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.


Grabbing the bull by the balls, and hoping I don’t end up covered in cow-jizz

Where we left this…..

I was drinking some whiskey and waiting for the death sentence on my love affair. Half-preparing wheedles and rebuttals to all the excuses he would surely produce to avoid being with me.

I drank quite a bit of whiskey and hot rebound photog guy came online. Entered a halfhearted flirting loop and didn’t really know how to get out of it. He went to the shop and got whiskey and we drank together online while the butterflies fluttered for another man.

I got quite drunk and whipped out my I’m about to lie to you phrase, which as you may know is “to be perfectly honest,”

Told rebound guy that the whiskey was urging me to be honest. In all honesty, I said, I’m just out of a relationship and still pretty all over the place about it. Just… wanted to put that out there, let it shake its thing… just FYI.

Oh, he says, I didn’t realise..

Yeah, um… the guy you took photos of me kissing that night. The one I told you I was in love with that night.

Oh right, he says. That.

The boy does smoke a lot of spliff, he practically chain smokes joints, so I guess that memory evaded him.

He told me it’s cool, he’s in a similar state himself… He’s easy going, it’s cool.. do you want some space?

Hmm. Well not really, I don’t mean.. I want space. (I don’t want to cut off my access to that amazing oral, especially as I don’t even know where things stand with Monsieur Plan A… and I don’t want to gain weight now that my primary source of excercise has been taken from me)

Just… hmm… I struggled with how to rework I’m attracted to you but in love with another guy and will jump at the chance to be with him again and leave you alone with your pot and all those photos of me…

In the end I said something like:

I may be a bit hot and cold, I just don’t want to be a dick.. you’re too sound to use as just a rebound guy. Sorry I’m just being honest… (Lies… lies… I could totally use you for a rebound guy, it just makes me feel a bit icky that I’m still carrying on a love affair with someone else and he might even potentially contact you to get copies of those photos, and then it could blow up in my face… and nothing compares to him. Nothing, not even fantastic head…)

It’s cool, he said, I dig honesty.

Ok. I feel like I have set up my escape route now, it’s all fine. Wait for my love to come back online. He appears late of course, and I ditch rebound guy in a heartbeat. Night night! I have to wash my hair and get an early night… laters!

Nerves jangle me into the conversation I steeled myself for… but it didn’t go the way I dreaded, I didn’t have to wheedle much, I just told him I thought that he didn’t have to see it as this huge decision, together or not, we could just try one step, and go from there. A visit. A little weekend together.

And he wanted to give it a shot… it won’t change anything, he said, but he wanted to see me anyway…

Booked flights yesterday. Going to Italy for 10 days to see my family and then France for 3 days to see my lover and hopefully will be all rosy and relaxed and have beach hair after 10 days by the sea, and I’ll be able to work my manipulative magic on the guy and give him the impression of how great it would be, just him and me, and make him want to work for it somehow, any way.

I’m looking forward to seeing my dad and his wife and my sisters. The adults are the voice of reason and talking to them always inspires me and gives me resolve… Every good decision I have made, I made standing on their shoulders, and they never bully me with advice unless I’m lost. My dad couldn’t be asked for money to start a new life following some 21 year old who isn’t sure of anything, but he’d certainly pour out options for me.

Why don’t you do a TEFL course? Get a job teaching English? What have you got to lose? You could stay with your aunt, it’s nowhere near where HE lives but it’s France and you could learn French there, rent free… until you’re ready to get a job….

I don’t even know what he would say really, but he’s bound to shed some sense on my confusion.

And I get to spend time with my sisters… in a good mood, optimistic… looking forward to my weekend with my garcon, not moping around after it’s over… Thank fuck I got the flights in that order. Good idea. Not my idea, but a good idea. HIS idea.

And I find myself getting carried away and googling things about moving to France. I don’t even know, I don’t know… it might be a disastrous venture. I’m not saying I will, I’m just enjoying the idea. It’s possible, of course it is, and even if I wound up in Italy mark 2, lost and friendless, isolated, hating the differences and missing the craic, well it’s not like I’d have a fucking mortgage there. I could come back to Ireland having lost only a shitty job and an expensive apartment I’m only renting.

I know I’m falling into the trap of picturing myself dabbing baguette crusts in melted butter while I type blog posts that are infinitely less skeezy, in some attic with annoyingly slopey ceilings, while an elegant French cat hops lightly in the window and gives me a haughty French look, and then a noise will stir me and I’ll throw open the painted shutters and lean out and down below will be my monsieur with a bottle of wine under his arm shouting things in French up at me like “Je suis venu, mon amour! Ouvre moi le port!” And I’ll have to go down to let him in the building because it will be an old building and there will be one of those lifts where you have to pull the metal grating closed and then ricket up two floors and we will kiss passionately in the lift and then stumble into my apartment and make love all over the place while the air cushions us with summery warmth and there will be so many stars in the sky and maybe I’ll have an affair with a painter who looks suspiciously like the French guy inn the Simpsons who Marge nearly cheats on Homer with and he’ll paint me naked.

I know in all reality that won’t actually happen if I move to France. I would hate to live in a slopey ceilinged attic with an old lift, I’m scared of lifts. Also I don’t really feel the desire to have a pet right now. And if I had my lover coming over with wine I wouldn’t want to have any affairs with painters.

Actually hot photog guy is not a photographer he is just an aspiring artist so he does paint. Initially I had a thought that maybe I would get to be painted and then I would have this really cool painting of myself as a young, slim naked woman to keep forever. But I realised that if he painted me he would probably keep it and not just give it to me, and I’m not sure I want men who I am probably going to hurt, in posession of naked photos or portraits of me. And oh I did feel weird after we had sex the last time, and sort of during. I felt at times like I was actively stopping myself from saying my French guy’s name. Like it was an effort to summon the right name to the front of my mind, and it was with a sad pang… and I decided against saying any name at all and just thought of the two of them, to and fro, to and fro… and I eventually faked an orgasm because I just felt sad. And I never, ever, ever fake orgasms because I like to be honest with the men I sleep with and because if you come once, there will always be this “did you come that time? Awww” so you just have to keep faking them all the time, and then when you DO come you can’t even let them know how special and wonderful THAT time was because all far as they know, you’re like a karma chameleon, you come and go, you know?

But I faked it with hot rebound guy and then felt like I’d sort of justified myself a bit, like I’d undone some of the betrayal to my love by putting a lie in between my intimacy with the other person. It’s mental fuckery and I’m sure no man would look at it that way. A fuck is a fuck is a fuck.

And I haven’t done anything wrong to my main man, because we are not in a relationship really we are just in love. He has the freedom to be with anyone he wants, and so do I. I’ve only made myself feel weird by poisoning the purity of the situation, because rebound guy is a common aquaintance…


That’s the lie of the land.

Also I am coming to entirely the end of my patience with work.

I sat there for three hours with a dejected, miserable, awful look on my face and all my colleagues tried to tell me to chin up and get on with it and that just made me angry because oh my gawd am I the only one who gets how shit our job is? Are they just superior people, that they can soldier on? Or am I revealing myself for the egotistical cunt I really am, sitting there sulking because I’m too good for a job that they maybe clearly are not?

Umm… I sat and stared and hated my job for three hours in the afternoon, well for most of the day but the last three hours I didn’t even bother hiding it any more. I made 200 calls which is what is required of us but no one ever manages, and I got 0 success out of those calls. Can’t blame the fuckers on the end of the line for saying no, I wasn’t exactly smiling down the phone. Ah well. Hate job so much, would kind of like to be fired.

Although I have never been fired before.

But anyway.

I made it through a whole 4 days of the week so far and tomorrow is a slightly shorter day because we have team meetings and then go home early because we work extra mon to thurs.

This is shamefully the first full week I will have worked in 2 months.

Bad employee.

Sure amn’t I always?

I’m just too good for all this shit.

I just want to be recognised for the splendid human being I am, and sit in a big office somewhere and occassionaly have someone come in and ask for my opinion and leave again and then have my friends over for lunch and then go home after lunch. And make shitloads of money.

what is that job called? That’s the job I want.

CEO of something.

Or President.

If only CEO had been a course in college I am sure I would have been able to stick it out for what, four years?

I know there’s an awesome job out there for me that could make me rich, I just need to get hooked up with the right contacts.

I have lots of good ideas and while I’m not punctual, I always come up with really interesting excuses about why I am late. In fact I nearly started a website called but I think someone else did that already, where I came up with plausible excuses for why people didn’t go to work or school or their family wedddings and sold them and possibly called the boss pretending to be an emergency helicopter medic.

I have lots of great ideas…

I’m just lazy.

I’m still here, I’ve just been drinking a lot of beer.

Ok so maybe you suspect the inevitable has finally happened, my ego has collapsed in on itself, sucking the rest of my personality with it, and there will be no more blogs. That’s not true, I am just so goddamn tired lately. I mean my work is awful, really it is a hideous job. Sometimes when I am on the bus home (it’s a 10 minute walk but my job is so wearying to the spirit, I get the bus…) I stand beside the people who smell like pee but at least don’t grope my ass, and I contemplate how bad it might actually be to work as a prostitute.

Would ALL the men be gross and weird and creepy or would there be some hot ones who are just shy or want me to sit in pies or shout at them while they clean my apartment? Would I wind up murdered? I might be murdered and then my mother would find out I was a prostitute and my dad would find out I was not a virgin and it would be so awful, I couldn’t live with myself, and also I would be dead.

But I do get a good 8 minutes of optimistic daydreaming out of the whole scenario. Damn Secret Diary of a Call Girl with Billie Piper, she makes it look so fun, sexy, and lucrative. I bet it is lucrative…. i would need to get in better shape though. But then I remember, the murdering… the family shame… no. Don’t go there.

So that gives you some idea of what kind of job I have. That’s how you know you have a shit job, if the only con you can think of about being a prozzie is the chance of being murdered and your family finding out. Other than that… I really, really wouldl prefer to be having sex with weird strangers instead. I mean I do that anyway, for free.. and no matter how hung over and regretful I feel afterwards, it’s never quite so fatiguing as a day on the job as a telemarketer.

I’m tired and depressed by my job, so that makes me too lazy to write…

So here… no posts, not right now… just… I came in last night after a post-work friday couple of pints that lasted from 4.30pm til 2.30am… same pub, lots and lots of jagerbombs and apparently “my drink” is now smithwicks. I actually think that is my drink now, it certainly didn’t come back up again and I drank A LOT. I spent 80 euro on drinks and I only bought drinks for myself, and I was also bought a few drinks. That’s a lot of drinks.

Anyway, I drank a lot but didn’t really make much of a tit of myself in front of my new work buddies. More on how little I embarassed myself later, I have a party to get to, so I will just leave you with what I wrote last night when I arrived home from the pub at 3am convinced I had “drank myself sober”.

No seriously, guys, I think there’s something wrong with me, guys I have drank so much but I’m actually not drunk at all. No seriously watch me run down these stairs, see look ok so maybe I tripped a little but then I am wearing heels so that’s just normal.

That’s what I kept saying to people. I kept  insisting on running down the stairs to prove my sobriety, despite it being a constant reminder that I was of course drunk as a skunk’s uncle.

So anyway… I woke up remembering I wrote a greeat post and here it is in its entirety. I dedicate this to Brion, sorry I know you love drunk posts unfortunately I was too drunk this time to be very entertaining:

Buenos noches, motherfuckers.

Buenas noches IN FUCKING DEEd.

So I have been keping fairly shtum in the recent timecicles, I know, you know, we know, us knowest? But it’s not like I have forgotten my blog. I have thought of my blog, oftentimes an foondly. Fondly like fond, notlik fondle.

Fondling takes back seat.

Not that I bak seat fondle, just that…

fondle rides passenger these days. TJAT doesvbnt  make sense

I’m on a geetox.

ITs not like I dnt want foreign penile objects in myspecal are,  buuuuuuuuuut………


I jst am bored.

I havhad so mmuch of the casual an dnothingy…. WHERE are the men who will make me laugh and make

OH my basill planet is dead Again so thats s no peso tomomrosw. Psorry I cant now I ned sleip.


I think   my workmates racists??

The road to failure is paved with good intentions, too

Ah the best laid plans of mice and men and also, women. I plan. I really do plan to do better at being an adult… but I feel like underneath this shell of having a job and a mortgage and sometimes paying bills, an unemployed and very obese person is crying to be set free.

Do you ever go home to your parents house (presuming you don’t still live there) and come across old drawings and notes and stuff you did when you were a naive little rascal full of potential and innocence and love for your dog and parents and teachers? (That’s the correct order, yes)

Does it give you a sinking feeling mixed with a kind of stale pride in the nice personality you once promised to develop… the useful, eager member of the human race you might have become… when you come across a poem you wrote for your friend when her kitten was crushed by the neighbour’s minivan, or the I.O.U a hug voucher you made for mother’s day, you fucking cheapskate? (But she liked that stingy crap better than the fucking bath salts now)…. I know I do.

You don’t even have to go that far back… for instance, today I was clearing out a week’s worth of handbag clutter (disgusting). And I came across something so foolish, well-meaning and ultimately depressing, it provoked a similar sad little smile and an internal, patronising shake of the head.

It was this:

Shit, I don’t have a scanner. It helped for the cute factor that my handwriting hasn’t changed much in 18 years. Who writes by hand, I ask you? Anyway, It was a schedule of things I was going to do the other day. It had very generous time slots allocated for resting, watching episodes of Psych, and getting shit done. I had also planned what I was going to eat, and written in huge demonic scrawls all over the page was “AND THAT IS ALL YOU WILL FUCKING EAT!!!!” (I’m supposed to be on a diet before I fly back home in 2 weeks and get my sex on with some lucky member of my phone book who was so drunk they don’t remember the horror of last time.)

I was going to pick up all the clothes from the floor and put them away neatly in the monster wardrobe I bought which was going to solve all my messyness problems. I was going to sweep up the remaining broken glass under the bed which I only really pushed away with my foot the other day. I was going to clean out my fridge with the newly purchased fridge-smell-make-nice-spray and I was going to mop the floor, load and unload dishwasher, organise my overdue bills and make a proper budget, varnish some furniture, inflate the tyres on my bike, pick up my skinny pills from the post office, talk to my bank manager and bring down the bottles and cans which are starting to attract insects to my balcony. (At least it’s keeping them away from my bed full of pizza crumbs) And I would still have so much time to do other stuff… And I was going to eat only miso soup and drink water. And snack on berries.

And what really went down that fateful day? I watched ALL my remaining Psych episodes. (Now commencing withdrawal symptoms. Muttering “you know that’s right” and “fist bump!” to myself like a demented person) I ate a frozen four cheeses pizza and a packet of hot dog sausages which weren’t really heated through but I can’t afford electricity any more, not like before. I drank a half bottle of wine that had been open for a few days. I didn’t do anything on my list. Actually I did paint a coat of varnish on a small table that was getting pretty manky looking… but that’s it. And after that I lay down all sweaty and felt like I had conquered and deserved to eat some of those biscuits I hid from myself. (hint: you can’t hide food from yourself. It’s retarded.)

Reading that well-organised timetable of productive person tasks is depressing. It’s not that hard to keep a tiny apartment tidy. Why do I collapse under the weight of having to hoover, like once every 2 weeks? And I know I’m not going to do anything tonight, because I’m going out for drinks and when I get home I will be drunk and hungry and will eat another frozen pizza. (They were on special offer in Lidl. Yeah. That kind of frozen pizza. I know, it’s shameful behaviour for someone who lives in Italy…) And I have no Psych left. Last night I watch blast from the past with alicia silverstone and george of the jungle bomb shelter. Oh man I feel so fat and horrible. I’m at work as usual and the shelves are dusty as fuck and there is no way I’m cleaning them today.

And I look at my list, and I remember how fervently I believed I would actually achieve all those tiny, easy goals… I really did think I was going to GET THINGS DONE.

And I never do. Because I write myself an A4 page full of promise and wondrous productivity and I forget that things don’t get done on their own. I will actually have to do them myself. At work me is bored and stuck in a shop with customers thinking, “tonight I’ll solve one of my problems and then tomorrow I’ll have one less. It’s so easy to just get on with it and hoover the top of my wardrobe so every time I take down my skinny bag (the bin liner full of clothes I can’t fit into that I occasionaly delve into in the hopes of seeing some effect of my half-assed diet) storm clouds of lint and dust and MATTER don’t rain down on my upturned face and into my eyes.” And because I’m so bored, it seems like I’ll be bored at home and hoovering on a ladder will not seem so taxing and unlikely.

Except “home from work me” is not bored. She has food to eat and cigarettes to smoke and wine to drink and a motherfucking laptop to stare at in barely-amused-any-more addiction. And there’s porn. Neverending porn. Oh yes. There will be no chores completed. And if I sent my laptop in for repairs, I just know I would probably get nothing done either and I would just go to bed at 8pm and sleep until the alarm buzzes and go through the motions until he gets back home, my love, my life, my laptop. I just wish he wasn’t heating up so much, but can’t bear to be without him long enough to get him fixed. Last night I opened him up for the first time and realised with the keyboard hanging on by a sinew, reminding me disgustingly of a face transplant…(really horrible they actually take people’s faces RIGHT off, and for brain surgery too. Your FACE. It just comes off. Ugh.) that I don’t have any compressed air and I don’t have whatever that gel is that keeps things cool inside, what is it called, cooling gel? Thermal gel? And wouldn’t know what to do with it…

I’m way out of my depth here. I closed him back up and had only one screw left over. Not too bad! Go, wannabe nerd! Hands shaking, turned him on… he started up. He was still overheating by the ten minute mark but I realised how foolish I had been opening him up with no clue what I was doing and how lucky a save it was. Didn’t even know if my screwdriver was magnetic or not. But computer is still ok. So that was a massive waste of time I could have spent cleaning and all I did was remove a probably vital screw from a very expensive and essential posession of mine. NICE.

Now that I’ve voided my warranty, I probably have to fork out for some expensive computer repair guy who will want to keep him for days and charge me my left nipple for the service. I think what I need to do is start sleeping with a guy who knows more about computers than I do. A lot more. And then he’ll just fix it for me for free, and quickly. Except I can’t even get laid with my existing, wide, wide net, so I definitely can’t afford to incorporate “knows how to replace that gel/knows what and where is the heatsink” into my list of important qualities alongside atheism and not being skinnier than me. And other stuff too but can’t remember- it’s too long since I actually referred to any of my standards other than “is hot”.

Because really, honestly, from the depths of sincerity- that is the only standard there is. And even that falls away with a few beers. And still no action… Although there will be action very very soon because I’m going home for a week’s holiday and I’ll be able to go out get fucked up and find some homeslice to lick the stomach acid from the corners of my mouth. Home sweet home, motherfuckers!