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.


Screw you, job! Cheerio, own apartment! Hasta la never, ITALY! I’ll miss you, hot barman…

Today is my last day of gainful employment for oh, however long I can swing it…

On this spitefully cold, Narnian winter’s day, I leave the ranks of the downtrodden… the servile… the fake smilers.

Unemployment, ho!

I will work again, sure… I know it’s not the last time I endure THE PUBLIC or do something monotonous that makes my sense of self want to curl up with a heated body pillow. I will work again, I will sell out, I will sigh and watch the clock and wish it was Friday.

I would so like to never work again. Isn’t that the dream, everyone’s dream? But I feel like it is something particularly suitable for me. I imagine other people have less difficulty just getting on with it. I just feel like I’m being cheated out of some better, beautiful, serene existence. Maybe everyone feels this way, but it’s probably just me, alone, who sees exactly how unfair it is that I have to do stuff i don’t want to so as to be able to afford things.

I wish there was a better way than yucky unemployment… some nicer way than work. A generous stipend of some sort, filling the lazy days with painting on a sunny terrace, eating things Gwyneth Paltrow would approve of, and spending the seasons like a Jane Austen novel, filling wings of houses with friends for months on end. But with more promiscuity. I would like to be a lady of leisure. I would get very good at cooking, or maybe I would never cook again…

In reality I wouldn’t paint anything, that’s just someone else’s crappy dream I copied from a low fat yoghurt ad. I don’t want to paint. I really don’t. I might paint a nude male model if he was very good looking, but I would probably get distracted then and pretend to need to feel his junk to get an idea of the 3 dimensionality of his form… I am quite good at bullshitting so I would make a great artist, unfortunately they didn’t accept me into art school so now I just mock art students. Although they totally are a bunch of saps and I am not even bitter about it any more. (my portfolio was 50% collages I made when stoned, 50% naked drawings in charcoal. Some of those naked pictures was good, but when it was a male model I tended to focus on the genitals.) Art is not for me though. I’m more about applied creativity, like fixing things with sellotape or using origami to solve the problem of messy water fountain drinkage. I don’t have an artistic vision, no way man…

I’d like to write a book, a really good book. It wouldn’t have to be about anything. It would just need to  be enough about nothing that people would read it and think it must be about something really but I was just not spelling it out for them and they would think it was really a very subtle and clever work of literature. It wouldn’t be a very long book so I wouldn’t have room to bore anyone. And I guess some people would think “this is stupid” but it wouldn’t matter i wouldn’t have to hang out with those people and I could just act like they were too closed minded to appreciate the genius of my writing but in reality those people would be the only ones I could respect, because they saw right through my crappy novel. But they would think I was a hack… I would get very drunk and disrespect my fans and they wouldn’t mind because they would think I was awesome, but then that would make me feel even more contempt for them. I would eventually just become a hermit.

I always wonder about J D Salinger, what his story was.

Anyway it would still be cool, and it’s about as far into greatness as my imagination will stretch.

Some day, ah some day. Maybe.  But of course I would need to sit down and come up with something. I have no problem with the sitting down, or the writing… I could write for hours without running out of things I feel like talking about, the only thing that stops me is the annoying suspicion that a lot of what I write about is extremely boring and the more of my daily life you read about, the more it will start to dawn on you until eventually you just won’t bother any more. But a book, man… it’s not the same as my ramblings about who I am attracted to and how insecure I feel with regards to Nordic women. I have immense respect for the novel, too much to attempt it now when I’m just faffing about. It’s not for me, not yet. I am already pretty spectacular now and I’m only 24, but I will definitely be really super awesome when I am older, and that is when I will write a book if I don’t get hit by a car or something. I like to think when I am 40 I will have a good book in me, and some day I will just sit down and tip it out, and it will pour out of me like a carton of chocolate dessert, and land plop on my keyboard, and it will be a masterpiece of bullshit and meaningful emptyheadedness and I won’t have to do anything else, again, ever, and I can just spend my autumn years resting up and congratulating myself on being so wonderful.

I just have to keep making poor decisions and doing things that make me unhappy and lonely, so I have something to write about. I think becoming unemployed as I am doing now,is a good first step. Being poor is supposed to be good for your writing. I know if I had more money I wouldn’t be writing at all, i would be out buying fancy things and drinking non-fattening alcoholic beverages which I am sure exist if you have enough money. I would also like a panic room in my house. Or to live in a hotel, with my own floor. And I want a pool… And a lot of Chanel.

I wouldn’t get surgery though. Apart from the fact that I disagree with surgery on principle, ie, it’s genetic false advertising… I reckon that if you are rich enough to afford a good surgeon, you are rich enough that it doesn’t matter what you look like anyway. Like the way it works with men, I’m sure the same is true for women… I think the reason we don’t see ugly successful women with hot young men more often is that women probably have more sense than to choose a partner based on looks. So they end up getting with their own peers, successful but maybe not very hot men.

I mean it will probably happen to me too, at some point. I hope I lose my shallow and cop on a bit….

With any luck, I’ll meet someone who could never make me swoon like a hot barman, and he’ll make me laugh or something. Then I’ll be lost once again in the lunacy of these damned human emotions, seduced by the shimmering illusion of a person to fill my lonely. I always believe it, that some other person can fill the void, but it always winds up, I’m lonelier than ever, because at least when I’m single and lonely, I have the hope to comfort me, the hope that some day that feeling will be smothered in me and all I’ll have is happiness. But when I’m lying in a man’s arms, I man I swear I love with every molecule in my body that could potentially be involved in the process of loving, and deep down I still feel the same gnawing… Well that’s just the worst feeling in the world. It’s hopeless. It wasn’t horniness, it wasn’t hunger, it wasn’t a lack of love. It’s Goldilocks, but the baby bear’s bed still just isn’t right. It’s intangible and it’s melancholy, and it’s why people do drugs. The people who have everything they want, I mean. Poor people and people who have shitty lives probably do drugs for other reasons.

Incidentally, hot barman wasn’t working today so I couldn’t even say goodbye in my head while gazing upon his beautiful face one last time. Ohhhh. That was a massive blow. Feels so anticlimactic, like if this was fiction it would never have been allowed fizzle out like this and die without anyone doing anything.

But I’m not sentimental by nature. I really hate to add the burden of emotions on top of real problems. Now I’m going away, a year’s restlessness comes to a head… I’m going, I’m really going. It’s what I want. I’m miserable here. I’m a shadow of myself, I fit in the cracks between Italians, gave up jostling for my own space long ago. I trudge in and out of work, I disappear back into my nest and sometimes I fly away somewhere happier for me. What I have done here has not been good. I’ve been stagnating, barely showing up for work and harvesting money from that miserable endeavour only to spray it back out into the world like champagne with nothing to celebrate. Money, I know you’re good for some happyness… make it so!

I’m leaving loneliness and wasted energy, shame and pain and anger and so, so much loneliness and yet here I am welling up inside about all I leave behind.

My family, I’m not even going to start on how much I am going to miss them. It breaks my heart to tear myself away from my sisters. I am not even going to talk about that, because there’s no point in beating myself up about it, I am no use as a big sister when I am this unhappy… but I will miss them and I am going to miss being a central part of their life. I will go back to the outskirts, only visiting sometimes… I always have to miss someone. I don’t mind goodbyes, it’s not the goodbye that hurts. It’s the slow disintegration of closeness. It’s not painful to me to say goodbye to my sisters, although there will be a yanking of the heart when it comes down to that moment… it’s the being gone from the family nucleus… that hurts.

It’s probably not helping that my current youtube playlist, which is kind of a messed up slightly nonsensical journey from the 40s to the 90s, mostly in chronological order… has hit a choke point in the 80s, with Everything but the girl- missing.

Always stirs up nostalgic things inside me…

It snowed again the other day, I had to go out for Andrea’s birthday and we had synchronised our high heel wearing for the evening, so I refused to pass up the opportunity to look awesome and I wound up running for a bus, 6 blocks in the snow in 6 inch heels and tights. Brrr.

It was a fairly uneventful night really. We drank a lot, everyone kept asking me about my move and my travelling and I kept looking around thinking “no more of these people, no more of these places, no more of these nights and Italians who think I am SO mad and interesting and out of control.”

The most fun I had was when we tipped out of a bar and I ran down the deserted street drawing shapes in the snow on car windows. Guess what I drew? Yep, penises. With some cars, I would be about to draw a dick on the window and suddenly I would feel like oh no, what if it’s an old woman’s car or a family’s car? And then I would draw a smiley face. But mostly I thought fuck it and drew dicks. Several windows received a big fat cock but with a smiley face on the head. I was wearing high heels but I didn’t fall in the snow.

The rest of the night was spent fending off the forgettable guy who… yeah I went and forgot his name again. I remember him feeling my ass in the taxi the other night but decided I had been drunk enough that he would probably believe I didn’t remember or was too out of it. But he kept cornering me and forceing conversation, and offering me a taste of his drink and stuff. I responded to the attention in my usual retarded fashion, by being caustic and cutting him to the bone, which had the usual undesired effect of making him think I am a cool cat and wanting more, more of my rude aloofness.

He pissed me off because he kept saying “oh we will have to come visit you in Ireland!” as if we are some happy gang of buddies and I would ever hang out with his boring Italian face in a country where I have cool people to socialise with, people who are the same height as me or taller and who have a sense of humour. He was insanely short this time, because of my heels. It felt good, but he seemed to not appreciate the absurdity in attempting anything from knee height. Ugh, you get fall-down drunk one time and let some guy grope the top of your buttocks and he like, thinks you’re fair game. Ridiculous.

I wonder, though, maybe we have hung out on several occasions and I just keep forgetting him? I only remember him at all because of the backseat gropefest, it tends to push someone to the forefront of my drunken recollections. If I dig around in the recesses of my mind, there is a vague shadowy figure there talking to me, or rather listening as I flail my arms around and throw out incendiary opinions to see how they sound, and make up news items. Maybe that was him… and maybe he has taken our frequent late night conversation to mean we are buddies and he might get to hook up with me in Ireland? Ugh gross no.I will just tell Andrea, if she is coming to visit me, there is no room for more than her and her boyfriend. I’ll say there is a big potato fair on in Dublin that week and the hotels are all booked up. People are largely ignorant about Ireland so I am sure I can get away with a little white lie.

So that was that, we hopped from bar to bar and then hit a late night restaurant. I never realised such a place existed, but there it was. I had gnocchi alla bava, bava literally means drool but it is actually cheese and cream. It was amazing but the waiter, an old Jeeves type, serving us long past reasonable working years and hours, clearly despised our drunken lairy asses. It was expensive, and the short Italian guy copied me and ordered the same thing but with ham and then insisted on us trying each other’s food. I didn’t want him taking any of mine because it is my favorite dish of all time (I used to be lots fatter) but politeness told me not to yell MINE  and cradle the plate under my arm, exposing my incisors and emitting a warning growl like my dog when she is guarding a piece of mouldy bread.

I very begrudgingly let him try mine and then took one from his plate in return. Oh GREAT. His was nicer than mine. Ballsack, this is why I never try other people’s food. Either you don’t like it, in which case… waste of time… or you do like it, and you regret your choice for the rest of the meal and your own dish no matter how much you originally like it, now tastes like failure.

Anyway, it was an uneventful night. The rest of the people we were with, were nice I guess, except for this one very cutting Italian who kept asking me questions and frowning. I was thinking, dude, we clearly don’t like each other, stop fucking drawing me out. He kept pestering me with pointed questions, lifting the rocks in front of my personality and then recoiling from the creepy crawlies underneath. It was annoying. He complained about his girlfriend in a very mean and cutting manner. I didn’t like that one bit. She was nice, but had very low self esteem. You could tell because she was wearing more makeup than me, which is quite something, and she was going out with that scumbag.

I was bored for most of the night, and I felt tired, I was only really there because it was Andrea’s birthday and I wanted to say goodbye to her. I gave her the dress I bought her… as far as I could tell, it was a good buy and she loved it. I said goodbye to her and her boyfriend, who is probably delighted to see the back of me as I am a terrible influence on Andrea and he always ends up giving me lifts home, drunk as a skunk and screeching about men and the cultural differences here and in Ireland.

I’m going, I’m going, goodbye crazy scene… Goodbye people I liked, goodbye mostly people I could happily never see again.

I said goodbye to my colleagues today, Gabrielle who was in a foul mood because she feels like my dad purposefully stocked her shop with all the ugly clothes, just to spite her or something. I won’t miss her paranoid conspiracies…. but we had some really fun times too, and she was so wonderful when I was hung over and destroyed on Saturdays and sat there stinking and shivering and scaring the customers. She wished me all the best…

I said goodbye to an ex-colleague, who I always liked but it just wasn’t that kind of relationship that carried over into normal friendship territory. She told me if I ever needed anything, to come to her. I thanked her and we took the bus home together, although it was a bit out of her way. We talked about what I was going to do, and where I was going to go… I talked a lot and eagerly, but when she kissed me on the cheeks and got off at her stop, I realised that nothing I had said was very sincere at all, and I had fallen into that trap of saying what you think you are supposed to say, and leaving out all the real true things you don’t think other people want to hear. I don’t like that feeling, but then, we were on the bus and I could feel people looking at me, interested in the foreigner and what possible reason she could have for leaving this fine city.

When she was gone I felt naked, because however little I touched on the reality of my leaving town, I still talked at length in front of all these people. I remember busses in Dublin, sitting for 45 minutes with a friend or two, boasting about drinking and scoring boys and skipping school and talking loud, loud, not caring what anyone else might think… DARING them to judge you, triumphantly part of the newer better rougher generation. Until your friends got off and you were left with your stories hanging in the air, shorn of the validation of your peers.

The thought of feeling judged by these mean, narrow minded bus wankers, merely because I had talked about my plans and aspirations.. nothing scandalous, nothing raunchy… just drove home exactly how wonderful a thing it is for me to move away now. I have never felt so criticized and insecure as I have in Italy. The critical eye of Italy has been good for me in ways like, I am more groomed than ever before. I have stepped away from my previous style incarnation, part 1980s, part scraggy hobo. I have started showering frequently and brushing my teeth… at all. So those are good things, but they are good side effects of bad feelings of inadecuacy. I’m glad I have reined in my tastes and my gluttony and drunkeness considerably (yes, I have, you didn’t know me before Italy… just you wait and see..) because I feel like I look better this way but it makes me sad to live in a society that does that to people, takes a happy person who loves clothes and colours and doesn’t see why they have to be locked in monogamous relationships, and bullies her towards black and brown and navy and beige BUT NOT TOGETHER OF COURSE.

I’m going, I’m going.

It was hard for me not to get carried away with the melancholy of my last day. Everything meant something, everything was a “last one”.

I sat on the tram this morning and the sun was shining like the first day of Spring. I crossed the river on the tram and the light bounced off the wavelets, dazzling and beautiful. It’s a gorgeous city, really. People who come here, love it. They find it impressive. But I just never found it… anything. I reached as deep into this city as a tourist here for a week. I paddled around, I tested corners and cliques and places and people, but I never really immersed myself. I lived here, but I never lived while I was here. I took so many holidays… I never had time off to just sit and watch and enjoy this place. It is beautiful, and I am sure there’s a warm heart underneath the concrete and the snow, but I’m just not interested and the city is hardly going to reach out and woo me.

It’s over, now. I can’t say I gave it my best shot, but I gave it the best shot I was ever going to give it. Ireland is a place so unlike this… it’s a very special place. You don’t realise that about Ireland until you leave her behind, and more than that, you don’t realise what’s special about Ireland until you leave Irish people behind too. I’m sorry, Italy, but she’s just too hard an act to follow.

I do feel under it all, some pangs of guilt about Italy. It’s not a bad place. But it takes a certain kind of person to be happy, an alien in a foreign land. I am not a reed that bends in the wind. I am what I am, I’ll break before I bow.

Tomrrow I pack my things, not everything, mind, but my most loved clothes and my most needed makeup. I leave so much behind, but I’m not moving properly yet. I need to find a place to live in Dublin, then I can come back here and box what I want to keep and send it to my new place. So the packing I have to do tomorrow is really more of a tidying up and throwing out and then (because I already packed my suitcases on Saturday) pulling things out and reassessing whether I really need this many skirts if all I ever wear is dresses.

The organisation of my two measly suitcases is, I think, half geeky, half pathetic, and half genius. That’s right, three halves, just like MANBEARPIG. I also managed to fit three halves in each of my suitcases, because for the first time in my life I rolled and folded instead of my usual scrunch ‘n turf method.

I have photographed and catalogued every item I am bringing apart from pyjamas and my various decoy pjs, which are of course cute little hotpants and string tops that I pretend to have as pjs if I have a man in my bed. UGh so not looking forward to being back in my old room, I am still not sure what kind of sound isolation there is between my room and my mum’s room. I don’t know. I’m going to miss being able to make noise when I masturbate. Not that I’m like… “oh YEAH that’s it OH MY GOD DON’T STOP” when I do the solitary bold thing, but when I’m trying to keep it on the down low, it’s like I have to stop breathing as well as keeping my legs pressed against the wall so the bed frame doesn’t accidentally bang off it… It’s very stressful and I find it very hard to smile afterwards, my mouth is just frozen in a grimace of disgust that I even bother with such limitations, and the sinking feeling that if I don’t get up and dressed soon, my mother will knock-and-come-in at the same time (what. the. fuck?) and ask me if I want tea, but really she wants to know when am I planning on getting up today because it’s a lovely day? Yeah I know, these curtains were a piece of shit when I was a teenager and they are a piece of shit now. They don’t block out any light and they don’t block out the scary shadows when the wind blows branches in front of the window.

They never got me decent curtains! Years, I complained about those curtains. Oh the bitterness. I don’t even WANT to stay in my mother’s house. You know the more I think about it, the more I realise that probably the reason I am so grumpy and testy (he he… testes) with my mother is that I can never get a decent stress relief in that bedroom, it reminds me of my shitty adolescence although I used to tackle the masturbation problem by lying on the ground and pushing my feet against the door in case my mother decided to knock-and-come-in. I used to have a joint afterwards, and lie there all happy and grinning. Ugh, must make sure I find an apartment soon.

Happy thoughts, going to have an awesome time socially… who cares if I have to lie on the scratchy carpet to get my rocks off? Priorities, baby!

Anyway. I’m sure I’ll have a rockin’ sex life anyway, it’s gonna be.. OFF THE HOOK, motherfuckers!

I just have to get STD tested when I’m in London and then get a Pap smear in Ireland because I have never had one and oh my god I could have like, vagina cancer and not know and then I could die like Jade Goody who was only 27. So, yeah. Got to get that test. It’s really bad I have never had one, but there you go. Anyway I don’t know was I just too busy thinking about wanting to have sex to pay attention in sex ed, but I don’t remember anyone telling me that it was important to do these things. I mean maybe they did, I just remember thinking “if they think I’m giving someone head with a condom on, they must have no fucking clue what is going on in the world” so I didn’t bother taking anything on board.

So. I’m sure I’m fine…. I lie, I am deathly afraid of having some horrible disease or cancer. But however, I am not going to obsess about it until I get the test. I lie, I am so going to obsess about it… argh.

Anyway. Last day of work… no more customer stories ever, ever… well, until I get another shitty customer service job. But for now… for the forseeable future… no more. No more of that.


I’m drinking beer right now as I have to clear out the fridge anyway.

If you are also drinking then let me raise a toast to ME, and my awesome future, and my not being riddled with disease, and my fabulous prospects in life.


Also, thank you, crazy pervy lamewads that you must be, thank you IMMENSELY for joining me and reading all my mind-vomit and all about my tummy vomit too. It’s been a year, oh how far we have come! Yes, we have. I was far more bitter and there were less of you then. I am going to take you all with me now to Ireland and as I am currently unemployed (I love saying that. I am now unemployed and legally separated, could I BE any more winning?) I will probably be bombarding your inboxes with very regular yearnings for Italian vegetables and olive oil and bemoaning the wind and the rain. It’s gonna be a wild ride, maybe. YAY!


Sorry I have been trying to cut this short for a while but I really just can’t do it.

Anyway, I have been calling myself Chesty LeRoux since I started, but it was just an off the cuff silly pseudonym and I got it from the Simpsons obviously, so it’s not even particularly original. ALSO I don’t have much boobage. I never really did but I was kidding myself about it for ages, I was buying C- cup bras but the elastic would dig into my back and I just refused to buy a bigger bra with a smaller cup, but really… I have to come to terms with it, I am a B.

It sucks, but at least I don’t look as slutty as I really am. That’s the cool thing about small boobs that I would of course sacrifice in a heartbeat in exchange for big boobs- I can, if I want to, look non sexual. I don’t choose to excercise this choice, but it is always there if I want it…. Yeah I know, what a stupidly optimistic way of looking at it. Why would I ever want to look non-sexual? Forget it.

Anyway, so I’m hardly Chesty LeRoux.

BUT I have racked my brain and thought of some other better and more appropriate names for myself.

I haven’t changed my email or username yet but I probably will soon, anyway I think I will be calling myself

Abigail Natalie Flicker.

Oh what? No! No, that sucks!

Ah ha, well don’t worry about that, it’s a bit of a mouthful (ooh arr!)

How about you just call me, Abby N. Flicker.


Yeah baby. That’s me…

I spent a lot of time coming up with other names too but I think that is the most suitable. Just.. if you see the name anywhere, don’t freak out it is just me.  Also I reserve the right to change my name again if I think of a better one over the next few days. Let me know your thoughts anyway.


Ok, ok, but only because it’s you.

Good night sweet dreams don’t let the genital crabs bite. (What a stupid std. Imagine getting crabs, all you would have to do is shave and they’re gone. I hope I don’t have any stds. I really hope I don’t. Or cancer. Aaaaah. Oh great, it’s gonna be one of THOSE nights…)

Two weeks with your parents, anyone?


So I’ve nearly put in 2 weeks with my family.

2 weeks.

I’m returning to london for a couple of days but I’m not quite sure I’ll make it to the end of my time here without having a Christmas- style breakdown.

Now I remember why I was such a moody bitch as a teenager.


Oh god.

They’re being as nice as they can to me, but it’s unbearable.

My mother is driving me insane with her orgasmic eating sounds.

I swear she is doing this on purpose- yesterday she was having a salad and I was enjoying (in silence) a steak and chips.

She began with the “mmmmm mmmmmm oooohhhh mmmm” and actually worked up to an “Oooooh YEAHH!”

Like, seriously? I’m sitting at the dinner table with my mother and I’m trying to enjoy a juicy steak, my favoritest food in the world, and I can’t even fucking open my pleasure receptors because I’ll let in the sounds of my mother orgasming to a fucking bowl of leaves. If I enjoy my steak properly, it’ll mingle with my mother’s nasty noises in a way that I am definitely not comfortable with.

When she said “Oooh yeah!” I just flung down my knife and excused myself, went to the bathroom, looked at my hands for signs of shaking, didn’t find any, calmed the fuck down and went back to mechanically chew and swallow what should have been a really nice steak.

I stare hatred at my mother as she eats. Is she completely oblivious that her offspring doesn’t want to hear her make those noises? It’s unreasonable. I don’t make those sounds when i eat- I don’t even make those sounds when I have a dick in me.

It’s not normal “yumming”, so don’t think I’m being ridiculous. It’s sex noises. Ok.

So that’s me pushed to breaking point from one side.

Then we have my stepdad.

My stepdad taught me sarcasm and introduced me to about 80% of the music I like now.

I appreciate that.

But he’s an alcoholic, and it’s ridiculous how much alcohol he manages to incorporate into his life. Coffee with whiskey, and he doesn’t even offer that shit around. So because I’m over, it’s a special occasion and this means he drinks all day, and my mother potters around shooting him begrudging looks while flinging suggestions of booze in my direction. I’m offered wine and beer all day long. I’m actually sick of drinking. My mother takes “no, thanks” to mean “no, keep guessing, there’s bound to be one alcoholic beverage I’m hankering after” so I’m constantly bombarded with creative drinks suggestions with every meal, and coffee, and in the evening…


But there have been a few good nights.

It’s just that, I’m 23, my mum and stepdad are a tad older. My body is dealing with the alcohol overdose by being grouchy and sprouting a big spot under my nose, and my lovely flat belly has bulged out again reminding me cruelly how much starvation it cost me in the first place.

The price the oldies pay is a little harsher.

My stepdad, last night, had that smell coming out of his pores. The alcohol smell, that doesn’t remind you of any one drink, just of sad old men taking buses to stay out of the rain. It would probably disgust me a lot more if he wasn’t family.

And he’s being very depressing.

He talks of the bad shit happening in the world these days as “the world is revolting, throwing us off its back, we’ve fucked it up and now we’re paying the price” and I’m like, fuck that shit, there were always hurricanes, when they say “coldest winter since 1903” that means that 1903 was even colder, so stop blaming the global warming, K?

Then he starts on the smart phones. The government taking millions of photos of you every day and tapping your phones and nothing is private any more.

I’m like, yeah, I don’t doubt it, but there aren’t enough people on earth to actually watch the surveillance of everyone. And to be honest I’m kind of happy if the chances of crimes being witnessed is greater. I don’t have shit to hide, really.

This he takes as evidence that I love the government. I don’t LOVE them, but fuck, I prefer there to be bad cops than no cops. I prefer to be taxed on shit than for there to be no hospitals. I prefer ministers taking limos to meetings about nothing than for there to actually not be any roads, and shit. This suggests to my parents, that I’m a right wing capitalist monster. Really, I consider myself a-political.

But it’s depressing. Everything he says is depressing and sodden with drink.

He goes on, that we are all going to choke on carbon monoxide… it doesn’t even make sense, but it’s depressing as fuck. I tell him to stop being a dick, and listen to these fun facts I found online. Did you know that in ancient Peru, when a woman found an ugly potato, it was customary to push it in the face of the nearest man?

I’m feeling the darkness pulling down at my corners. I try to scramble up, keep buoyant. It’s hard. The tendency for misery is in me too, I’m just fighting it.

My mother keeps nagging him to stop drinking, or at least not drink whiskey in his tea, because it’s ridiculous, but she still drinks like a fish. I want to bang their heads together and be like, you’re BOTH freaking alcoholics, if you want him to quit, mother, why don’t YOU fucking quit first?

Anyway. I’m at the end of my tether.

I have had good times. I have had, wink wink, good times.

But I have also spent too long here in my old bedroom, in my single bed, with those shitty curtains that don’t block out the daylight when you need hangover sleep, but when you open them, the light is still too shitty to do makeup properly.

I’m also narky because I still haven’t emerged from the hormonal bullshit aftermath of being fucked.

Like, he said he was going to call over, and I was all excited, and then he didn’t.

I don’t know what I was expecting, and I don’t know what i even want. More sex? I have my period.

A hug?

Eck. I don’t know.

I think my own mood may be somewhat coloured by the drainage of alcohol from my body.

All the more reason I don’t want to keep drinking.

Anyway, I’m remembering all the old shit that annoyed me and how it always felt like I was more sensible than the two of them, and how GOOD I was as a teenager, I mean as far as they knew… they had no idea of what I was really up to. I was, as far as they knew, a really good girl. And I got so much shit about everything.

Now I go home and it’s hugely frustrating. The other day I managed to almost convince my mother that homeopathy is bullshit, but I know she only thinks it is on the surface. She still believes in the magic of it all. I just don’t bother, usually.

But I’ve been here for like 2 weeks and oh man, everything just grates on me.

I love them, I do…

But man I just want to bang their heads together.

My stepdad buys loads of alcohol.. Loads.

When we had a party recently, he probably spent about 100 euros on drink for other people to help themselves to.

But when he makes tea, he insists on using one teabag for two cups.

It makes piss-weak tea and I’m like, seriously, let me have my own teabag.

No, it’s lovely like this! He says.

And I’m like, you spend so much money on other shit but you can’t afford to give me one teabag for myself?

Anyway. I think I’m still a little moody from the alcohol over a series of days.

And the not being sure where I stand with my one night stand.

And the fact that I am tolerating constant orgasm noises from my mother when she eats so much as a baby rocket leaf.

And the fact that I am sleeping in a single bed and it’s my old bedroom and it puts me off masturbating.

And various other things.

I’m sick of being in my family’s house.

End of rant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

Naked, naked, naked!

I’m living alone, for the first time in my life, in my own apartment that used to be ours.

I’ve always enjoyed being alone. Having my own place has always been a fantasy. I like my own company (I’m great company) and I don’t get lonely as much as other people. It’s strange to finally be here, on my own, with no key turning in the door to fear, signifying the end of my peace and quiet. I’m a social person too, but not 24 hours a day. No way.

There is a slight fear of choking to death, or setting fire to the place, or feeling really sick and nobody caring… but there are so many wonderful, previously unimagined freedoms to enjoy. I feel like Homer Simpson on his day home from church.

I’m sure I haven’t discovered all the possibilities yet, but so far, this week, I have mostly been loving:

1. Naked, naked, naked. Even in a relationship, and feeling good about your body, you don’t just go around naked all day. Well, I don’t. Now I’m inclined to go naked all day long, apart from when I leave the house of course. It’s really warm now, and I hate washing and putting away clothes, so it also saves me those chores. As soon as I make some curtains for the kitchen, this will be even more enjoyable. Right now I’m limiting my kitchen nudity to brief but obvious dashes with a pillow or something clasped before me.

2. My bad habits no longer disgust or annoy anyone. Last night I spilt milk on the floor and mopped it up with the dress I was wearing before implementing plan nudity. The 5 second rule about food that falls on the floor has been replaced with who gives a shit? And I don’t have to flush the toilet for every meagre urination. And I can leave wet towels on the couch. And I can have a shower and leave the bathroom floor completely flooded.

3. I don’t have to pretend I’m watching shitty tv due to lack of viable options. I can wallow in the tripe I love. I can even listen to a Miley Cyrus song on youtube, if should I want to. Or I can finally watch the video for telephone, after all my anti- Lady Gaga vitriol… (ok, I was right.. it is crap)

4. I can be unrestrained with bathroom noises.

5. Nobody is rearranging shit around here. Everything goes where I want it to. There is vodka in my cupboard, and the level will not fall below where I left it.

6. I can have a Bloody Mary whenever I want, like right now. Nobody here to judge. Shit, I’m out of proper tabasco. Mild version is no substitute. And this is exactly what I’m talking about: I bought two bottles, ages ago, and I have barely touched them. And there is none left. This is what will never happen again, because now I’ll be aware of myself running out because it’ll be me drinking the bloody marys in the first place.

7. I can watch porn with the volume up. Not all the way up, the walls are still thin. But living with friends, no matter how open you are about certain things, you don’t want them to actually know when you’re watching porn. Or I don’t, anyway. I’d be too humiliated by the awkward, stunted lines coming out of the actors mouths. I really don’t get why porn is so shit. This is a whole can of worms, I won’t go there now. But I have complaints, and I will air them another day.

8. I can fall in the door at whatever time, make noise, puke loads, fall into bed, puke some more, and nobody will judge. But actually I shouldn’t do that because there’s no one to move me out of the vomit pool either. I could install one of those old person pulley alarms… just in case. Would hate to die in my own vomit. What a horrible nasty way to go. Not that I want to die any way, but still.

9. Shit, I’m getting depressed now. Want to think up more awesome super fun spectacular fantastic activities my newfound bachelorettehood has opened up for me. But I keep thinking about how unsurprised everyone would be if they heard I choked on my own puke. And that I also have to do all the cleaning now. Well, I used to do it all anyway… but at least I got to get pissy about it before. Oh no. This isn’t a positive list any more. I’ll just leave it there. I don’t even want this drink any more. It tastes like depression and loneliness. And it’s not spicy at all. And it’s late now and I have to work in the morning and I don’t feel like going to bed yet. No one even asked me about my day yet. And it was a pretty good day, except for all the cleaning. I have to work tomorrow, maybe someone will ask me at work. Except I work alone… but the coffee shop girl will definitely give me a noncommittal “how are you today?” And I can unleash my pent up socialization on her. Hooray!

Just hoping I can manage to keep the fear of dying alone in a pool of regurgitated tomato juice out of the opening phrases of tomorrow’s conversation.

Ideas for a better world entry 0001- Wine on tap

I didn’t remember what I was going to write, so of course it was the greatest most enlightened observation I would ever make. I wonder how many physicists have woken up with a headache, dry mouth and vague recollection of a unified theory they would never remember. I’m glad I’m not a physicist, that would be an awful burden.

Speaking of hangovers, I don’t have one. This is thanks to two sensible decisions I made yesterday. The first being that, financial problems notwithstanding, I splurged and bought only good, expensive wine. I will empty my bank account with a last flourish of luxury, not a sad trickle of groceries and bills. I go down today like the Titanic’s orchestra, without a struggle, maintaining normality until it’s no longer possible to maintain anything. The second decision was one I have always meant to implement as a habit, but never manage- a pint of water before bed. Quality wine and preventative hydration makes all the difference.

Shouldn’t it be easier to have good wine? I don’t mean ancient, expensive wine that you are supposed to savour or spit out, but something in the middle of the list. I wish every kitchen was fitted with a third tap, hooked up to the central reservoir of a medium-bodied red. The wine bill could arrive monthly and be added to the household budget (as it should be). No more clinking bottles, struggling home from the supermarket with as much as you can carry, hoping nothing slips and breaks. No gentle, strategic resting of the heavy grocery bags while fumbling for your keys. No more reluctant trip to recycle the glass bottles whose smell in the kitchen is a constant reminder of responsibilities shirked. There would no last dribble to share between the thirsty. No sinking realisation that the place with the nice wine is closed, just at the peak consumption hour, and the only remaining option is the ominously labeled “red wine” from the corner shop. If everyone had wine on tap, the price would fall considerably. Costs of bottling and labelling would be eliminated, and anyone in need of something more sophisticated is under no obligation to open the tap.

Sometimes I don’t feel like a full bottle to myself, and then I could just turn the red tap (“hot” could be given a yellow makeover) and serve myself exactly the amount I desire. Unexpected guests? There will always be wine. Going through a bad breakup? No need to get dressed and shuffle down to the shop, exposing yourself to unwanted human interaction. Wine is on tap, baby, there’s no need to go anywhere. Alcoholics can use their wine bill to track how much they really drink. The benefits are manifold. We have had water on tap for 100- 200 years, why not take the next step towards a convenient living experience and apply that technology to wine? It won’t happen, I know. I wouldn’t last long in politics, too many incriminating stories and photos would surface. So I’ll just put this out there, plant the seeds. I’m sure the invention of putting things in pipes and giving us taps to get the things out of the pipes won’t just die with water. It has to go on. There are so many pointless things in our homes- garlic crushers, apple core removers, egg peelers, feather dusters, that just go unused. I understand some kinks would have to be worked out, such as keeping the wine in good condition and choosing which wine goes into every home, but that can be worked out later. Just… think about it, ok people?

On the upside, my house wasn’t broken into

I’m back from the holiday. Back to real life. Work begins as soon as tomorrow so I’m going to stay up really late. Screw you, working self. It will be worth the drowsy and weak first day back if I can just hold on a little longer.

So, I pinned all my hopes and needs on this short holiday. It was pure escapism and I completely ignored the possibility of time continuing after it was over. I’m always sure I’m going to die in a plane crash anyway, so being back at home and back at work didn’t seem like a real possibility. If I didn’t have such terrible credit I would probably take out a huge loan before any flight, and spend it all in an insane ritual to ward off death. (Murphy’s law says that if I have money saved, I’ll die in a crash, and never get to spend it. If I haven’t a penny to my name, I’ll live to have to deal with the consequences. This is my worldview, don’t argue with it) Thankfully I don’t have credit, so I just have to content myself with spending all my available cash on luxury makeup in airports. At least if my ritual fails I’ll leave behind a good looking corpse…

Phew…I’m tired. It was a wonderful trip and I did what I needed to do, I suppose, clear my head and what not.. but now the wasted hours are crashing in on themselves and all the excess has to be paid for. I’ve cleared my head all right, and I’m back home, with my clutter and all the clothes and things I had no need for when I was away. I want to sweep everything up and throw it all away, all the things I didn’t miss. But then I spot a pair of shoes I might have worn once, or a bag that might have come in useful. Or a jar of spices I could have added when I cooked for my friends. My hairdryer which is better than the one I used.

I wouldn’t be able to part with anything. There’s a huge comfort in arriving home after being away, but it comes with the weight of everything I was fine living without. Needs and personal tastes arrange themselves in my background and I know I won’t feel that free again and until my next holiday. Which, of course, I am already counting down to.

I’m getting glum. There’s no need for that. I had fun. I saw people who make me laugh and make me cry and I got drunk and I kissed strangers and I threw up and I watched tv and I ate expensive food and drank cheap wine and slept in my clothes. It was great. I’m just back now, with my electric whisk, my laptop, my spare coat and my comfy bed and all the socks I could ever wear.

I’m going to write something… I was going to write something. I was honestly going to relate something positive about my time away from it all, but I wanted a shower and the boiler has been off so I can’t have hot water for another 2 hours. Then I was hungry, and the fridge is empty but for a very black avocado that shows how optimistic I was about everything before leaving for my holiday. I was so fucking excited that I actually thought an (already ripe) avocado would last 2 weeks.

I’m starting to feel angry at my pre holiday self. Smug bitch. Then I feel good because I realise that smug bitch will have the stupid grin wiped off her face soon when she has to come back here to the cold house and the lack of food and I better stop typing now before I become full on psychotic, taking pleasure in the knowledge that my over excited past self will one day be as sad as present me… which is me. Oh dear.