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.

Oh, wine… ze sings you do to me!

Drinking… not heavily but consistently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So I drink.

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

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

Cause it would suck, that’s why.

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

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

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

So.

Tis a lull.

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

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

Oh, wine.

Saturday night wine-in with Joni Mitchell

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

HE unfriended ME.

Goddammit.

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

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

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

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

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

I wonder why I attract them..

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I really relish that being true.

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

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

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

And it ends

He leaves on Wednesday, and today is Friday.

I called in sick today…. again.

To spend the night in my lover’s arms, desperately wringing out all I can before he’s gone.

He spent Wednesday night with me, cooked me dinner and we drank wine and then whiskey and made violent love on my furniture and in the morning it rained and I had to lend him my jumper.  He’s a very, very tall man, my lover, so I only had one massive hairy woolen item that would fit him, a charity shop find for snuggling into on cold lonely evenings. We took the bus together and I wallowed in the bonus time with him, almost part of my workday…

At work I was given yet another pointless boring task and my eyelid started twitching as it does sometimes when I’m stressed or haven’t slept or drank too much coffee. Or usually all three. I couldn’t look at the screen any more so I whinnied to my boss and left early, and paved the way for a no-show the next day, today.

But would he want to see me? Again, so soon? Whatever, there’s no point playing it cool, I have five days left and I’d be a fool to waste any of that time. I texted him if he’d like to join me… no alarm clock the next morning… interested?

He came, of course he did, and he told me he spent all morning looking at his phone, hoping for a message from me. Why didn’t he text me then? Because you had to work early, I didn’t want to distract you again…

Distract me as much as you like, I want you all the time. But he said I made him so happy when I sent him that message. Ah, I’ll miss this one. I’ll miss this one when he’s gone. I hope… I dare to hope that when he leaves it will hit him, the whiplash of our relationship or affair or whatever it is. He’ll miss me too. I hope so. I know so. I just fear a little bit that he won’t, that he’ll move on and his life back home will close around the gaps where I should be and sure a little hole will remain but it will be so much smaller than the emptiness I’ll have back here.

He’s exchanging my love for home, for friends, for his language, for his life.

I’m not exchanging anything… he’s being extracted like a perfect tooth, yanked out of my world and replaced with nothing.

But he will miss me.

And I don’t know what to do, I’m frightened of how sad I am going to be.

He entered my life a month ago, my period had just started and we had an instant connection.

4 or 5 days of every week, we have spent intensely and passionately and tenderly in each others presence.

Today I got my period again. We’ll end this like it started, with a wild night on the town and messy sheets and potato waffles under the grill and so many cigarettes.

Today is Tuesday and he leaves on Wednesday.

Tomorrow.

I told my boss my twitchy eye is acting up and I need tomorrow off… I’m taking the piss, absolutely… but this is more important, it’s a matter of hours left, with my happiness. I’d lose my job for a few more hours. I might lose my job for a few more hours….

Friday night he took my face in his hands and told me he loved me and he knew I loved him too.

We spent that night loving each other and we danced together and I said sorry to his friend, sorry for being Yoko on your last night together. It’s ok… he said… he’s happy with you. I like to see him like this…

A guy took photos of us and later he sent them to me and I thought, fuck that’s going to hurt. But they’re lovely and I’m glad to have them.

He leaves tomorrow and I don’t want him to go, but there it is, the full stop that loomed over our love affair from the first night. I’m waiting for him in the apartment where we must have made love … no, we never fucked, did we? Fifty… sixty… oh go on, a hundred times…

I’m waiting in a pretty dress and I have a stupid hope that it’s pretty enough to change things.

When I’m with him I’m not alone, and when he leaves it will just be a bedsit again and all my sick days will drop down into my empty life like tinny change.

Oh but it was all worth it. It has to have been worth it, it was beautiful.

To feel like this again, to know I can feel like this and someone can fall for me…. I’ve never been anyone’s first love before, and now I fill that space in a life and I’m so honoured.

At least there won’t be bitterness. Maybe I’ll never see him again but he’ll see me every time he’s sad or every time  he falls out of love with a woman, and I’ll be there, untouchable, beautiful, never fading, because the love didn’t grow old and wither but lived fast and left a perfect corpse to torment us with.

And then it seems ridiculous because we met a month ago, but I’m no newcomer to love, I’m not kidding myself romanticising something mediocre just because it has an expiration date to sigh over.

He’s packing his life away as I type and soon he’ll be here for our final night. Part of me wants to sit in silence and boredom like Yossarian’s friend  Dubar, to make the night live forever through inaction. He’ll be here soon and then it will be over.

I have too many condoms left to use up tonight. I feel like throwing away the rest because they are our condoms and they are for us and I don’t want him to leave and I don’t want to go back out there, dressing up and going out and allowing someone who isn’t him to disappoint me by comparison.

And he’s coming over soon and I’m all sad…. and I have to be happy for our last night together. So I’ll leave off my lamenting for now and try coax myself into good spirits and I’ll come back and cry to you all tomorrow or the next day.

Good night….

And the walls keep closing in

tried to drink wine to be a classy lady

went out in my grandmother’s long black one sleeved dress with a slit all the way up….. drank wine, looked amazing and classy for about an hour…

Then slid down the slippery slide of the evening, my descent lubricated by whatever anybody was buying, jagermeister, jagermeister, vodka, whiskey, wine… buckfast. buckfast.

In the gay bar I pretended to be a transvestite to some ignorant country girls, fat and wide eyed stupid on their night out to “not get sleazed on for a change”

I felt like they believed me but the lack of an adams apple is probably a dead giveaway.

Danced so badly the guys who were with me (who were they anyway?) laughed and imitated my moves.

My friend was chatting to a hot swedish guy called tim who I loudly declared was Tim, nice but dim….

Wound up back in her house drinking more wine and then i was in a bed being woken up to get a taxi and i dont know how i got there or what the rest of the night was like.

I feel rough, rough, rough.

Don’t even have any solpadeine left, or maybe i do but I cant remember the strategic hiding places around the room where I have previously strewn them to never run out again.

Too hung over to look, too hung over to sleep, too hung over to vomit and too hung over to shower…

Hot date tonight with my sexy french lover… he texted me last night, can’t wait to see you… Mmm nice…

Wish he was here now, stroking my thigh and kissing the fear away.

Am in no condition to entertain though. Apartment messy, messy as fuck, all my clothes lying limp around the room where I tried and rejected them last night.

Shoes everywhere, dishes stacked in the sink smelling foul. I smell foul.. I smelt good last night and I looked good but I can only keep that up for so long. Feel veryill…

I wish I could sleep or throw up or get a shower and get dressed and leave the house and buysolpadeine and ribena and orange juice and meat and cook them all well not together, and have some meat to eat and have a warm body to press against me and sweet words to lull me back, back to goodness and sweet weekend bliss.

I am too hung over right now to do any of that, but it would be glorious.

I want him here, I sent him a message but he’s probably busy achieving things and being active and using muscles in a way I never have or could.

I have the fear and the walls are around me and I just heard the sweet ring of my phone and I thought, I hoped it was him but it wasn’t, it was my mother…. fuck.

tomorrow is fathers day. Text your stepdad tomorrow, ok?

Fucks sake mother can’t you see I want my phone to tell me when my lover texts me, I was so excited….

I am going to try and expell some badness either by vomiting or showering. Happy fathers day to ye all

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.

YEEEEUUUSSSS!!!!!

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.

CHEERS!

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!

P.s

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.

Badum-bum-tsssshhhhh!

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.

LURKING IS NOT PERMITTED.

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…)

The Whore Moans… A post about woman things.

NSFMWAGOBTMMOP

(not safe for men who are grossed out by the mere mention of periods)

But I don’t talk about anything truly gross, so it’s ok. But maybe a bit boring…

———————-

Anyhoo

I’m a lousy rotten excuse for a woman.

No, I’m not talking about my personal hygiene or lack of ladylike, classy qualities. OR even how much I mistrust, dislike and am generally not nice to other women.

I mean… I still haven’t come to terms with being born a woman, in a species that isn’t an equal opportunities employer, and where I will have my period for a good 18 to 25% of my life.

Ever since I was 12 years old, I have been getting periods. Every month. Ever 29 days to be exact, the period fairies bring me their unwelcome, yucky gift. Every month I rage against the injustice. FUCKING HELL I JUST HAD ONE LAST MONTH, this is BULLSHIT. I never expect it, it’s always a hideous surprise. ARGH! Dying! Oh, no, just womb realising it has a lot of sex but somehow no sperms get in there, so should just give up on the nest-making for this month. Body doesn’t understand about condoms. Body keeps trying, though. Keeps making more nests for this baby it thinks I am foolish enough to allow set up shop in my tummy.

It is always a big drammatic surprise…

But I should. They are so fucking regular, I’ve never even missed one…  apart from once when I was 16 I went to Glastonbury and I wanted to get laid so bad, I asked my doctor for some magic no-period beans. I cited unwillingness to use tampons in a portaloo, but he probably knew I was just eager for carefree hippie sex… and what joy! Period-no-get pills actually exist! So that month I had a glorious but unsafe fuck with a gorgeous older guy who I told I was 21. He had to have known, is all I’m saying. I was crap- he asked me afterwards if that had been my first time. I laughed but it hurt like no amount of penis ever could. I tried to take it as a compliment to my youthful tight-itude but knew it was more to do with my lying there like a nearly dead fish on a riverbank. I mooned over him for a month after the festival. I lay in bed and came up with scenarios where I got pregnant and had to track him down to tell him I was pregnant and getting an abortion. I thought of going to find him in Glouscester where I knew he lived and worked. Just arrive and ask for the hot hippie guy…  and pretend to have just been passing through casually. Thank FUCK I didn’t have any contact info for him or I certainly would have gone on a stalk quest. It took me ages to reach my present level of casualness about sex, I used to fall in love with every penis I became aquainted with. And I still sort of do… which is why it’s good that I keep sleeping with total gobshites, because then there’s that as a deterrent.

Anyway not to get bogged down in my sexual history… sorry… it’s just all my stories refer back to sex… and they probably always will.

So. For 12 years, half my life, I have been getting a period roughly every month. I did some calculations and: I have had roughly 150 periods so far. And they have been regular, as far as I have kept track of them… which is intermittent at best. Every time I go through a phase of noting the start date on a calendar somewhere, the next one comes exactly 29 days later. So knowing that, you’d think I would be prepared. You might think I’d expect it, or carry some accoutrements with me on the day, or avoid wearing a pale skirt and short jacket. Or warn my family just to avoid me, and avoid saying anything inflammatory.

But no.

Every time it’s over, I’m free again, free from the constant swiping my hand under my ass on public transport, just to be sure… and free to have sex again… (I know certain people who are able to have periody sex with strangers but I am NOT one of them. Yeah I’m talking to you, you filthy critter…)

Every time it goes away I rejoice. No more period! Hooray! Party time!

And I promptly forget all about the existence of nature’s cunting buzzkill, and how it’s already putting the wheels in motion for its next invasion of my life. The clock is always ticking, I’m always somewhere on my cycle. I have, frequently, said all and any of the following:

Sorry I’m in a bad mood, I am about to get my period.

Sorry I’m in a bad mood, I have my period.

Sorry I’m in a bad mood, I just finished my period.

There is only one week in the month when I am “normal” and also skinny. That is THE week.

I go shopping during that week. I buy C-cup bras and think, fuck yeah, my boobs have finally come in.

I try on stretchy dresses that a Latina woman might wear while sexy dancing in a music video, you know that vibrating they do that is just not fair and I think of the ad for milk, them bones them bones need calcium… and it said “an adult has X amount of bones, a child has many more” and I think, those bitches, they have more bones, or muscles or something. There is definitely no way I could ever do that, ever. But I can still wear the dress.

Oh, in case you are asking, I don’t know what age she is but it has been up on youtube for years so I am sure it is OK.

But I can still. wear. the dress.

And I’m briefly happy and confident and then another week passes, or 2, and it’s gone… the stretchy fabric dresses in my wardrobe laugh at me. SERIOUSLY? You must have been high when you tried us on. We are not for your kind…

Suddenly I am fat. Why am I so fat? It must be those nutritionally complete dinners I ate. Greedy bitch. Why do I keep ruining my figure with these gluttonous binges? Ugh so much hard work to lose that weight, and I go blow it all on a measly feeling of fullness. It’s going to be a lifelong fight against the weight, I realise. Such sacrifice. I love food. I love it so… if I thought bulimia was an effective method of weight loss and not so bad for your teeth and stomach, I would totally just spend my life scoffing macaroni and cheese and drinking red wine and eating fizzy cola sweets and these chocolate biscuits that have caramel inside them. And cake. And chips with pepper sauce and steak. Oh maaaaaan so fucking hungry. And deep fried brie. And then puking it all up.

But bulimia IS super bad for you, and it doesn’t even work well as a weight loss thing, apparently. Also there is the unpleasantness of throwing up. I tried when I was a teenager but after half an hour gingerly avoiding sticking my fingers down far enough because I didn’t like the feeling… I had to give up. Needs more determination. I’m glad I didn’t persevere…

I came up with a solution one time, the “mouth-dom”.

It’s a condom worn inside the mouth, hanging down the throat. You attach it to the back teeth with some string or something, then eat all you want. Then when you are done eating you pull it out and throw the food in the bin or put it in the fridge for later, depending on how much it is chewed. I usually don’t chew my food well so it is probably good for another go.  Anyway I don’t know if it is possible to breath while your oesophagus has a condom full of food hanging down it, and I am not about to test the idea on myself. Just another one of my inventions, starved to death on the drawing board.

So I’m lying in bed, totally ignoring the fact that excercise would probably solve most of my problems, but I don’t want to waste my precious lying down watching comedy programs time doing something boring and embarassing like running around in ugly shoes that make my feet look bigger and smell funky, so I prefer to focus on the food aspect.

And I prod my stomach, and it’s ok but it was so much better very recently. And I feel my love handles which aren’t exactly handles but they are certainly grabbable. Love grips. Well. Maybe it’s not so bad. Used to be a lot worse, I remember when people would congratulate me on my pregnancy. That happened twice. Fuck me that was awful…

It’s just, since shedding quite a few pounds I have become much happier and more confident (if you think, WTF this is you in a GOOD mood? then Fuck You, and you probably haven’t read my earlier posts.) but instead of being glad and thinking, hooray for me, I never thought I’d look good in jeans again and now I do… instead, I’ve just raised the bar for myself. So now I sit and grab any bit of me that’s not hard and lithe and feel depressed and angry like it’s either look like a model or else be a fat pig.

And all this time, every time, there’s no fucking need to be upset. At all.

Because every month it is exactly the same. A few days before Auntie Uglypants pays her visit, I bloat up like I’ve just spent a week in Ireland, drinking and eating potatoes…

It’s just water retention. There’s nothing I can do about it. Every fucking month, I freak out and hate myself and grab extra flab between my fingers and think this is it, back to wearing those floaty dresses with the high elasticated waists, just under the tits, fooling no one… I lie here miserable and think… does crying burn calories? And maybe it does, so I cry a bit because I don’t want to be hungry and one of those bitches that men complain about being obsessed with not eating, and boring, who can’t just chill out and have a burger, but those men complain but they still want the women to look like that. It’s hard to be a woman sometimes, just the hypocrisy of myself alone is enough to drive me crazy, and then I have to go and add everyone else’s… And then my face is puffy and my jaw looks fat too. I’m like Miss Piggy. Goddammit why can’t you stop EATING?

And then I wake up and I don’t have breakfast… the only thing to pass my lips before I leave home, is my beloved vibrator… and when I come to what might be an orgasm if it wasn’t so sad, I cramp up in the vague area where my reproductive organs are housed, and it’s even harder to get out of bed. And my back aches…

And I think, why this pain? Even though I should recognise it by now. And then later, it arrives, like a policeman on my doorstep, with his hat in his hands, at once confirming and alleviating my fears:

I’m terribly sorry, ma’am.

Can I come in?

And I collect myself and remember where I put the things I need and dress to minimise paranoia and risk of leakage… and we’re back in period mode… Only then do I remember the other thing about periods, the water retention. It dawns on me that maybe… just underneath the squishy padding, my body is still in pretty good nick. And maybe next week I will lie before a man, and feel proud, and know my pelvis bones stick out just a little, but I’m still comfortable to lie on… If you catch me feeling like THAT, you are in for a treat. Nobody would accuse me of being a virgin after I confident-fuck them. I’d bloody well want to be getting better at this, I’ve slept with enough people…

But I still don’t quite believe it’s all water weight. Despite going through this exact same mindfuck and cycle of self-hate to self-love (well… I never quit the self-love. Ha. Ha. Sorry. You get it. I should stop, I know.) I still jump through the same hoops every fucking month.

Maybe, I think, some of it is water retention due to this poorly designed and mysoginistic procreation equipment, but it’s probably only partly that and the rest is I’M A GREEDY FAT PIG. Who ate all the fucking pies? What pies, I just had half a teaspoon of sugar in my coffees this week… and one time I drank a cup of hot milk with honey before bed. That’s all it seems to take… So much self restraint required (if you insist on living a life of horizontal slothery and won’t give up the booze) to stay looking good.

And then my period is over and I am back to normal and I celebrate by containing my body in the smallest amount of fabric I can get away with and I go out and drink lots of beer. And get reckless, have a pizza. With gorgonzola.

And forget all about the vicious life cycle. All. Over. Again.

150 times I have gone through this.

One… hundred… and… fifty.

And it never sinks in, that there is this horrible fat week in every month.

And then this month, for the first time, I tried to break the habit. Anticipate before I self-flagellate.

My dress doesn’t look the best on me today. My tights aren’t helping, they are bulging up over my tummy and marking a distinct line between my top and my bottom. I grab a bit of belly, feels doughy. Can’t remember if doughy means it is actual fat, or just water weight. Can’t even remember if it feels softer or harder than usual. Put my hands on my hips, feel my ribcage. THAT feels pretty good. But the hip area is not great. I had to spend a little time choosing an outfit, which means I am porkier than usual.

I would love to wake up one day and just be able to wear an unstructured, like, t shirt dress. I have tried sometimes when feeling particularly cocky and fuck ’em all, I feel like a WOMAN, be it a couple of pounds over the ideal, I am sexyyyyyy… but inevitably, once I stop holding in my stomach and standing up straight with my chest thrust out, it becomes apparent that my figure is still not lycra-ready. And then I spend the rest of the time hunching over ashamed and trying to wrap things around my waist so you can’t see any pudgy outlines.Which just makes it worse.

So when I feel a bit of chub coming on, before hatin’, I think back..  it’s true I have been delightfully curse-free lately. Maybe I’m due a period?

I start to feel relief around the edges… What if,  I am getting my period and that is why I don’t look my best today? I can’t remember the last time I had my period. Sometime around christmas, maybe.

Start to think…

Really, really can’t remember.

I was taking note in my phone, but then I stopped.

I am worried now….although I don’t remember having unprotected sex with anyone. But then again, if I did have unprotected sex it would have been because I was super drunk, and in that case I probably wouldn’t remember. Oh dear. Well, it’s likely I am just spacing out and everything is fine although it’s clear I need to go and get checked for stds very soon. Oh god imagine I had some horrible disease. Sometimes I get spots around my mouth and I become convinced that they are herpes. Imagine I had herpes. That would be the worst. I know that really they are not herpes, it’s just spots I get from hormones and the fact that I eat and other things at my computer and then I type and then I touch my face all the time and bite my nails and my face is just a petri dish for bacteria to get freaky with each other.

But still, every time I get those spots on my face, and they totally coincide with my periods too, I lie awake nights thinking of how I could possibly go on living life as I know it, with herpes on my face. And I turn on my laptop again and google what herpes looks like and comfort myself that mine are not herpes.

But still, I kiss a lot of guys. I am basically queueing up for the herp.

Anyway to may a short story long, I counted up from some months ago, and it looks like, no I am not due my period this week. Or soon. I am due it in like 2 weeks. So I am not in my fat week.

This is just actual fatness.

WHYYYY?

Not fair.

Is it just that I haven’t been eating mandarins, nature’s laxative, lately? I went to LIDL and bought a crate of them but they are all bad. Fucks sake this has never happened in Italy before. I have never had a bad mandarin here. But these are fucking terrible, I can’t eat this shit.

 

This is shaping up to be a bad Friday night.

And the other thing is I am drinking wine and when I was in LIDL I was hungry (rookie mistake, a LIDL run on an empty-ish stomach, I know) and I bought chocolate and crisps and now I REALLY FUCKING HATE MYSELF.

I haven’t eaten anything bad in ages… now crisps? This is so fucking bad. I wish I had a mouth-dom right now. But I better not attempt anything stupid like that while drinking alone as I am not confident in my auto-heimlich maneuver skillz and I definitely don’t want to have to bang on my neighbours doors and gargle “Help me… condom stuck in oesophagus full of partially chewed food.. call ambulance… don’t know number of ambulance in italy as it is not an easy number like 911 or 999”

 

I’ll be back here later probably, maybe you will be lucky and get a drunk post. Everyone loves a drunk post, especially you but ESPECIALLY ME.

Happy weekend y’all.

Oh no I was ending this all chirpy and I remembered what I was pissed about, being fat and it not even being water weight?

Maybe I am wrong abut having had a period this month and I am actually long overdue one, or… gasp… preggers?

Immaculate conception?

Drunk and immemorable conception?

Conception through stomach?

 

It’s cool really I hear that drinking lots and then running up and down the stairs is pretty effective at dealing with that kind of issue.

I’m joking of course*

 

*If that offends you… I have been told that abortion/miscarriage jokes are not everyone’s cup of tea.

 

Anyway, it’s ok I am probably just fat.

Lots of love,

your pal,

Smooth-Ass MoFO

 

Ps. If you are also having a poignantly silly alone time Friday night like me, I recommend this sketch show I just discovered. I don’t know am I drunk or is this just the funniest thing Iever did see.

It is called the peter serafinowicz show.. and I just typed that, I didn’t copy and paste, so my guess is that I am totally fucking sober. So it is probably really funny.

That is a spoof of those magazines they always advertise…

But you can also view the whole episodes on Youtube by searching for peter serafinowicz show and there are all the episodes split into two parts.

I have no idea if this is actually funny or not to other people but I have been laughing to myself, at some points I actually laughed out loud which never happens, to anyone, ever, despite all the LOLing going around or to say it correctly, LingOL.

So if you are bored give it a gander. I really need to take a slash now so excuse me while I go to the little girls room. I will probably be back here later oh shit I already said that. Love you… peace out