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.

That’ll do, pig in the city.

My new apartment is cold. An old Georgian house, formerly some wealthy family’s town house, later divvied up into dingy flats by a seemingly retarded or psychotic contracter. My apartment is nice, bright, big, with windows that reveal autumn leaf covered branches. I’ve filled it with my things, put pictures on the walls and colours wherever I could. It feels wonderful to be home again, in the way I only can when it’s just me. No one else in my fridge using up the last eggs, no one else stinking out the bathroom, no one else knowing what time I get up at, or who I go down on.

But it’s cold. A previous tenant insulated the various draughts with sellotape. I peeled up a lot of the sellotape to clean the grime out, and because I thought it looked stupid. Now I find myself taping it all back up, but with gaffer tape this time.

But it’s still cold.

Around the corner and down the street, I have a guy. We used to know each other vaguely but only started talking a few months ago when I put up a new sexier profile photo. He’s good looking and funny and decent, and a good fuck, but he sounds and dresses a bit too… north Dublin for me to see in a more serious capacity. He lives a session-based life like the one I flirted with a few years ago. I say I flirted with that life but more truthfully I let it fuck me pretty hard and then ran away to a cleaner duller life in Italy. So we get along, we have a laugh, but it’s not something I want to go back to.

He lives in a flat out the back of his parents’ house. It’s handy, I call him at 2 or 3 or 4am when I’m coming home from a club and he’s usually awake and we talk briefly and then fuck until we fall asleep from exhaustion. There’s a clear understanding that neither of us want anything more, that both of us are sleeping with other people, and that neither of us is trying to impress the other. It’s purely selfish, both of us claiming to have sore backs to avoid being on top for very long. Kind of perfect for me right now to have all the sex without any more complication than the awful sneaking down the garden path the next day without his parents spotting me.

And it’s got to be good for me. I’m more relaxed, I’m presumably on the way to losing the few kilos I put on over the last few months of unemployment. When i go out with my friends I’m purely there with friends, not scanning for men or desperately trying to make something happen or stalking any hot barmen. Well, I’m still scanning for men. I can’t help it, I’m attracted to so many people… but the desperate edge is gone.

And lately I seem to be more attractive to men. I’ve been getting free drinks, free stamps into clubs, and all kinds of rules bent in my favour.  It can’t be my looks- I’m drinking a disturbing amount of alcohol and my skin looks tired and I have a scattering of spots on my forehead. It takes about an hour to get enough hot water for a shower so I’m not great on hygiene either. Also it’s so fucking cold in this apartment, the thought of having to be wet and naked with this amount of sodden hair down my back is enough to make me shrug and say what’s the point, sure I’m only going to get dirty again later. But something about me- perhaps the fact that I feel quite happy despite being broke and unemployed and cold and smelly- something is making people treat me nicer than ever.

Maybe I do look great? Nope, I look wrecked.

Today I went for an internet date. The more I do things that weird me out, the less anything seems weird.

A message from a guy, American on a holiday in Ireland… he suggested monday day drinking. I thought fuck it, maybe interesting. Met him and realised my interpretation of his profile picture was generous. Well, he wasn’t bad looking. But there wasn’t anything attractive to me. He just had a… face. Just a regular face. I guess if we had chemistry it would have rearranged itself into a sexier arrangement but we didn’t have chemistry.

At first we interrupted each other and drank beer. Talked with ill timing about travel, meeting people, cultural differences… I had to keep the conversation afloat and I did, because he was buying me beers.

But I wasn’t in the greatest form.

Mostly because I’m annoyed with myself.

Yeah, over the last few days I have acquired what I hope is a transient addiction to online gambling.

I know. I know. It’s the last thing I need in my life. But the ease of winning at roulette and hopping off before you lose again… it’s tempting. so tempting. The first time I played I wasn’t spending any money at all, just using a 5 euro deposit I made on a poker site 6 years ago. Free game, right? I played and won 30 euro. I should have taken the 30 euro and been very happy, but instead I bet it all and lost and then added another ten and another ten and another five and won ten and withdrew the ten out of good sense and decided to cut my losses and then found myself depositing and losing another five.

So ok, I haven’t made a very dramatic loss compared to the probably potential for online gamblers. I have lost what, 20 euro? 25? Whatever. But I’m so poor right now and I’m so annoyed with myself for pissing money away like that when I really, really need money.

So I was on this date and I was just thinking about how I wish I had money, and the American’s eyes kept flicking up and down, down to my tits which were not on show at all but obscured by a loose overshirt and a scarf. But they kept going there anyway, and as we drank more the conversation got better. When there was a lull we caught each other’s eyes and laughed, and although we both laughed, he asked me “what are you laughing at?” and I said “a funny joke I heard earlier.”

So here’s the joke.

What’s the difference between jam and marmalade?

You can’t marmalade your cock up someone’s ass.

 

Maybe you’ve heard that before.

Here’s my own appendix.

What’s the difference between relish and marmalade?

You can’t marmalade jamming your cock up someone’s ass.

 

I told the American my jokes and he laughed. He asked me a few times, what do you wanna do next? Go somewhere else or stay here? He mentioned his idiot friends were back at his hotel. I told him there was an electrician calling to my apartment today. But really, I had no interest sexually. Nice to talk to but nothing between us.

And then we went to a different bar and he told me he was going to the bathroom and a few minutes later as I called my fuckbuddy and didn’t get through, and then called him again, I noticed the gap between the two calls was about 15 minutes. The American had gone to the toilet and not come back. He had taken his bag with him which he hadn’t done on previous bathroom trips. Odd, huh.

I don’t mind too much because I didn’t like him either, but it’s pretty rude and I did put some effort into making the conversation work a bit.

Also I always feel a bit violated and used after puttng in the work with the conversation, sharing my stories and memories and my excellent joke that I came up with and now some fucker with no manners is probably telling everyone my joke and that’s what annoys me.

Conversely, I don’t feel that way about people I’ve slept with. Only the people I talk to.

 

Anyway. I’m just pissy because I gambled and lost money I desperately need. I’m an idiot.

Like I need more vices…

Ugh.

 

Well, that’s it for now.

I told everyone I was moving into the city so I could have some personal space to write and get my act together but here you go, I’m just fucking people and drinking every day and gambling.

I don’t know how I’ll get someone decent to think of me as girlfriend material….

 

I think I may call in to my neighbours, these two very sweet college students who have an apartment with a fireplace which may be warmer than mine. I wonder am I too drunk to talk to neighbours? Ahh, they’re students. It’s fine. It’s totally fine.

I’m just really damn cold.

Walk of shame: French First Edition

The walkof shame.

Jut got in the door. Metro home…urgh urgh urgh. Auto pilot.

Wat the fuck? Woke up all lazy and sensual stretching out against the warm body.

Mmmmm… My ass against his erection. Feeling myself round and curved and ohhh his warm hard dick…. His hands all over me

Mmmm ….

Wait, what the fuck?

Mmmm… his hands all over me.

Mmmm…. feeling utter laziness, waves of hangover and arousal and nothing to do wth who is in the bed beside me.

Wait, it’s not a bed. It’s a fold out sofa.

He’s….he’s this guy I met on a flatshare website and I met him for drinks last night wth a friend and I was sooooo not into him but still.

Mmm his fingers inside me, and I forgot thst the sex I love is with a guy who I kind of love and with a guy whose body I know and whose tastes I know.

Why am I in this sofa bed with this guy?

I ask him,how did I get here? He mumbles somthing.

I stretch out away from him but that feels less good than being against his body and it’s cold so I return to his warmth and we kiss but it’s a bad kiss, morning-y and bad breath (mine) and he smells so strongly of other man. He doesn’t smell bad just… like another man. Clean, but someone else.

I think about Antoine but it’s no use, Antoine isn’t here, Antoine doesn’t really give a crap about me.

Maybe this guy cares about me. Maybe he’s a cool guy, the best guy. I look at him but I’m not attracted to him.He evidently is attracted to me. That knowledge gives me a little kick of horniness and I’m all lazy-sexy against his body and oh what I wouldn’t do to have Antoine here beside me….

I murmer…. I have a boyfriend.

He kisses my neck.

I know.

You told me last night…

Oh really? I feel a little proud of my at least attempting to have a moral compass.

Yeah, he said, AFTER…

 

OH! Did we… did we have sex?

Yeah, you don’t remember?

No I’m so sorry, I was really drunk.

You didn’t seem so drunk last night…

Again, slightly proud of myself for at least seeming to hold my shit together while blacking out. But maybe thts just because my personality is so fucked up you can’t tell when I’m drunk or sober. maybe…..

I let him feel me up some more and ask him was it any good? He doesn’t answer which isn’t great but he contnues to touch me and it feels good and after a while and me touching him too, out of politeness more than anything, he slips two fingers inside and then his mouth is on my nipple and I’m not faking anything or being polite, it’s good, it’s good, I want him to make lo…. I want him to fuck me. I want Antoine to fuck me but he isn’t there, this guy is there. I’ll call him Lucas. He’s there, he’s all over me and his dick is hard and solid and there and I think how there’s no way I’m putting that in my mouth and I ask him did we use a condom last night? And he says wow you really don’t remember? And he says it’s ok, yeah of course we did and then I relax again and touch him and it surges, I want to show him how good I am at sex, I’m too lazy to do anything good with my hands and Idon’t know him anyway, I want to show him where I’m great… I feel a little sadness about Antoine bt fuck Antoine he isn’t…givingme everything I want. I know this guy isn’t either….

We have morning sex and he does all the right things, all the things Antoine does with me but it’s not the same, it’s nothing compared to that.

He fucks me and I make the sort of noises I make with Antoine but they echo out of me like polite sounds in conversation to show you’re listening. I’m not listening, I’m not there, I’m looking through the mirror. It looks like what I do with Antoine, it looks the same, I look the same but it’s cold and I don’t care and I guess it feels good but just physically.

Get dressed, find my clothes strewn all over and far apart.

Some girls might wake up in this situation and think, was I spiked?

But not me.

I know I’m verrry capable of getting myself into this position sheerly by refusing to accept that I am not a good drinker.

Last night the bar had a minimum of 8 euro to use a credit card, so I bought myself double whiskeys and knocked them back to impress everyone. I don’t think I impressed anyone.

Walk of shame in the snow… I guess it snowed last night… just a light powdering but enough to make the walk slow, with him, on his way to work and showing me to the metro. It’s 9am, I have pure hangover face and sex hair and I feel like a giant piece of shit walking down the street and talking English, I gave up on French at some point in the night. Maybe he was sexy in French, but not now in bad English.

I remember getting ready to go out, I had his facebook but there were no good pictures, his profile was kind of unclear whether he was hot or not. I got dressed up nice but fairly casual, and I thought maybe this guy is cool and hot and maybe I’ll flirt with him or just make a new friend. I wanted to lash back at Antoine for making me feel so intensely again and then dropping off the map. He hasn’t disappeared- he just doesn’t do love like I do.

We spent a few glorious days together recently, made love all day and all night and it all grew stronger and stronger and when he was in me and his face kissing my neck hungrily and my arms pulling him in, in, in, the closest we could be, it welled up inside me like the tears you want to cry, but can’t, when you finally get home after holding them in all day.

It hurt and it felt like the best thing in the world.

It hurts when I don’t hear from him. He doesn’t write frequently.

It hurts when I hear from him because I want to see him.

It hurts when I see him because I want to touch him.

When I touch him it hurts because I want to be with him together making love and coming together, but I don’t want it to end.

And it hurts when he is inside me because there’s nowhere else to go, that’s the peak… I want him closer, further, rougher, gentler, faster, slower, I want him kissing my mouth and I want his mouth on my breast. I want to eat his cock but I want to kiss him tenderly at the same time and have him make love to me at the same time. I want more, always more. And then it’s over and I’m at peace for like 10 minutes and then the pain starts again.

Maybe this is my body telling me I should be having group sex.

I don’t know.

Anyway we lay together and stroked each others necks, faces, bodies and kissed gently and murmured things and he said I think I love you, and I said I think I love you too… and I didn’t mean it when I said it because I know neither of us loves the other. We’re selfish, we just love the feeling and don’t want it to stop. We don’t give a shit about each other really. He doesn’t care, he doesn’t NEED to speak to me. When we’re apart I miss him and he misses me but he’s defeatist about it. We can’t be together all the time, so let’s just be together when we are and the rest of the time what’s the point in saying I miss you etc… I’m not like that. I want… I need constant reasurance. I want to know that he’s thinking of me too. And he doesn’t tell me.

When we’re together I can’t doubt for a second that it’s amazing and great but every time he leaves I don’t fucking hear a word from him unless it’s practical information about when we will see each other again. It drives me crazy. I want the notebook, I want the vow, I want a Nicholas Sparks movie guy who writes to me even if I don’t write back, who builds me a motherfucking house even when I clearly expressed my disinterest. I want someone putting themselves out there for me again and again and not fucking stopping just because they feel sure of me.

Cunt.

I’m very angry with him for being like this. That’s why I slept with that other guy, it was my typical secret revenge fuck. I always try to put myself out of my current love’s reach when they pull away or betray me or just disillusion me somehow. Like I want to say a silent fuck you, if you don’t treat me really really well then I won’t be loyal, but maybe I could just be a bit harder to get instead of having sex with gross strangers.

Ah he wasn’t really gross, I’m just feeling icky because I don’t want to sleep with anyone else and it was a shit revenge anyway because Antoine doesn’t know and if he did know it wouldn’t do me any favours.

Balls.

I’m so bad at this.

I’m so fucking hopeless, I’m too passionate and intense to be with someone who is so fucking clueless and selfish with himself. He doesn’t know what love is and I sit here waiting for it like a dog waiting for the mother of the house to come home.

I was coming here for adventure and hope and new things and I’m stuck in some shit that I know is bad for me and I just don’t want to pull myself out of it, because it feels good and I’m afraid if I go out into the world alone and demand to be treated wonderfully, I’ll just be alone all the time.

And my French has kind of hit a plateau, too.

I need to get a job.

And stop drinking so much.

And get over the hangover guilt (This happened on Thursday night, I just wrote the beginning before the self loathing became too great so I finished it today)

Oh, wine… ze sings you do to me!

Drinking… not heavily but consistently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So I drink.

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

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

Cause it would suck, that’s why.

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

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

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

So.

Tis a lull.

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

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

Oh, wine.

Ho ho ho, motherfuckers

Christmas was not depressing, not at all. I had some friends over… two girls from my French class. We made magret du canard (duck breast) and roast potatoes and sweet potatoes and we had smoked salmon and cream cheese on little tiny pancakes and prawn cocktail and five cheeses and chocolate fondant cake with ice cream and honestly it was far too much food. I also bought more wine than I have ever bought, for one glorious afternoon I had a veritable wine cellar (my wardrobe)

I arranged my wine bottles proudly and decided to start a wine diary, to organise my drinking in some way.

Because I keep going to the supermarket and choosing wine and thinking, I like your label and I think I’ve drank you before… but I can’t remember the verdict. So I’ll buy you again, and maybe it’s shit, and I’ll probably forget again.

I told my friend about this plan to sophisticate up my boozing and she told me they actually sell notebooks specifically for that purpose here. I was torn between being pissed off that my idea wasn’t original, and impressed with a society who thinks like I do. Go France! You pretentious boozehounds.

On Christmas Eve I was looking smugly into my wine wardrobe and thought, fuck, I’m gonna start drinking if I don’t do something to entertain myself. So I went out into the city centre. Full of people. Full of people last minute buying presents. Not for the first time this year, I started thinking about how cool it would have been to surprise my little sisters on Christmas day, just showing up at the house in Italy, and making them so very happy indeed. But I have investigated every possible route and it’s just too expensive. Should have known I’d want to be with them in advance, but I was just like, meh, christmas, whatever, until the last minute. I really did try though, at the last minute. I even considered spending 8 hours in a car with a stranger through this car sharing website and then another 6 hours on a train to spend 3 days with my sisters. The 8 hours in a stranger’s car was too much though. Not so much stranger danger as god how boring would that be? What if they were boring? I initially considered it because one of the guys offering a ride was really hot, and I imagined thrilling him with 8 hours of prime convo and intriguing him with all my adventure stories. Then some over the pants stuff while he drives. But when I went back to book, his car was full. Of course.

The only free place was with the most intense looking young adult I’ve ever seen outside a mugshot. And he only had one review on the site:  “Thanks for a serious journey.”

No. No thanks, serious journey.

So I went into the city centre and wandered around. It was pretty hard to wander around because the streets were full of people searching for last minute gifts. For their families. Sick- making.

I had to walk in short bursts of purpose. I decided to buy a bag, because I need one for working as a teacher, a big one that fits an A4 folder in it, or else for like situations that might arise, such as visiting someone overnight, an ex lover or something, and not wanting to go with just one outfit but not wanting to scare him by arriving with a suitcase. That sort of thing. Found a nice bag and bought some overpriced tights. And a lime green miniskirt, that was a bit of a surprise to me even, I’m not sure where that idea sprung up from.

Then I was walking around with my shopping bags while everyone else bought stuff for other people and I felt like a dickhead, going shopping for myself. I tried to hide the shopping glow from my face and look a bit stressed, so people wouldn’t know how selfish and stress- free I was and would presume I too was caught up in the last minute giving frenzy.

As if anyone was looking at me, anyway. Christmas eve, an hour before the shops closed. No one was looking at me.

Probably why I bought the lime green mini skirt.

After that, I decided that although I did really want to open my wine and start the wine diary, I would wait for my friends to arrive and start cooking. Like, seriously. Need to pace myself. We got some cheap champagne and so much wine, and this awful lychee flavoured liquor. Man, I love Christmas.

We had a nice night. The cheese and smoked salmon and stuff was, as a starter, way too much. By the time the main was done, we were ready to explode. We drank mulled wine and normal wine and then moved on to the lychee stuff then watched a bit of a movie and some stand up, and then it was midnight and we popped the champage and they took photos but my opening champagne face is a lot like constipated so I don’t think I’ll be showing anyone those photos.

It was a nice night. Nothing like being with family or old friends or anything, but it was nice considering it was an expat christmas and I’ve only been here 6 weeks.

Christmas day was a bit shit.

I talked to my family on skype and that kind of made me sad. But I just drank some wine and then I felt better. Or worse. I’m not sure. My flatmate came home and chattered to me about Christmas as I stared at her stupid face and resented her interupting my personal space.

She really does have a stupid face. My dad told me he has called the apartment several times when I was here and asked for me and she has just talked in French and hung up, and never mentioned to me the fact that someone who didn’t speak French called while I was home, and maybe, like, it was for me?

When I heard the key in the door I pushed the wine to the other end of the table so it looked like it was from the night before and not morning drinking, but who knows what she thinks.

She had previously sworn she would come home and clean the place on Christmas eve before my friends came over, and although her dad did the dishes, she didn’t clean shit. So when my friends were over they suggested having dinner in one of their houses while their host families were out of town, and although I had mentioned to my flatmate that we could eat together on the 25th, I was like, yeah why not. If she had cleaned or something in preparation, or offered to put in some money for the meal, or done anything, I would have invited her too. But she didn’t, so I wasn’t about to feel bad.

She has family here anyway.

But then she told me she made a pie, and brought most of it home for us to eat… I felt kind of bad. But still. As with everyone I tolerate quietly for a while, eventually her little foibles have eclipsed any kind of human empathy and now the mere sight of her face or the sound of her voice inspires hatred.

Look at her, what is wrong with her? She doesn’t go out, she doesn’t have friends over, she doesn’t clean, she doesn’t cook (apart from the pie which was really good, like a fruit pie and I ate a considerable amount of it in the middle of the night), she doesn’t dress nice, she doesn’t do anything to improve her face or hair. She doesn’t even make the slightest effort to speak in a manner i can understand. She speaks incredibly fast and uses so much slang, I can’t understand her. I always say sorry I don’t understand and she just repeats the verbal diarrhea. No fucking concept of how to speak to a foreigner.

So I just despise her now. Well, it was only to be expected. Cohabitation is not my strong point, not because I’m not a joy to live with, but because I’m too much live and let live and then I don’t stand up for myself and eventually it becomes pure hatred for this person who is walking all over me.

Christmas day was a bit of a bust. I did have my meal in my friend’s house and that was nice but it was a total anti-christmas. Whatever, it’s over now.

This morning I woke up so fat and bloated, I entered the most depressing google search of my career: “how many calories does masturbation burn?”

That’s a serious low point.

(Results were inconclusive, because who knows how athletically we’re all doing it?)

Actually, while I’m on the topic of masturbation, it looks like maybe I need to step up my workout. On Christmas Eve, while watching Dylan Moran’s stand up, I came across a clip of “Monster” where he talks about the French. It’s very funny, so I was like I KNOW WHO WILL LOVE THIS, a FRENCH PERSON! So I sent the link to Antoine.

And then I thought about it and maybe it’s a little bit offensive to the French, so I wrote a follow up Happy Christmas to him.

The next morning I had a message from him sent at 3am, in French, beautiful French, saying Happy Christmas to you, and I’m so happy you’re there again.

It’s totally romantic in French.

But instead of being like, oh honey bunny, I want to be on you too, or the other option “don’t start thinking you have me back, cheeky frog, I’ve already decided that while I may continue to kiss you, you are not my prince.”

I just replied “YAY! Subjunctive message! You used the subjunctive! AWESOME!”

Because he did use the subjunctive, and that’s one of my turn ons. Only in French though.

Anyway we talked on Skype last night and he said he wants to come visit me and he also invited me to spend New Year’s eve with him. At first I was like, no no no, not New Year’s eve, that’s a time I want to spend single and looking awesome and mingling with friends and strangers, hiding my bad dancing with an oversized handbag and scanning the crowd for people I might like to kiss at midnight, and inevitably going home sad and alone and waking up determined not to get all excited about new year ever again.

And then posting hung over resolutions.

But then he told me he wanted me to meet his friends, and said they’ve known me for ages, ie, he’s talked about me to them, but probably in a more tasteful manner than I have talked to my friends about him….

I am a dirty detail divulger.

You can’t spell class without ass, is my motto. No it’s not. I’m just being silly.

You kan’t spell klassy without “ass” and “KY”.

Ooh.

You can’t spell penis without “is” and “pen”.

You can’t spell vagina without “a GI van”.

I’m going to stop now. Sorry.

So I MIGHT spend new year with him but only because I want to have amazing sex and also my girlfriends who I was planning on spending it with, are not really that keen to have a big blowout new year in the city centre anyway and what else is the point? I’ll be good though, I’ll make sure to get hideously drunk and not just sit on the arm of Antoine’s chair sipping champagne like some GIRLFRIEND. I will be a person in my own right, channeling Susan Sarandon in Alfie. (I keep saying that, I know, but it doesn’t just happen overnight. Baby steps.)

Some day, I’ll get there…

Anyway it’s getting to that time of year when every person alive with a blog is coming up with their new year’s resolution post.

I’m just going to squeeze mine in here because I feel like it.

New Year / New Mayan Cycle* Resolutions 2013

*In case you can’t tell, I’m being sarcastic. Mayans shmayans.

1. Keep wine diary. Maybe learn something about wine, or oenology as I think pretentious dickweasels like to call it. Not to sound klassy at parties but to turn one of my leisure pursuits into a legit kind of recognisable hobby so I don’t seem like such a bed- gremlin to outsiders.

2. Write something that’s not a blog post about my sex life, lack of sex life, or day drinking. Like a story or something.

3. Visit my sisters more.

4. NOT FALL FOR IMMATURE MEN ANY MORE, especially not the same immature man.

5. Masturbate more. (Christmas dinner really took its toll on my figure) Maybe incorporate some sexy lunges into my routine to increase the fat burning potential. Hey you may laugh but anything that gets your heart rate up should probably, and I know nothing about this, make you burn calories.

6. Get a job. NEVER work in a call centre again, no matter how desperate for money or no matter how lucrative the job. NEVER never NEVER. Never. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER NEVER NEVER NEVER. Never.

7. Get my teeth whitened again, they have seriously yellowed up. Take off my eye makeup before going to bed.

8. Don’t let the experience of one lousy flatmate put me off cohabitation. Try find a good house to live in with cool people… living alone is obviously the ideal situation but then I’d need paperwork I don’t have and I’d probably just hermit it up again.

9. Stop buying ridiculous amounts of food in the supermarket just because I love cooking and am if I do say so myself, a pretty fantastic cook. It’s probably my biggest expense. I spend more on groceries than rent. OH that could also transfer into a legitimate hobby. I DO have hobbies. See, I’m a well-rounded individual. Also, I need to not get fat.

10. Continue being friendly and making friends and being conscious of when I’m talking too much and remember to ask people stuff about themselves and remember their names so I don’t come off as a self centred dick.

That’s it. Otherwise, I’m doing pretty well I think.

Ok, that was the fantasy list of easy things I want to do anyway.

Here’s the real list of unpleasant difficult things.

1. Stop spending money I don’t have on clothes or shoes or makeup.

2. Get tested for stds. SERIOUSLY just fucking do it. Yeah yeah probably fine, probably don’t have anything but fuck, I have wasted so much energy stressing about this… just do it, for a good night’s sleep.

3. Quit smoking at some point.

4. Become a serious and organised individual with a tidy room and stop getting spots due to not changing my pillowcases and sheets.

5. Stop picking at my spots.

6. This realistic list of resolutions is boring me. I’m not going to do any of this shit, maybe it would be just more sensible to have one point such as get std checked and actually stick to it. Ah who cares, I’m going to have what my mother calls a whore’s breakfast now. A black coffee and a cigarette.

7. And seize the motherfucking day. Magna carta, bitches.

Drunken rant I think about sex

I’m in French classes from 9am til 1pm Monday to Friday. So basically I have more time than I’ve EVER had to get drunk and make foggy memories with sexy accented strangers.

Except for two problems. One, nobody else I know here seems to be an alcoholic, and two, somewhere along the way with my marriage and the rebound and the falling in love with a younger guy… I’ve grown out of the random hookup.

I used to have pretty low self esteem, I used to get a kick out of sleeping with a guy… as long as he was decent looking, I felt like it was a point in my favour. Someone wanted to have sex with me! Woo woo! I hadn’t grown out of that thing where I was a teenager and my eyebrows were very close knit and thick and makeup just looked like it had landed on my face via ballistics.

But now it’s more like, yeah of course someone would want to have sex with me, I’m a woman in pretty nice shape considering I don’t do any excercise and 100% of my meals contain cheese and I drink a lot which is fattening. So I don’t really get the ego boost out of it any more. And for years my best friend told me I should stop doing that thing of just sleeping with guys, because it made me feel shit about myself and I did it because I felt shit about myself and it didn’t make guys like me any more. And she was wrong because it didn’t make me feel shit about myself, but she was right in that the only reason I did it was cause I felt shit about myself. Also I was very very horny.

I still am very horny. I have a ridiculous sex drive. It’s a BURDEN.

I’m horny but the idea of going out and approaching some dude and doing the old “hey, grab your coat” or whatever routine…. just makes me cringe now. Not that there’s anything sad or wrong with that, it just wouldn’t give me what I want.

What I want isn’t just to find a man willing to fuck me (come on, I’m totally awesome) it’s to find a man who wants so badly to fuck me that he will spend time finding out about me, or paying attention to me, or basically risking wasting his time for the chance that maybe it won’t be wasted after all. I want a weighted compliment.

At th time of writing this, I should tell you, I am pretty wasted.

But.

I want to have sex but I don’t want it to JUST be sex. I don’t want a relationship exactly, I just want someone to put in the legwork. I’m not going to be so easy I’m on a plate any more, and it’s not because I think sex is something to withold from all but the most worthy— sex is something for me too. I just want to sex the person who realises the value of the thing and shows it by putting in some effort. A chase.

I think that’s how it’s going anyway…

I haven’t had much opportunity to flirt with the locals yet, unfortunately.

On the metro I see so many hot specimens but I have this paranoia that if I meet anyone’s eyes, I will have given them permission to talk to me. I am too afraid to look at a guy to see if he’s attractive, in case by the time I have given said permission I will have found out no, no he is not attractive at all, and then I’ll be on the fast track to an awkward unwanted conversation.

So I stare at the metro map over our heads and the journey is not very long but it’s too long for that to be a reasonable use of my eyes.

Damn.

Ugh.

I started, because of limited…ahem… resources… looking inwards for satisfaction. Inwards, into my class.

Now I know I’m here to get some serious Baguette action, and some “oh que tu est belle…” whispered into my ear and whatnot. But… I DID get waxed. It was so painful and I’m so fucking smooth right now, looking at my vagina no longer makes me feel too ashamed to masturbate. I feel empowered. Beautiful. Sexy. I feel inclined to take pictures of myself and then delete them because just like a penis, an out of context vagina is not a good lookin’ creature.

But I digress.

So I looked around my school, the guys I eat lunch with everyday. My fellow retards in the language of love.

And one is a very good looking guy who I thought was muslim and therefore not someone I wanted to get involved with but that’s only because I am awfully racist sometimes and I accepted his friendship on facebook but it wasn’t him, it was another guy with a tan and dark hair. A guy whose facebook background was bits of the Koran or the Quoran or however it is spelt. He also listed Islam as his religion. But it’s a different guy. And now I realised it’s a different guy… I was like, oh. Ok. This guy’s hot and actually doesn’t look anything like the muslim guy. But we were talking outside class the other day, and it was interesting, and he’s cool… but.. I caught a glimpse of short chest stubble through his shirt collar. He shaves… SHAVES his chest. SHAVES. No. Absolutely not. Will not go there.

Eww.

So there’s another guy.

He’s in my class and we have a lot of banter in class. He’s the person I get along with best in class, he’s nice, he’s funny, we laugh, he’s a bit older but not too much, he’s got a seriously cool job… he test flies fighter jets.

I had made up my mind to fuck him but we were in a bar one night and I thought we were flirting but he just didn’t take the leap towards it actually happening. I got bored with it and gave up. But in retrospect… he must have been flirting. He must have been….

But… every night I go home alone and I think RIGHT THAT’S IT, gonna fuck the fighter jet tester. He’s cool, I like him, he’s a good laugh…

And then I go to class and he speaks French with a GERMAN accent and I’m like, oh… oh no.

It’s not like his french is bad… and his german sounds awesome… his english is great too… it’s just that…

I’m like, here because I think French sounds so fucking sexy.

And German french does not sound sexy.

I want someone who can make me jizz in my pants just by giving me directions.

So that just puts me off, and then later I’m like shit, I should have just fucked the German guy.

And then I think maybe the German guy doesn’t want to be fucked, maybe he’s not into me.

And then I laugh.

Of course he wants to sleep with me, I’m a woman. I’m a woman goddammit!

And he doesn’t discredit my “no random sex” rule because if he doesn’t want to sleep with me then he won’t, but if he does then it just means that he is really shit at flirting but has been trying anyway.

Very annoying though, he’s away for a week and then he’s only back for a week before he goes home to Germany.

That’s my window… fuck, so annoying. Just wish I didn’t have to do all the work all the fucking time. Where is chivalry?

Saturday night wine-in with Joni Mitchell

It’s Saturday night and I’m hemming a dress.

I’m trying to… I’m an impatient and crude sewer… sewist? Needlewoman?

But I want to hem this dress because I cut it shorter months ago and I like it, and I keep putting it on and thinking need to do that hem and throwing at the back of the wardrobe. But I’m MOVING to FRANCE soon so I need to shit or get off the pot, regards my dress.

And I’m drinking wine and that’s what I did last night too, I drank a bottle of red plonk, 6 euro a bottle, embarassed buying it really. I steeled myself for the teenager puffing up his chest when he served me, to ask some question about my cheap wine habits, to which I would reply “no I’m making mulled wine… for… eh… lots of people… you can use cheap wine for mulled wine, it doesn’t matter.”

Of course he didn’t say anything about my wine choices. He has in the past challenged me on my whiskey purchases but last night he was on a walkie talkie with a colleague whining

“I’m FOOKING STARVING, hurry the fook up! Ah here, ah here man! That’s fucking ages!” (I believe his colleague was leaving him waiting for his break.)

But I drank it on my own playing Age of Mythology and I said tonight would be different.

Anyway I can’t spend money because I’m going so soon and I have already dipped into my savings this month… I’m going to France with Fuck All savings.

And tonight I was listening to Joni Mitchell and hemming my dress and I think “All I want” was playing and it got me thinking of Antoine. Not of missing him, but just a gentle sort of thinking… I was thinking of the tender moments with this strange person who the more I got to know, the less I understood. Now, after everything, it’s so odd to me that we ever shared anything… and we shared so much, and yet it was nothing, nothing at all.

I thought, why am I still… thinking about him? Why am I still friends with him on facebook? Am I waiting for something? I don’t want him again, if he wrote to me I’m sorry I’m sorry I miss you I love you I’d let him down firmly but gently, and probably in a patronising manner because of the age difference I have recently added to our relationship, that I waved my hand at earlier. Nah, not for us. Now it’s my weapon, in case he comes back…

But he won’t and I don’t want more of him. So I opened facebook and went to his page to Unfriend him, not maliciously, but in the sense that neither of us should be made aware of changes, posts, photos… etc.

I know even now I do the odd facebook stalk session. Like a new girlfriend is just going to be announced on his page, or he’ll write something that totally references me… I don’t know. So I went to unfriend him… and instead of having that option… the button read “add friend”.

HE unfriended ME.

Goddammit.

When did this happen? I’m sure he was my friend recently, like two or three days ago. I don’t want to read it as something mean either, because from my point of view it wasn’t something nasty to do.

I guess it just means that for whatever reason, he was thinking of me, and for whatever reason, he wanted to not be facebook friends with me any more. I am sure it was really, really recent… like a matter of one or two days.

But there it is, he made the move, and for some reason it hurt me a bit.

I’m not really that hurt, I don’t need like, outpourings of sympathy… I’m just stung by it. Like a slap on the wrist of my confusing last relationship…

I don’t know what it is… I look at a picture of him and he looks younger every time. Like, really young. I don’t know what it was, what morsel I grabbed onto, that made me see him as a big, great man. I can’t recall it now. He was confident and I guess the usual men who like me are shy, self depracating, can’t believe their luck to be with me.

I wonder why I attract them..

Is it because I’m a fake confident? Like I feel confident.. I feel that I feel like I’m an attractive, fun, interesting, intelligent person. But then I don’t make decisions like I believe it… And who knows what my facial expression gives off…

When I look in the mirror I put my face in an arrangement that is just for me. I know it and I know my face and I see it all. I imagine other people see something similar but maybe I do some other expression when I’m being observed, or when I’m not… I’m terribly afraid that my personality, to other people, looks like a shabby attempt at jollyness, cockyness and spontaneity but it’s a flimsy veil over bitterness, fear, solitude and heartbreak.

I can’t tell, wine doesn’t really help. Joni Mitchell makes me feel splendid with myself, like my best friend is telling me things I always knew but never thought of. But I can’t shake the knowledge that it’s Saturday night and it’s Joni Mitchell’s voice and not a friend’s, and I’m drinking wine on my own trying to hem a dress like it’s going to MAKE me, a new outfit, new person. And here I am, a really great assortment of friends in Ireland… GOOD friends, friends who actually give a shit about me… and I’m home drinking on Saturday night and I’m about to move to France where I don’t even speak the language, and maybe the main reason I’m doing this is to prove to myself and my ex… my ex- facebook friend… that I wasn’t moving to France to be with him? Like it’s a game of emotional chicken and I’m the fool that gets run over for her bravery.

I DO want to do this, I feel like it’s my one big decision I’m making  to better myself as a person. To get over the things I dislike about myself. The antisocial, lazy behaviour… I HAVE TO get over that if I do this. So it’s good… just because it originated from a desperate need to follow a good feeling, a shallow good feeling with a boy… doesn’t mean it’s a fake plan doomed to bring me right back here even sadder.

But I also got married because I started a plan and I didn’t want to back out and admit I hadn’t a clue what I was doing.

But here I am, and I’m going to do something risky and scary and that’s good, I don’t want to wallow here making nothing of myself. Struggle is good, it has to be good. I need to do this. Ooooh I am a lonely painter, I live in a box of paints… I’m frightened by the devil, and I’m drawn to those ones that aint afraid…. Oh goddamit I will never get sick of Joni Mitchell. She’s just beautiful.

My family’s opinion has always washed off me like water off anybody’s back, but when I said I was getting married they all stalled and asked questions that made me shut down in self defence. And make up lies, monstrous lies about my view on life.

But I told my grandfather about this plan of mine, and my grandfather is a great, ridiculously intelligent man. He told my mother,

“in a way, everything Abby has done so far in her life has been leading up to this.”

And I really relish that being true.

So fuck it. Hope and enthusiasm and all that shit, while I’ve got ’em, I’m going to apply them to this situation and fuck, I just hope it brings me somewhere that isn’t the same as everywhere else. I have hope… but I’m also fucking terrified that all my life is going to be is one crisis after the next, savouring the drama to distract me from the fact that I’m never happy with anything and I’m always lonely. But that’s just wine talk, isn’t it?

I’m excited to go on my adventure I just hope there’s something out there for me….. something, anythign, to hold my attention and interest me that will stand up to scrutiny. I entertain myself with people who aren’t worth shit, like Antoine, and then it’s over and I’m thinking, who the fuck am I to continue to feel so superior when I can be utterly floored by some pretentious kid on Erasmus or before him, the cheap, mean, idiot I married, or before him, the ketamine dealer who cheated on me with his brother’s kid’s mother???

I don’t want to change myself, but I’d love to know what I can change about my behaviour, to get something better for myself. I hope my next plan is the first step…