a straight Xena warrior princess… Their lack of interest is a sign that they know I am too far out of their league, there’s no point in even trying.

Simple delusion tactics but works pretty well on my ego, which will believe anything to make itself feel good. So last night I was tall, my skirt was short, I channeled non drug addict prostitute… and I went easy on the makeup. That was a good move and I plan on trying to remember to continue in that vein as I was delightfully fresh looking around 2am where usually the bathroom mirror throws back the hauntingly familiar harpy face, causing me to question the standards of any men who I do manage to lure back to my lair.

I looked pretty close to my best, last night. I even trimmed a good few centimetres of split ends from my hair which was getting a little too hippie for my liking. It is all shiny and nice now although it doesn’t give quite the same level of boob coverage as before, that extra bit was handy for obscuring  soft, floppy nip during my forays into woman on top-itude.

Woulda come in handy later. Yeah I got laid. Don’t cheer though, it was shit.

We danced. It was fun. We became drunk, drunk, laughing in each others faces and wondering, why don’t we have more friends? It is because we are too damn attractive that’s why, we are not horrible bitches it is other women who have some kind of problem. Cunts. Look at them, and their ugly clothes. Ha ha ha.

My dancing was based on looking good, sucking in my stomach and simulating something like normal human rhythm. Another couple of drinks down the gullet and it devolved, to just trying to disguise my stumbling and falling as dance steps. I staggered left right left ahhh and swooped back to my starting position, and repeated. I felt I was getting the hang of it as time wore on but probably I was just too hammered to know how bad it looked. Then I had a drunken epiphany that, hell I am leaving this place in like a month (woo!) and so why the FUCK would I care what anyone thinks about my dancing? Never mind, I will just dance like nobody who matters is watching, which is true because they are all just Italians.

Smoke machine obscured some of my stumbling. Nice. I began to let go of all the good and right things that keep me from making a tit of myself. Who the fuck cares? Italians, pfff. I leaned back and roared laughter. Free from the shackles of saving face… I was probably overall better at dancing after my epiphany, actually. Until I got a little too relaxed and began biting my lip and closing my eyes in hippie-junkie euphoria… Luckily something got a hold of me and said no, now, that’s enough, no one needs to see that shit.

And suddenly, from out of the smoke and my own slow motion carnival vision, so drunk all the people around me looked like when someone on tv remembers seeing a murderer at a fairground…

Suddenly there emerged a guy. Head and shoulders above the rest, except for those other two guys with the beekeeper beards who didn’t count.

Really hot. So hot… All tall, really tall and built, with a super hot face. He looked like an athlete of some sort, or Thor, or a Viking, or an asshole kind of jock. Mmmm my favorite. I want.

Tried to subtly dance closer, pushing people out of the way with my shoulders. Caught his eye and immediately when I saw his eyes see mine, was gripped by terror and looked away blushing furiously. Ahh shit. Can’t risk rejection. No no no no no.

Panic… what if he doesn’t come over to me? Should I go up to him, am I being too subtle?

I elbow some girls who are dancing between us. Subtly begin to stare at him grinning furiously, doing my drunken sleazy face with the half closing of one eye, and smirking on one side.

Rub my buttocks against some vague manly rugged part of him and swish my hair around hitting him with a sheet of shiny follicles. This is, sadly, the mating dance of the MFO. Slightly less unattractive than my actual dancing, but the fact of what it’s supposed to achieve makes it that bit creepier.

Andrea wants to go for a smoke. I am very angry at this interuption of my seduction process but I join her. Maybe this will count as playing it cool. I decide to confide in her… there’s a guy I kind of like on the dance floor.

Yeah the one in the grey.

Oh? You know?

Yeah it’s pretty obvious.

Oh, girl intuition. It’s cool she can pick up on that. Because she knows me so well I guess. We have spent a lot of time out together in the past year…

The guy you were rubbing up against like a hungry cat against a woman’s calves… He’s kind of nerdy looking.

What? No! He’s a hunk! He’s the image of Channing Tatum.. If Channing Tatum had a better looking son his own age, who looked more like a viking.

She raises her eyebrows.

I tell her I am glad we don’t have the same taste in men. She is currently crushing on some fucking llama of a man with dreadlocks and a hemp jacket. She’s like, huh, well your guy dances like a nerd.

I’m shocked she is so blind to his charms, but also glad because no competition! I’m like, woman, I don’t care HOW he fucking dances. All I’m here for is the horizontal tango. I begin making “ungh, ungh!” noises and thrusting motions with my arms. She says ok ok I guess he is a bit hot then yeah.. and changes the subject back to her own interests so I zone out and start thinking of a plan of courtship. I wonder should I pull up my skirt some. Or turn my dress around so I am exposing boob too, as it has a lower back than neckline.

We go back inside. I try to navigate through the crowd of dancers, my heels a major hindrance to casual snaking towards the front. He is not LOOKING AT ME! I dance as sexy as I possibly can without actually inserting a finger.

Suddenly he is behind me. I muster my courage and flash him my most dazzling but dimwitted smile.  Oh happy day! Can it be, I have pulled the hunkiest motherfucker in the club? I am the sexy master.

I am the conquistador of hotties.

He wraps an arm around my sequins and pulls me so close I can feel his… is that a hoodie knotted around his hips or is he extremely happy to see me, and well endowed? Oh fuck he is so sexy.

He blethers something about being unemployed in my ear. He studied philosophy. Ok. Ok. Can’t ruin it, you’re too pretty. I murmur agreement and let him have my standard introductory info, like my nationality, why I speak Italian, what I am doing in this cunting country, and so on.

He tries to add a kiss to the dry humping. I push his face away laughing. NO I don’t kiss people in public. Why? I just don’t. Ok…

(real reason: something I can’t remember clearly, to do with New Year’s eve and a pool table and a man whose name and face I couldn’t recall half an hour later.)

I tell him I will give him one later.

He’s like I don’t want to wait.

I’m all, yeah but later you’ll get more than a kiss. He kisses me on the cheeks and says do you know how we say hello in Italy? And I’m like yeah yeah kiss on the cheeks… and he’s like no… let me show you and starts licking his lips and I’m all, dude, I said no fucking kissing. I wonder if what is pushing into my crotch so delightfully is a hardon or the knot of a jumper tied around his hips. I am looking forward to this later thing too. I am pretty drunk, it’s handy he is here as he is supporting my endeavour to stay standing.

Andrea where is Andrea? Some hippie in a hat shaped like a tiger head is giving her a dance lesson. Ok. I’m good, haven’t ditched the bitch. Grind on Matteo some more. Oh yeah that’s his name, well not really, but it’s gonna be for this post. He won’t be a recurring character btw.

We talk for some reason about people who sexually assault girls on the tram. I use the opportunity (which I probably created anyway by bringing up this topic) to act all incredulous about why me, why me? He brandishes the usual compliments. SO BEAUTIFUL, so hot, so pretty, sexy girl… I pretend to brush the praise aside, no no no I don’t mean that, I wasn’t angling for a compliment!(lies, damned lies) He’s like, I know you weren’t but it’s true, you are incredible… so sexy… and tall.

I’m like no these are heels. Tee hee. (Love being tall, hot dang!) He’s all, yeah but you are still tall. We talk about weird things. He is so much better to talk to than Fabio. He doesn’t misunderstand all my jokes and stuff and he is liberal with the flattery. I like my hunk, he is so hot and sexy and he is talking in my ear about how he can’t wait to get me alone… Fabio needs so much more encouragement and he’s not as…HORNY about it. Fabio sucks. I’m like, what’s your story, do you live alone or near?

He tells me he lives alone and what’s more, we are getting a lift there with his friend. I push for Andrea to get a lift too. He tells me I am really thoughtful and a good friend. And pretty. And sexy. We get in the car. His friend is not pleased about having to drive Andrea home in the opposite direction. We drop her off and then he leaves us  at Matteo’s apartment. Thank you bye bye!

Inside the door… I pull him to me, pinning me to the wall. Oh he is so fucking hot and big and tall and he wants me so badly. We kiss for the first time, we’ve been waiting so long for this… he grabs my neck and lunges…

And he’s a terrible kisser. His tongue darting in and out of my mouth. It reminds me of an eel, or that time I ate tongue by accident. (cow tongue) It’s horrible. Urgh. Strike one… but it’s too late to back out now. I am here, I don’t even know where here is… but he said he’s give me a lift home tomorrow. I don’t want to pay for another taxi now, especially because to suddenly change my mind… too much hassle and awkwardness.

Oh well, I’ll just get on top and do my own thing, he can’t be THAT bad. A bad kisser can redeem himself elsewhere, can’t he?

Up to his apartment, inside, I fling my shoes across the room. You’re still tall, he says. Picks me up and plonks me on the bed. Oh YES. I like..

Takes off my dress, tights. I like your underwear… sexy. I argue with him that they are not sexy underwear they are just cotton knickers from H&M and I was meant to wear black with the dress which is short but I couldn’t find black ones… Shut up MFO. Shut up.  Takes off underwear. He looks at me, just how I like to be looked at. In admiration. Pauses.

“Sei stupenda”. Oh yes. I like the compliments, keep em coming. That one I particularly like, it’s like beautiful or fantastic or incredible or something. Yay! Naked admiration is the best admiration. I forgive the bad, inanimate kissing… I concentrate on kissing his neck and shoulder to avoid being stabbed in the face with that rigid, forceful tongue of his.

He’s on top… he’s naked too. We’re panting, gasping for each other, all the grinding on the dance floor….

He’s feeling all over my body. He’s got my nipple in his mouth, gently between his teeth.

I reach down.

He’s.. soft.

Why is he soft?

I have a little wrangle with the situation, but nothing is happening. Hm.

Then it’s semi hard. Ok I guess. Just need to get it inside and it will perk up I’m sure. Condom on. It’s pretty big actually but just… not very hard. I straddle him and try to… no. No it just falls back, invertebrate… what the fuck man? He begins making excuses like oh no I drank so much. Hmm.

Have another go… he’s on top. And it feels… kinda good I guess. For a second. And then it’s gone again. What is going on here? I know it’s not that he doesn’t find me attractive. It can’t be. He clearly likes me, he clearly likes my body…. what is this shit?

I didn’t want to give him head, I really didn’t, because I’m starting to think maybe I should stop doing that with people I don’t know, and maybe I will get an STD or something in fact maybe I already do, who the fuck knows? I always have protected sex but I don’t care what those leaflets they gave us in sex ed said, I am not gargling a rubber and I don’t really see the point in giving head if it isn’t wet and sensitive…

But I need to make this work, so fuck it. Down I go. Condom off, into the mouth with you, I don’t have much spit right now but you can have what I got. Instant results. Woah, that is a BIG BIG DICK.

I am impressed and feeling hopeful… We are going to have a good time after all. Another condom on. There we go… damn my breasts miss their protective shield of split ends. Now he can see my wobbly and underdeveloped chestal region. Ease you in now, nice and gently… feels mighty good. Lean a little into it.

There’s no use, it’s soft again. WHAT have I done to deserve this? Is it too much to ask? He tries to go for it… jackhammering away at my while I lie there thinking, urrr… 2004-me called, she wants her sex back? It’s pointless. Like picking a lock with a gummy worm. I try my lazy and unmotivated hands… Can I help at all? Have to mentally chant “be gentle with the balls” when I touch things because I have a natural desire to be very rough with them and I was told that was not an enjoyable experience. So I don’t really like doing things manual style. But he just grins at me and slurs, You know how you can help.

Fuck. Really horny or I would have given up long ago… I creep back down and slather on my remaining mouth juice. This better work. It’s surprisingly enjoyable, considering the size of the critter. It swells up to a fearsome beast, and he gasps and pushes my hair from my face. It’s the look on his face, it’s sickening really but I get insanely turned on by it. Absolute appreciation…. I can’t help myself, it spurs me on. I get so high on feeling attractive. I try a little deep throat. Oh fuuuuuckkk…

I like when they close their eyes and lie back but I also like when they stare at me while I do it. I don’t know which I prefer.

And again…

Go, me! I am so good at this. I forgot, now I remember… I am really good at this.

I pull back my head as I’m about to gag and suddenly I can taste it, eerily vibrant, silky stuff… it was past the taste buds but now they are picking it up… He’s cumming in my mouth. Ah for fucks sake. I whip it out and let the rest fall where it may.

What the fuck, I thought you were supposed to warn people?

I go to the bathroom, wash my hands, rinse my mouth.

That wasn’t my intention, a throat full of spunk. I was only getting you hard so we could have fun rough drunk people sex. Not pleasure you with my mouth. Grr. Fuck it. Back to bed. Sleep time. Tomorrow morning better be better.

He offers me pyjamas. Pyja… what? We’re… sleeping in the bed together. Like, one night stands… pyjamas? I laugh. He shrugs. Please don’t put on pyjamas. He doesn’t put on pyjamas.

We sleep.

Wake up… Smile to self, got laid, pulled the hottie… Details float in. Didn’t really get laid, did I? Sucked some dude’s dick. Look around… Nice place you got here. And good morn… ack!

Hottie? Is that you? I don’t wanna look, but there he lies… mouth slightly open… eyes shut…

Beside me lies the epitome of hot, the Viking slash jock slash Channing Tatum hybrid I chose to be my consort for his stunning looks.

And I’m not saying that, in the harsh light of day, he is ugly. No, he’s not UGLY. He’s just… not very attractive really. He’s ok I guess. Andrea’s words float before me “he looks like a nerd.” I remember his dancing now. Yes. Yes. She was right actually. Crap. Remember this feeling… Not really used to this any more. Where the fuck am I? Look around me. On the ground lie my clothes, grotty underwear and a ridiculously short sequinned dress plus crazy coloured 6 inch heels. Shit. It’s walk of shame time, and I don’t even know where I am or how to get out of this building even.

I consider molesting the guy in his sleep, looks or no looks, the room’s already paid for I may as well take the shower caps. He goes on my list of people I fucked, I should at least try wrangle a good one out of him.

What’s the etiquette here? Is it cool to wake someone for sex, or do we look to the standard law of “never wake a hung over person if they are managing to get some sleep”? The guy came in my mouth without warning me, does that mean I can try to stir him up in the pants department while he sleeps? Is that… rape?

I know it would be appreciated if I woke up a dude with mouth love, but I am not doing that again.

I try to wake him up for a bit by tossing and turning but he is totally comatose.

I begin to panic that maybe he is actually comatose or… maybe he is dead? I fantasize about the awful shame of a one night stand who isn’t even hot, dying in bed with me and having to explain the story to police and no one believing me and having to constantly be reminded of this not great looking nerd I tried to fuck who went floppy on me…


Check his pulse. We’re good, he’s alive. thank fuck.

I get up to pee and am terrified I will fart. This doesn’t happen as I am a LADY but my pee is deafening, I want to shhh it but don’t remember if I should lean back or forward to silence the stream of falling beer and long island iced teas that is escaping my half pickled carcass.

Why it is embarassing to pee loud, I do not know, but I am ashamed.

Back to bed. I am naked.

I slip into bed and think, I am not going to get to sleep in this man’s bed.

Fantasize about horrible things like him taking me home to kill me. Imagine walking around the apartment and coming across a room full of dead bodies and turning around and him standing there and being like, you shouldn’t have looked behind that door… ahh!

Stare at the sleeping nerd beside me in fear. Manage to sweep away this paranoia as he would have totally killed me the night before and not let himself fall asleep and leave me unguarded. Plus I really don’t want to get up yet, it is probably too early. Check a watch on the bedside table… 8am. Shit.

Try to sleep. Failing that, try to wake up sleeping notabeauty. Try to sneak my hand in around his crotchal region to see if I can get something going… He has the sheets tucked in forming a barrier between us. Oh.

I get up for water, conspicuously, naked, closing the door loudly when I return. He smiles and surveys me.

You fucking better find this attractive, floppycock.

Good morning.

Good afternoon.

What, isn’t it 8? The watch….

It’s not a watch, it’s an ornament. I look at it. So it is. It’s a tiny pretend alarm clock made of wood, with the time painted on. Oh.

It’s midday.

I drink some water. Hand him some. Get in bed… mmmm back to warm, back to touching… try some kissing without allowing our terrible mornning breath to escape. Mmm mmm mm. It’s not great as kissing goes, but it’s considerably better than the tongue rape my mouth endured last night. Touching and kissing, I’m glad again I didn’t wear too much slap last night as my morning face is pretty decent now.

Condom on… Rolls over onto me. Inside… oh hell yeah. I can FEEL that.

Feels good. I’m not exactly ready but I’ll take it. It’s not fully erect but it still feels pretty decent. He pounds me into the mattress furiously as the hardon kind of recedes, kissing my closed lips with a rhythmic smacking sound… mwah mwah mwah… I try to give encouragement in the form of giving as good as I take and pulling him to me, and we fuck like this, him at half mast, me totally underwhelmed but enjoying sweating and moving and it’s good for the hangover… After a while it’s like, this is getting sloppier. Try to change position… No dice. Like a wind sock on a summer’s day. That’s not going to work. I sink into misery. It’s my tits isn’t it, they looked bigger in my bra, even though it isn’t a padded bra, it just makes them look bigger. I feel shitty. He probably beer gogglesed me just like I did him.

All the compliments lose their lustre. I am not stupenda, we were just drunk. Oh the shame. If I can’t even get a guy hard who seems totally below my league, how will I ever wake up beside someone and think, hell yes, I would like to see that face for a prolonged period of time?

Do I just have insanely unrealistic tastes?

I’m not giving him head again that’s for sure.

Lie there for a while. Talk about a few things. The conversation is a million times better than with Fabio, who can in his defence totally get it up. I would like Fabio if I could talk to him like this dude, it’s just nice and natural and there’s laughing.

The last time Fabio came over was super awkward. We talked about ourselves. Not something i was keen to get into, but I thought I should at least let Fabio know about the whole I’m married thing. So I told him about that and then as he asked all sorts of questions about me and let’s face it, I am both way more interesting than most of the people I come across and can’t resist when someone wants to know about me, I told him a LOT of my baggage. Damn it. I felt all icky afterwards, like I let him take home a little piece of me that I don’t want to give to anyone. Not to him, anyway. I have no problem fucking a stranger and leaving unscathed with my identity intact, but sharing… talking… feels weird in my bones. Like I gave it away to someone undeserving. I guess this is the way most people would feel about sex, but then you know I’m totally special and unique and opposite to other people.

The other day I came across a thing about sex addiction and perked up thinking hey maybe I have that. I have always wanted to be diagnosed with something, maybe it could be kind of an excuse for my behaviour or get me some extra attention?  The only thing I have got a doctor to diagnose me with so far is OCD. YAY! But I never told anyone that because i don’t think it’s really that relevant, like what does it even mean anyway? I’m obsessive and compulsive, that’s just two fucking personality traits. Like you wouldn’t say someone had Relaxed Calm disorder, and that could just as easily be my personality. But it’s not. Which is why it’s a problem at all. Whatever. Anyway usually when I have my phases of self diagnoses, like when I decided I was just really highly functioning autistic, and that was why I always said the wrong thing to people and wanting to be lef thte fuck alone, well, my friends are always like, shut up MFO stop being a hypochondriac and a drama queen. And they are right of course. But this time my friend was like, actually I don’t think that’s ridiculous at all, I mean I have a high sex drive but you are flat out obsessed. So I am sort of “on this” at the moment. Expect more posts about my sexual addiction soon, probably. Or maybe it’s just a phase.

Anyway sorry, I was saying… Fabio, last time I reached new levels of cringe…. It’s the talking man, I shouldn’t be talking.

At one point he asked me, “have you ever had an STD?” And I just did a double take. What kind of question is that shit? Is that a normal question? I don’t know if it’s like, totally normal adult mature people question to ask, or if he’s just being a weirdo. I do know he should have asked that shit BEFORE all the sex. I have no idea, maybe I am riddled with disease. It’s possible. I haven’t been tested… but I always have protected sex, but then sometimes drunkeneness happens and I let penises explode in my mouth. Admittedly it’s rare for that  to happen and I am quite ignorant of sexually transmittables but I think most have symptoms and shit. I really had better get tested, it’s just… I’ll wait for London as I am too scared of Italians to do it here. They will only judge me and the number of people I have slept with.

Anyway when Fabio asked me that, those thoughts raced through my mind. Argh. I realised after a bit, I had a mad, scared grin on my face and was completely silent, rocking back and forth like I needed to pee or tell a secret.

I said NO. I wonder if that is unethical, half- lying like that. Because I probably don’t have anything… but then, my friend told me the other day, Chlamydia has no symptoms. So I could have it. But then we only ever have protected sex, so it’s not like he’s at risk or anything.

I wonder if I should pretend to have been tested but not recently so I am technically not lying about being 100% disease free, but don’t look like such an irresponsible skank?

I mutter “a few months ago I think” meaning to say I haven’t been tested since then… but then I back out. No. You can’t lie here, that’s just plain wrong. I trail off.

He’s like what? A few months ago what?

I blush. NOTHING. Nothing? What?

What did you mean, he asks.

No, I mean… What did YOU say?

Have you ever had an STD.

No, what? When? Sorry no I haven’t, never… At least.. I don’t think.

What? What were you saying then.

Nothing. You asked a question.

Okaaaay… Well are you sure you never had one? It’s ok you can tell me.

No, yes… I mean.. Sorry. I just get a bit weird when… when people… ask me questions.

Why? It’s just, we talked about pretty much everything, I just thought I’d ask, maybe…

I’m like, No not me, well, have you?


Ok then. I am sitting on my hands, rocking back and forward.I can’t stop grinning or blushing.

I wipe the smile away eventually and in as serious a tone as I can muster, I tell him, no it’s just when I am nervous or something, I get really weird. Sorry. No I havenn’t had a disease, it’s just I’m really immature about stuff that’s why I am acting like this.

Ok…. He shakes his head briefly.

We moved on from this… epic disaster of human interaction… and for some reason, he still had sex with me several times. It was good.

But I had put my vibrator and lube and condom collection in a tin to have it all handy by my bed, and I whipped out the condoms and began tittering uncntrollably and ranting about having a huge collection of condoms. I don’t know why I was being like this. It’s just… I am a big old freak. I don’t even have that many, there are just several different brands and types, not because I have so much sex or anything just because I accumulate them, I don’t know, I guess some are from way back in South America when husband and I were doing the safe sex thing. I really need to get tested…

He looked at me a little put out and was like, “do you have sex often?” and I whip back with, “not in Italy, no, I don’t know any… never mind. No. Not here. I never understood how to pull… nothing. Nothing.”

Urgh. I’m a liability. Stop talking now.

This ALWAYS happens with Fabio. The convo is so forced and stunted and awkward, I trip over my words and blush and he just sits there taking me seriously, with his big gentle eyes patiently waiting for me to untangle myself… He’s so… vanilla. But the sex is so good… technically. There’s no heart or soul in it. It’s like… I used to love the Red Hot Chili Peppers. I loved them because they were all raw and dirty and had all this energy and you could tell they had lots of sex and went to parties and were up to no good… they were my favorite band when I was around 15 I guess. But then they released a new album in 2000 and something, and I was so excited. My favorite band from when I was a bit younger, they were bound to come out with something brilliant. Oh my god it was going to be so good. and I bought that album, last music I ever paid for by the way, and the album was called By The Way.

And it was shit. I know, that’s just my opinion and all. Technically, I mean the sound was good. It was good. I just didn’t like it. It was like, polished and I didn’t feel anything from it. I listened to that album and there was no sex and drugs and rock and roll, there was just… leather furniture and wealthy middle aged stagnation. I’m not saying they sold out or lost their soul, but yeah however passionate they still were about their music, the music itself wasn’t coming across as passion. They are probably miles better as musicians now, with lots of life experience… but passion, man, passion isn’t about experience or knowledge or being accomplished…

That’s what sex is like with Fabio. He’s good at it. I feel like I’m good at it, with him, and it’s enjoyable… but it’s just soulless. It’s not urgent, I’m not really very attracted to him. I was more attracted to my nerd last night, if he had been able to keep it up I would have been thrilled. I would probably be moping about him not asking for my number or any way to contact me, after dropping me home… If he had been able to keep it up. Instead I don’t really give a shit. But the attraction was there, the conversation was lively and EASY. When we kissed, even though it was pretty lousy, and even the next day when I saw him clearly as NOT being insanely gorgeous any more, I still wanted to fuck him wildly. It didn’t matter how good or bad he was in bed, I would have had a wonderful sexy time. If he had been able to keep it up.

Fabio has a wonderful dick , a good body, he knows how to use both… but goddammit I see him and I don’t really care if he touches me or not, it doesn’t really excite me that much. And it doesn’t help that I have seen the man in three different purple jumpers. That is three purple jumpers he owns at least… They are definitely not the same jumper each time, I have noted differences in them.

And last time he came over he was wearing a different bubble jacket, a white one with another fake fur hood. Looks like a fucking duvet. And when I went over to his place for a quickie one time, he was wearing old man slippers. Actually Matteo had old man slippers by the bed too, I guess it’s an Italian thing. I can’t hold it against them.


Have to stop being so judgemental on Fabio, it’s a good thing I am not attached to anyone as it makes it possible for me to leave this hole.

I am so hung over still though, it all looks bleak. Which is ridiculous because I also know that I am so close to not being fucking miserable, ie, I am going to London very soon, so I dont’ have a whole lot to feel shit about. It’s just the hangover…

Anyway. I have loads of other uncomfortableness and stuff to write about but I have been typing this for like an hour now and I just want to get some more pain killers and banana bread into my belly.

I am sorry if this is just totally unnecessary details of my sex life that you didn’t want. I am probably only sorry because I am hungover and my ego is a little deflated after the great penis deflation debacle of last night and this morning. Try as I might, it’s just hard not to take that as a commentary on my horrible breasts.

Also I have wrinkles in my face, I think I am ageing prematurely. It may be the hangover speaking but… I’m not happy.

Anyway. good night I guess.