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.

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Excelsior!

Aaaaand she’s back!

I was in love with him for a month, I wept for him and pulled at my eyebrows for a week, and it’s gone.

The crazy conviction he was IT, he was the person, the thing, the external must have to make my life complete, it’s gone.

I still would love to stroke his hair and feel him slip inside me one more time or maybe twice or well…

I miss the sex, I miss the constant discovery and the acting better than myself because I’m under observation.

I’m not heartless, I’m just a bit unhinged….

I’m over the rough, I’m left with the sweet memories and the glad you came into my life and shared it with me for an Irish summer.

It lived fast, it burned bright, it died young and it left a corpse hotter than River Phoenix.

The ashes of last week are cool now, and there’s a motherfucking phoenix hatching out, at least I hope that’s what I’ll be, and I’m back, I’m back, I’m back.

I feel a bit embarassed about my juvenile dementia that swept everyone up into worry and commiseration, but it was honest and it was real, I’m just moving on.

Maybe it takes a quarter of the length of the relationship to get over someone, maybe that’s throwaway bullshit.

Yesterday before it had died down entirely and I was still crying helplessly, I posted a song on facebook, Sitting on the Dock of the Bay by Otis Redding, a song I always shared with my best friend and a song I introduced him to, and he loved. I posted it and tagged my best friend in it, and oh yeah I was hoping he saw it, but it wasn’t aimed at him, it’s MY song, there was no feeling of it being OUR song or anything.

This morning I woke up to his “like” on the facebook post. Thought it was a bit odd… really odd.. because he hasn’t replied to my messages, but I guess it’s a kind of “we’re cool” or an “I can’t handle talking to you about all the emotional stuff you wrote because I’m in a different headspace and I’ll get in touch when the dust has settled” or some mixture of the two or something else, but I don’t even care why he liked it, I have faith that he meant everything he said when he said it, just like I did, but just as my head’s now free of the mind-altering effects of love or lust or whatever, maybe his is too… or was a bit sooner… So it’s ok, no hard feelings…

I won’t be ashamed of the romantic intensity I threw at him the evening after he left, because I am actually pretty impressed I didn’t go crazier, go more intense, and I didn’t declare I WILL MOVE TO FRANCE FOR YOU, so I think I did pretty well.

It was great to meet you, my French lover. You came when I needed you, you left before I had my fill, and you ignored me long enough for me to snap out of it and go back to being me.

I’m not fickle, I don’t think… if he had kept the fire burning it would have kept burning, I’m sure.

But hooray! I’m a person again, I can stand my own company once more, I can even relish it… My apartment is my home again, not our love nest. I cooked today for the first time since I made him dinner, and I made cheesy potatoes and they were carbtastic and I didn’t eat too many either because I enjoy being slim and I’m going to stick to it but not in an insane depressed way like last week.

Tomorrow I’m going to see the Stone Roses with my best buddy and a lot of other cool people, and I’m going to look wonderful and I’m going to have a great time….

And I’ve put you through so much misery and you have been fabulous and thank you, lovely people for sticking with me through those 7 days… so here’s a NON-HIM related anecdote for you. I wish it was flowers, but I don’t have flowers. Just my words! Hahaha… Thanks for being such awesome internet friends, you guys…

Actually anyway it does start with him,

So I have this bruise on my arm that is basically his thumb and a finger from when we were having particularly emotional goodbye sex and he must have turned me over or something. So on Thursday night I went out with my work friends to watch the match and get very drunk, we decided to hit the bar like gentlemen and have civilised rounds of whiskey with beer chasers… So we somehow made it out of that bar and into a club where I proceeded to tell these guys who were buying me drinks and trying to hit on me all about my boyfriend who moved to France… Somewhere in there I wound up dancing with my girlfriend from work, and this woman comes up to me and taps me on the shoulder and says “Your arm! are you ok?” so I presume she means my bruise, and I just turn to her and breezily declare, “it’s fine, it’s just from sex, you know?”

She gazes at me in horror, she’s like “BUT THE BLOOD!”

So I don’t know what she’s talking about, I guess bruises are just blood under the skin, so I just shrug, I’m like “yeah it was pretty emotional, he was leaving the country.”

She walks away, shocked.

Then I realise it’s my other arm, there’s a cut on my other arm and it’s bleeding quite heavily, although it’s not a very deep cut. I don’t know where I got it, I was far too drunk to notice anything, I must have brushed past a door with a bit of metal sticking out of it or something. So who knows what that woman imagined I was so breezily admitting to getting up to in the bedroom. My lover passionately jabbing me in the arm with jagged metal…

Then today I was in work and the cut had healed but the bruise was bright, poisonous yellow. I had my jumper on but it got hot in the office so I took it off, unwittingly revealing my arms. Later I went to ask someone down the other end of the room where I never go so I never talk to them, if anyone had a phone charger I could borrow. One of the real witty guys I don’t know very well says “Abby, what happened to your arm, did you forget the safe word?”

And I just looked down and saw my dirty sex bruise that is so not a door or a fall or anything but big man hands, and I blushed and was like… errr… and I missed the moment where I could think of any other reason why I had a bruise on the inside of my arm or come up with a “ha ha no, it was just muffled through the ball gag” or anything to defuse the reality but instead everyone just stared at me non-verbally admit it was actually a sexual wound. The guy who made the quip looked at his shoes, I was handed a charger and I scuttled off to my usual corner of the office with my posse.

And I’m back to my usual awkward self. Huzzah!

If breakups are like sex, and they’re not, then this right here is the orgasm

I just came gooey closure all over the place.

I’m a free woman!

Well not really, but I AM CONSIDERABLY MORE FREE THAN I WAS!

He signed, the bitch ass mofo I’d regret ever having met if I didn’t think I’d make this mistake anyway with someone else, he signed and now I’m a legally separated non smoking tooth FLOSSING (yeah I bought floss, word!) ass kicker and it’s my birthday in less than 3 weeks and someone’s bound to give me money for that or buy me shoes I get to pick out myself so YEAH! Right on!

I’m so freaking happy.

This morning was sunny and warm but there was a mad multi-directional wind stirring up the fallen leaves and grit and dust with an eerie howling. This city is a freaking dustbowl so wind is decidedly unpleasant. It gits in your eyes, it fucks up your hair. But I was walking down the street with my dolphin folder (the only folder I have that keeps my documents in presentable condition) and I felt like Storm, I was feeling badass and purposeful and I looked good and the weird wind was stirring shit up around me as I walked so my ego supplied the “it’s because of my powers” bit and it was cool.

I tried my new dress with leggings (I like leggings, I wear them whenever a dress is too short and somehow if you wear tights it’s slutty but leggings are ok even though you show the same amount of leg/buttock) but it looked shit because my only leggings are black or brown and the skirt of the dress is black and I considered being a total badass and doing brown and black but in the end I will admit, it looked shitty. Not that all brown and black looks shitty, but this did.

So I fumbled and panicked and thought holy crap what if I’m late for court because I have nothing to wear? But then I tried on this blue dress that was just long enough to not be in any way unsuitable: I had this paranoia that the judge would be like “I find your outfit to be in contempt of court!” and bang his gavel and I wouldn’t be allowed my separation because I looked too slutty. So I wore this blue dress that was kind of like something Kate Middleton would wear… if she didn’t have any money. And I put a little cropped jacket on top of that and a pair of flat black pumps that make my feet stink because they are plastic imitation leather but as long as I don’t take them off in court, no one would know! In fact I took them off now and man that is nasty shit.

But I looked good if completely unlike my usual self. I arrived early and just in time to see husband in a WHITE SHIRT that was kinda too short for him (he borrowed it, but I appreciate the effort, it’s surprising) and worn but clean jeans and oh man cringe, a belt buckle that is actually a knuckle duster. So they were taking the weapon from him and putting it in a locker because obviously you can’t bring that shit to court. But no problem, we met and it was friendly but I was wary because of last time we met and he was friendly.

We went to a vending machine because it was the only thing to do, and I bought water and he asked for a water so I bought him a water. Then I was fidgeting and thinking maybe I would need to pee if I drank too much water and hey I’m already halfway through it, so I bought a kinder bar and it got stuck on the spiral and wouldn’t fall out. We were inside the building full of lawyers and I wasn’t sure what the general consensus was on tilting vending machines. Husband saw my plight and stepped in, shaking the damn thing like a madman until I got my bar and the lawyer appeared at that moment.

My bitch lawyer was tied up in a more important case so she had sent her colleague to show us where to wait- she joined a few minutes later. It’s this monstrous ministry of justice type Orwellian structure that takes up about 3 blocks on each side, so it’s about 9 blocks of this terrifying fortress with all metal detectors and more lawyer than you could shake a stick at (and it’s not advisable to threaten lawyers, let me tell you) and it’s not easy to find the different rooms and offices and whatnot. We walked past lawyers and lots of them were hot. Later! Later I will be free. I wish it was like tv, where every time you see an attractive person they will invariably ask you out or at least flirt with you. Damn Californication and Sex and The City, if the USA is really like that then I’m wasting my time here. If it’s a lie, they should TELL US. It’s not fair making us depressed because we don’t live in the magical land of promiscuity and phone number exchange and true one night stands. Anyway. A sermon for another day perhaps.

We chatted amiably, the lawyer getting a few details from husband for some forms he had to finish. When asked occupation etc, husband threw out some bitter, spiteful replies like “oh I USED to work for my father in law, but until he threw me out on the street!” and I was freaking out he was going to pull the same shit as before and I was glad I hadn’t worn mascara in case I had to cry again. I steered the conversation as good naturedly as I could into neutral waters.

He noticed my dolphin folder with a pang, I could tell, because I used to laugh like a dolphin to entertain him. I noticed him seeing it and thinking of that, and he noticed me noticing, so that was kind of awkward.

I have a tendency to smile giddily when I don’t know what to do, or when I’m uncomfortable, so I was constantly trying not to look too happy in case he got all upset and decided not to sign.

I kept a sober look on my face but a smirk kept creeping up on the wizened side of my mouth and I kept having to knock it back…

The lawyer started ranting about the poor distribution of wealth in the world today. “If we don’t stop eating the world, there won’t be any left!” He said, holding a manilla folder flat on one hand. “Look, this is a piece of meat: If we eat that, and we all eat it, there won’t be any left then!” he swiped the folder away drammatically and hid it under one arm.

“This is what the world is doing! There won’t be any left! Either we go on like this, or we stop!”

I found it really odd that he chose this moment and totally out of the blue, to go on a tirade against the society bent on consumerism, especially as eh… he’s a lawyer for fucks sake, he’s got more than his share of the meat.

But maybe it was just to distract husband or something from more personal subjects. We were all able to chime in with a few generic, oh its a shame, the world today, huh! kind of platitudes, and then my real lawyer arrived, the megabitch. I think she hates me. I don’t know exactly why but I get a strong vibe of hatred from her. I think because last week I cried copious amounts in front of her and she started asking me stuff as I was trying to inhale snot back down my oesophagus without her knowing, and I was like can I have some water or something? And she looked really pissed off and brought me a plastic shot glass with water in it, and then she had to call me twice yesterday which she REALLY didn’t like because I stupidly sent her some scanned papers in a “mysterious, unopenable” format (JPEG) and had to resend in pdf.

But anyway, I don’t care, she’s my lawyer, we pay her, me and my dad. (well, just my dad)

I think she hates my dad too, because he got all passionate about my ex being a rat and she just wanted to ask pointed questions about important stuff.

Anyway she’s the megabitch but I love her with all my heart because she added this thing into my separation agreement that I didn’t even know existed, which is that normally married people, if they want to get a new passport, they have to get the signature of their spouse as permission! Or else, no passport! WTF? Draconian, much? Is this a muslim country or some shit? But my megabitch lawyer put a thing in that releases us from that obligation, we both give full consent to the other to get a new passport. WHAT THE FUCK KINDA LAW? Good thing I got my lawyer. I wanted to hug her after we left, but I shook her bony skeletor hand. It was cold. I imagined hugging her would probably be like hugging a collapsed tent.

The hearing itself was a joke. I wasted so much energy worrying about not looking Ally MacBeal enough for the fucking amphitheatre with all the wood and wig-wearing judges and random people in the viewing gallery for some reason… But it was actually just a little office with a desk covered in papers, and four comfy pleather chairs on one side and behind it, a little old man with a nice crinkly santa face and a tight lipped female secretary.

We took our seats and said good day a few times. I think I said good day about 7 times, I was really nervous. It was so unlike what I expected, I broke into a sweat thinking maybe there was some massively important piece of judge etiquette I was ignoring, like saying your honour or putting my hand on my heart or something, but the lawyer didn’t look more pissed off than usual so I sat down and grinned manicaly and my husband sat down and slouched and I though oh my god can you not just sit up straight for two seconds, he’s a JUDGE? But I grit my teeth and thought this is the guy you’re divorcing, you’re divorcing this slouchy, had-to-borrow-a-shirt, knuckle-duster-belt-wearing cowboy.

The cat-arse-mouthed secretary woman asked a few confirmation questions like name, age, date of birth, address… husband was just like “yeah,” or said the name of the city instead of address so I had to prompt him.

The kindly faced old gent looked up for a second, asked “are you sure you want to get separated?”

I said YES with 10 months’ pressure behind that word.

Husband must have nodded but I was facing santa so I didn’t see, then santa read over our agreement in one breath. …contracted marriage 06 June 2009 swear they are self sufficient and renounce the right to maintenance cheques, grant each other permission to renew passports etc…. dadadadadada and now sign here and you (to me) sign BELOW your husband. With a flicker of elation I realise that is possibly the last time I am shunted to the back, because the man goes first… fuck that. I’m an independent woman now. WOO WOO!

So we signed and he said, good luck with your separation and gave me a smile that was just short of a wink, but I felt like he could tell straight up what kind of messer I had gotten involved with. I was looking all classy like a poor man’s Kate Middleton, and I showed up with this slouching too small shirted guy, and I had to answer most of the questions because husband seemed kinda stumped.

I couldn’t believe it.

We left the office and it was like, that was IT?

I shook my lawyer’s icy claw and received a vigorous hand-pump from her anti-consumerism colleague, and exited with husband because it seemed rude and bad form to not leave together after everything.

He was walking fast like he wanted to get away, but I knew it was the last time we would talk and it was better to possibly encroach on his personal space and wish to be left alone one last time than to leave things weird like this.

So we chatted, I repeated a few things like “oh the papers will be ready in a month but you don’t need to come in to get them, it’s just a formality.” and whatever. He threw a few little digs about how my dad and I kept changing our minds about what would happen to the apartment and stuff, and that was why he wanted to drag things on. I decided to ignore the slightly-off logic of that because he knows there was nothing else we could have done, and I’ve talked to him at length about this. He just wants to blame me for shit. but it’s over now. I’m not arguing, he can think what he likes.

Then we kissed on the cheek and wished each other luck and said laughingly “I’ll see you around the clubs!” and it was friendly and then he crossed the road through some gridlocked traffic to get his bike, and I went to get the bus, and the face I left was a smiling, laughing one. Whether it was really happy or horribly depressed I don’t know really, but I’m glad we left it like that, like us, because we always did get along well, we’re just totally at odds with each other morality and worldview-wise. But I’m glad we parted like this, and it kind of takes the edge off the fact that last week he had me wishing I was stronger so I could beat the crap out of him, and wishing he would just spontanously drop dead.

I’m done. I’m out.

I’m not divorced, I’ll be eligible for divorce in 3 years from today. But he doesn’t have to show up for that. I can get the divorce without him being in the same country even. His input is no longer required.

I feel like I’ve betrayed the me that was in love with him three and two years ago, but then that me back then didn’t think too hard about how it would affect this me, so she can fuck off.

Two and a half years later, I’m looking better than on my wedding day, I feel better, I’m stronger, I’m happier, I’m not smoking, IM GONNA GO GET SO FUCKING DRUNK TONIGHT.

P.S. Thank you guys for all the support.

: )

My crotch just made a new friend!

Hi there,

Guess what just went down?

Downtown.

I just got my crotch deforested.

And it went well, so well I actually left the salon beaming.

I was all geared up for it to be as bad as or worse than the last time –

But I had to do it because tomorrow I leave for war-torn London, and I need a smooth babylike mound in case I get killed by rabid teenage delinquents and there’s a post mortem and a hot doctor sees me naked.

I was resigned to meekly taking my punishment, lie back and think of Britain, while some joyless bitch probably jealous of my thick lustrous head-hair tortures my innocent genitals with hot wax while making snide remarks about my borderline hirsuteism.

And, as usual, I was WRONG.

Usually I’m wildly overconfident about everything, and it goes pear shaped.

So I rush back from work and give the vaginal area a good scrub, dry off, put on a nice dress that can be lifted for easy access, run out the door, realise need to pee now, go back for a pee, wash again, dry off… leave properly this time.

Arrive and am instantly convinced this is going to be awkwardsville. Three perma-tanned teenagers with drawn on eyebrows huddle around the counter giggling. They are the beauticans. Fuck. Fuck. These girls will judge me and think I’m not pretty enough. Garrrr nooooo… I try to arm myself in being more successful than them, so maybe they won’t consider me a failed peer, but rather a different category of adult and maybe they won’t judge me so much.

This is my little defence mechanism, don’t knock it, it at the very least has placebo benefits for me.

So I whip out my kindle and start reading serious things, and sit like a lady (or whatever approximation I could manage)

And then one of the girls calls me into the little cubicle, instructs me to de-clothe and lie on the bed thing, and I do so, and holy shit this is happening again, I want to go home, I don’t like this. She comes back, begins whicking off my leg follicles.

Ok. Ok.

Another bitch comes in, this time slightly more normal looking and less drag-queeny.

She asks if they can double up on me, can I handle two at once?

I was determined to say NO if they asked me, but again, I’m on a table and my crotch is out in the open. I say yes… legs, that’s fine… just not the bikini.

Sure ok, and she begins.

Grrr…

Lie back and think of London.

I’m going to London tomorrow, yay!

Except, riots. Fucking scumbags out causing havok and possibly setting fire to houses near me, or at the very, very least, causing pubs to be closed when I want to go drinking. Please don’t fuck up my holidays, nasty teenagers.

I know, people are losing their livelihoods and houses- I’m not a heartless bitch, but these holidays are super important to me and as a selfish person I can’t help but feel like it’s partly the world conspiring against me to destroy my chances of a decent social getaway. Last time I travelled, pilot strikes were threatened. Before that, there was a freaking volcano spewing engine-hating ash everywhere. I just want to go out on the lash and get hit on and be a bitch to 90% of the people who hit on me. It’s my right, I work enough…

I do feel bad for the Londoners, also, those children need to be taken over someone’s knee and spanked until they’re whimpering and grateful they even have blackberrys. I think it’s bollocks that people are like “oooh poor young people are having their youth clubs shut down, it’s no wonder they did something like this” and then BBC world news switches to footage of Libya or some other place I’m wildly ignorant about and it’s like, they don’t even have smartphones to coordinate rampages of their cities, and I don’t even have a blackberry either so a little perspective, people.

This stream of thought distracts me from tensing and increasing the pain for a bit.

And then we move on to the piece de resistance, the groin area. The first girl leaves us and the second, better one began ripping out the hairs that least want to be ripped out. Stop! They scream as they are yanked like cesarean babies, hundreds at a time… We want to stay plentiful and long, and trap sweat and intensify its odour so you smell like a ripe fuckable monkey!

I whimper a little.

She goes straight in for the kill and gives me a landing strip, I actually wanted a triangle because that means less of the really painful waxing, but a landing strip is fine. I’ll make do.

She gets right in there from the start- other beauticians have had me hold my skin taut or to one side with my thong covering whatever isn’t getting waxed right then, but this girl lifts my skimpy horrible undies completely away from my body and pats powder down firmly and yanks and it’s over, the worst part anyway, before I even had time to consider if she’s coming on to me. She had my holding a leg in the air but it’s all very quick and I barely feel ashamed at all.

Then she pulls out some cream- and where most beauticians will rub it on my legs then hand me some to do my own crotch, she just pulls my undies out and sticks her hand down there and gives me a 20 second fucking VAGINA massage. It was actually pretty nice once you get over- and I didn’t- the part where some random woman just without warning, stuck her hand down my pants and rubbed lotion on me. I was still reeling when she commanded I turn over.

She finished my legs and then asks “do you want me to do your ass?”

Eh, yes?

She pried my cheeks apart matter-of-factly and whipped off the offending follicles.

Then the lotion made an appearance. She wedged the side of her hand in between my ass crack and lotioned me up some more.

I was again running the “she’s coming onto me, I know she is” delusion through my mind when I realised I was mentally fucking with the first good beautician I have found. She rocks my waxing world, and I’m there getting all “ewww lesbian, gross,” and I should grow up and be a mature adult and stop getting my kicks sniggering at girls touching my front-bottom.

So I thanked her very much, and hobbled out to pay.

And guess what it cost?

Top half legs, bikini, ass, and all..

€19.

Yep. It cost me 4 euro more the last time, and I was abused and mistreated and I didn’t even get a rub down of my lady parts, just a bit of confusing leg-touching.

I have finally finally found a place I will go back to. I’m a little bit in love with that girl, she made me feel like I was a baby having its nappy changed, and I didn’t even give a crap if she saw my EVERYTHING.

Anyway, I’m happy.

Just hope London is all sorted out tomorrow. I really really don’t want my holiday to be shitty.

I want it to be sexy and fun and drunken, not… stuck inside some house in fear of arson attacks.

Ok. Must stop procrastinating and pack my fracking suitcase.

And pare it down to one suitcase, because this shit is ridiculous and I don’t want my stuff to get looted.

The prodigal shag returns, and all is forgiven*

*I had to repost this so the reblog that somebody refused to remove would go away.

Fabio has redeemed himself.

It was awkward at first.

Luckily I began freaking out in advance thinking ARK how to initiate…. what if he tries to cuddle me or some shit? What if he kisses me on the cheek and there is no touching? So to get my courage up I decided to watch some hardcore porn while I made my dinner and before he arrived.

GREAT idea. Really helps proceedings move along… and I was not about to let the opportunity for sex go unused.

Although our reunion was initially stunted and edgy, like two teenagers whose parents are friends being told to “go hang out”, I was feeling sufficiently ballsy and reckless and… turned on and sort of revolted with myself, like I always am when I watch porn… so I just started manhandling his junk.

We had some disinterested conversation about ourselves where  it became clear that not only had I not remembered anything he told me last time, but GODS BE PRAISED! He had also neglected to remember a single factoid about my illustrious existence.

Wonderful stuff.

We circled around the task at hand for a little while and I remembered he had said he would come over “for coffee” so I offered him a beer or wine thinking this might lubricate his side of things a little better.

He said no thank you, well whatever is handy for you… a coffee maybe?

I tried to pretend coffee was not a massive hassle. I pulled out the big coffee pot I use for my good morning twitchy eyelid half litre of joe and he paled. CRAP! Don’t you have a small pot, like for one person?

I’m like, this IS my one person pot.

He looked a little afraid or maybe I am imagining it, of the kind of man crushing boner munching beast of a creature who can put away that much caffeine just for kicks, every day.

Like I drink punks like him for breakfast.

Maybe he wasn’t impressed or afraid but just thought shit this girl has a problem, first she drinks more than one beer in an evening and now she’s drinking 5 cups of normal Italian coffee in one sitting?

Anyway I realise he said he was coming over for coffee so now he doesn’t want me to bother with the coffee as I will have to waste the rest… anyway I don’t bother explaining I would just fill it less of the way… I don’t want to make coffee anyway, that’s a pain in the ass, lots of waiting around and making sure it doesn’t burn. And more talking.

So I sit on his lap and grab his starter hard on and we kiss and he starts feeling up my leg and in between my thighs. It’s not hugely erotic but the ice is broken.

I stand up to check on my bread and it is done so I take that out and leave it to cool. Then I lead him into my clean and tidy bedroom and we debate whose condom to use. Mine which is beside me in an intimidating pot luck, enough to fill a pretty good adult pinata, or his which is in the kitchen in his jacket. He brought one, by the way. Meaning he is at least sensible enough to expect sex- but not ambitious enough to expect more than once. Oh well, it’s still better than “I didn’t think sex was on the cards” which would have meant something awful and hard to wriggle out of.

Before the condom goes on we are shedding clothes and kissing and touching each other… I hear his velcro shoes SHACCCCKKK off and a hysterical bubble of laughter erupts from my nose. I pretend I am laughing at something else… I say, I didn’t know if “coffee” meant the same thing in Italian… in English it means sex. You might think that is a weird or redundant thing to say pre-sex, but it is all part of my subtle digs at clarifying this is just sex. So he’s like, ha ha, yes it can mean that with us too!

And then he’s like, which coffee were you asking me over for?

And I’m like, well there’s only one kind of coffee you’re getting from me…

So he looked happy, now that is my mind put to rest about whether or not he is up for just sex.

So we have some delightfully convenient sex in the comfort of my own home and it is really enjoyable and rough.

I feel wonderfully uninhibited. No I am still not letting him in my bum, that’s just not happening. I have a young tight vagina, if that’s not good enough for today’s men they can go back home and fap alone. But I do feel great just being naked and stuff.I know my body is already beginning to frantically stockpile water for the time of the month when I will have to let my lady fields lie fallow, if you catch my totally unsubtle drift. It’s probably about a week away, so I’m looking a bit porkier. But I don’t really care, I’ve already ridden all the highs and lows of will he-won’t he- does he- don’t he with this guy and I just want some sex anyway, so I don’t have to suck anything in and try to be perfect.

Afterwards he starts looking at his watch, although he doesn’t say anything about it and for a while lay back and have some meaningless personal interchange of information and whatnot. I lay it on heavy with the “I don’t like being in Italy, I can’t communicate properly, that’s why I AM MOVING VERY SOON” and I basically don’t try to hide any of my undesirable traits or anything. This is great. This is what I want it to be like- I feel very relaxed about it all. I couldn’t care less if he goes home now or if we have sex again. Actually I do want another sex, but I don’t feel needy like I normally do.

He is looking at his watch a lot and I’m like, “oh, you got to get up early?” And he’s like “yeah,  otherwise I would stay…”

and I’m like, “hey who’s asking you to stay?” He doesn’t look offended…  we laugh.

Then after a while I make him want sex again and we have another sex, and this one isn’t as good because I guess we are both a bit tired, me because I had fuck all sleep last night (I had hummus- I ate it from a bowl with  a spoon, on its own- for dinner, and couldn’t sleep all night with the… discomfort.) and he had a really long day… I was going to pooh pooh his student lifestyle but he is actually studying something difficult and he got up at 7am so I will be quiet on the matter. I in turn work like 5 hours a day.

So then after that I put on those hot pants and baggy but sexy t shirt I have as “pyjamas” but have never worn as real pyjamas because I just save them to look good in front of a fuck buddy and FINALLY I get to use them!

Then I get to act all cool because I honestly know this guy likes fucking me so I am secure but I don’t feel like he’s displaying any symptoms of being smitten or anything dangerous like that. AND I have gone out of my way to make him see I only want sex, so I can’t even feel hypocritically rejected and think “I don’t want him to like me, but why doesn’t he like me?”

So I am in my fake pjs now looking awesome and all sexed up and he’s getting dressed and I start looking for a song on youtube to play something now he’s going home.

He comes over and he’s like, what are you looking for a movie to watch?

And I’m like, nah… just uploading the film (and I point to the bed. deadpan)

And he’s like.. what do you mean?

I’m like, you know, the film… oh right you didn’t see the laptop there, yeah I’m just sticking it up on youtube.

It dawns on him what I mean. He looks really worried. I start bursting my shit laughing. MWAHAHAHAHAHA Nah I’m only messing, jeez man I wouldn’t do that!

He’s like… are you SURE?

I’m like, of course, if I had filmed that I would certainly not put it on youtube, and I definitely wouldn’t tell you.

He asks me to promise I didn’t.

Of course I didn’t.

Really? Tell me please.

I’m like, relax, the laptop was closed anyway!

He’s freakin out a bit but he does believe me, it’s just occured to him that I could have filmed it if I wanted to.

I’m like, dude I’m only having a laugh, some things I don’t wanna see.

So he looks wary but he believes me and then we exchange some (not as good as mine) jokes about how he’s going to film me next time ha ha and I’m like ha ha yeah well it didn’t come out well so we’ll have to take it from the top…

Whatever.

I had fun, he had fun,

I laughed, he… saw the humour in it but didn’t exactly laugh.

Anyway he was like, I’ll see you soon.

I tell him he’s welcome to call me any time he wants some more coffee….

He leaves happy and mostly trusting that I didn’t really film the whole thing.

And then he left, and I am happy now because I know he gets what’s going on here. I layered on the sleaze as much as I could and didn’t even try to be remotely nice girl, and immediately we were done screwing I was like, ok bye bye that was nice let’s do it again soon…

And it was nice.

YAY!

Ok I PROMISE I will stop overanalysing this particular man and his possible intentions. We are here. We are good.

It’s awesome. I may not get as regular sex as I would like because princess needs his 8 hours, but then he did tell me how much shit he had to do today and it was like 10 hours of stuff. So… I will be lenient. I can’t stay mad after I’ve been shown such a good time anyway.

:)

Happy now.

(Oh the calm before probably another storm tomorrow morning. But it’s nice while it lasts. Always with the drama though. I am aware of this. I didn’t even share with you the 24 hour freakout I had when my dad convinced me the euro was going to crash yesterday and I was going to lose all my London money (not that there’s a whole lot of it…)

ALSO: I realise I am a total dick and a hypocrite. I recently posted about things that turn me off and how uncool it is people making jokes and fucking with my head in the sexual arena. And then I just go and mess with this poor dude who thinks he’s fat although he didn’t say anything this time luckily, but I am an asshole I know… I should listen to my own advice and not make jokes in the bedroom. Especially since he was such a sport when the inevitable noises made an appearance. He ignored the noises. That is how it’s done.

Anyway…