Walk of shame: French First Edition

The walkof shame.

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

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

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

Mmmm ….

Wait, what the fuck?

Mmmm… his hands all over me.

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

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

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

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

Why am I in this sofa bed with this guy?

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

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

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

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

I murmer…. I have a boyfriend.

He kisses my neck.

I know.

You told me last night…

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

Yeah, he said, AFTER…


OH! Did we… did we have sex?

Yeah, you don’t remember?

No I’m so sorry, I was really drunk.

You didn’t seem so drunk last night…

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

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

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

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

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

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

But not me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I don’t know.

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

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


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

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


I’m so bad at this.

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

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

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

I need to get a job.

And stop drinking so much.

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


Sometimes it’s hard to be a woman, giving all your love to just one man (most of the time) and then also our internal organs are complicated.

I’m going a little bit crazy today.

Sent off the application for one course.

Have to hand write the other one. Oh dear sweet mother of left handed computer nerds, I can’t do it. I can’t hand write. My handwriting was frozen at age 12, it sits there forgotten and no one ever asks to see it, and then sometimes I have to leave a note and people see it and think how sweet, you got your baby sister to write the note. Such good spelling. But no, that’s me. I was a bad penwoman then, and 12 years of lightning fast delivery of Times New Roman’s inoffensive uniformity has done my illegible scrawl no favours.

I have the whole thing typed up and ready to go, I just can’t write straight, it looks like a joke,

like a small retarded child filled out my application. The spelling is of course impeccable but it may as well read

“Wen I groe up I wana bee a teachair”

I wish I could pay someone to write it out for me, but maybe they will then see my handwriting when I’m on the course and know i cheated… but then they can’t throw me out because of handwriting?

And while you’re sitting there thinking, oh, that’s today’s crisis, oh well at least it’s not about men or sex or something, this is a practically solvable existential connundrum.



I have another crisis too.

So today and yesterday I have woken up so goddamned, enviably skinny… why always when I’m home alone, why always when it’s raining too hard to get away with a bikini, why when there’s no man to admire me, when there isn’t even a dressing room mirror involved?

WHY am I getting a skinny day today? Everyone told me at my mother’s wedding, I looked so fucking skinny. Oh the figure on ye. Yeah but no, I did look skinny compared to my previous incarnations but I still had a big ole wine n food bump. A food baby, I joked. But today I’m like, I’d even look good in a tank top, which is I think a short top where your midriff shows underneath. In fact I walked around my apartment (all three metres of it) in hot pants and a short top, admiring myself regularly. I looked damn good.

But then, because I can’t be happy for too long… I remembered. Isn’t this meant to be my fat n bloated week? Amn’t I supposed to be crying into the fridge as I extract cheese because what’s the point anyway, what’s the point if I’m just gonna be fat all the time?

I’m supposed to be getting my period. I’m supposed to HAVE my fucking period. And I know, I know I took the morning after pill like a week ago so that can mess up your period and make you get it late but it doesn’t matter how much I KNOW that’s why I’m late…. I still feel the panic of oh fuck yeah, I’m not in control of my own body and what if the pill didn’t work? What if this is finally it, my first pregnancy? Obviously, obviously my answer would be abort, abort. Abort mission. No way is it sacrifice myself on the altar of motherhood time. But then I also know that pregnancy makes women go crazy too and oh god no it can’t happen to me, I don’t need this.

But of course I’m not pregnant it’s just the pill making me late.


It’s impossible to rationalise this fear, because it’s a pretty fucking big fear.

And I would ordinarily take great pleasure in inflicting this on my current partner, or partner in crime at least. I like to freak them out too because why should I suffer alone? Also it’s worse for them because they can’t even know what I’d DO with the thing if I did get knocked up. Super panic. So I would love to WARP this boy’s mind with this one, really fuck with his head, serve him right for making me fall in love with him and then trying to turn us into the greatest Vulcan love story that never was. But he didn’t reply to my “hey!” yesterday, and I think he left for Greece today, I vaguely remember him talking about some holiday there in a few days after I left, I wasn’t paying attention really because I was extremely horny and it didn’t interest me as it was not regarding sex or a compliment. So I am very pissed off now because if he thinks he can swan around recessionsville in the sun with not a care in the world probably having just finished his dissertation, while I languish at home with a handwritten thingumy to write out in handwriting, and worry about maybe being pregnant because of HIS GODDAMN TASTY PENIS, then that is just bullshit.

I will not stand for this.

I have gone a little bit crazy.

Today I had a few little episodes, imaginary conversations between him and me when I tell him drammatically that I might be knocked up and he says

“no your period is just late because of the pill, I read the packaging”

and I respond, bellowing, furious, and gloriously naked, maybe with a daisy chain around my swollen belly (it’s not actually swollen, it’s very flat as I mentioned)

“Oh that’s RIGHT, Mr. FUCKING SPOCK, let’s LOGIC and REASON our way out of this one too! WHAT do you know, you piece of shit MAN! Am I not allowed to feel????? to FEEL? I AM A WOMAN. I must be witnessed!”

And I collapse on a chaise longue.

Or else I give a sort of solliloquoy about my rights to love someone in my own way, and how does he dare, and I never asked for his love, I never asked for anything! I never asked for fidelity, I never asked him to be my boyfriend, I never asked for A-NY-THING! And if even that’s too much for him, he can go, go and never look back! But mark my words, you will regret this! You’ll never meet a woman like me again, NEVERRRR! And you’ll never get another chance with me! MARK MY WORDS, AGAIN! NEVERRRR! This is it, I’m gone…


But then I think, shit, what if he does regret losing me and then he wants to beg for me back but he takes my “never again” seriously and doesn’t try to get me back? So no, I won’t say any of that. I wouldn’t want to make it seem difficult to get me back again. Sheesh.

Door’s always open, loverboy.

But I’m all over the place. One might hope it’s because I’m pre-menstrual, another might fear it’s that I’m another “pre” word. -gnant, I mean. Both those people are me. I am crazy woman, see and hear me roar.

And also maybe I’m flipping out over this because it’s a really legitimate procrastination tool, the old, what’s goin’ on in my uterus today? And is all that gear even functional? (Hey, I never got any complaints. Hee hee. Sorry)

Anyway. I just can’t write this thing in my handwriting. If only I could just type it out…

and also, how long is he going to be in Greece on his bachelor holiday while I slave over the ink stand and vellum, cradling my worryingly flat belly and telling it, don’t worry, I’ll make dada feel shitty and worried about this when he gets back, don’t worry…. Even if I HAVE got my period by then. He can fucking sweat a bit too.

I do realise that by playing the crazy maybe pregnant lady card, I will send this boy running farther than if I had said “hey, I like spending time with you, how about we see each other some time maybe?”

It’s so the wrong move to play with this one… but I’m reckless. That’s what I am. And he’s just too delicate, I can’t tiptoe around this shit any more, it’s stifling. I feel smothered by it. Sabotage time…

Or I don’t know, maybe I’ll play the long game. I’m just feeling very crazy today. Up is down, down is up, and I watched about 15 episodes of Seinfeld which hasn’t helped.

You know I had never seen the finale before? Weird, huh. I just didn’t have those episodes. I might watch some more now and go to bed, work in the morning… maybe just eat some cheese first and worry about pregnancy and look into French paternity laws… kidding. Kidding. I’m kidding.

He does have excellent bone structure though and blonde hair. And full lips.

Our babies would be so freaking hot. Or maybe they would go the route of Demi Moore and whatshisname’s kids. Bruce Willis. Inherit the worst of both.

They could have my thin lips, his eyes which aren’t bad at all but they aren’t as good as mine, my pale skin and freckles and nose, his giant vagina that he uses to make decisions about love.

No, please don’t let me be preggers with a half French Rumor Willis.

Please not that….

Also don’t let me be infertile either because thinking about it now, I do have some pretty sweet genes that could do with passing on. I just need to find a guy with a nice nose and we are GOLDEN.

And also, he needs to be a grown up. With money.


End of rant.

I’m off to do the purple rain dance.


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 excuses.com 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.


Aaaaand she’s back!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Actually anyway it does start with him,

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

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

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

She walks away, shocked.

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

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

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

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

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.


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….

Something about playing hard to get? And hair removal. And some more insecurity and stuff.

The thing about playing hard to get, is that it gets easier and more enjoyable with every passing day.
Stop- sorry. I do this. I get ahead of myself. I am by no means qualified to write a paragraph about playing hard to get because this is honestly seriously the first time I have even attempted it. My previous idea of playing hard to get was avoiding saying “I love you” during sex and then pretending to be offended if the guy in my bed asks for a sandwich, when hello? feeding men to make them like me is my favorite. So this right here, this not contacting him for like four days is a new record for me, in fact no, it’s like… this is the moment we start the records.

This is like when the weather people say “THE WETTEST SEPTEMBER SINCE RECORDS BEGAN” and you’re like holy shit no way I can’t believe I am alive to see this, I’m gonna need more than three tins of chickpeas to tide me over although hooray, food shortage = look amazing in jeans, but then you realise records only began like a hundred years ago or something so in the grand scheme of things, you aint witnessing SHIT. Our ancestors lived through a fucking ice age, put that into perspective bitches (I think. My history knowledge is akin to my science, scrappy, wikipedia-based, and often inspired by movies and dreams.) Except that’s irrelevant, so let us swiftly move on….

Now, after initial restlessness in my pants, and some internal wheedling when I tried to pretend I wanted to message him just to “ask him a question I have about engineering” (I did have a relevant question about engineering but I also have the internet, and knowing someone who knows shit is barely even useful any more) we have arrived at Thursday- the day I previously allowed myself to contact him for some wonderful booty call.

And I spent last night- 3 hours, mind, de-hairing my legs with what can be desribed to menfolks as a mechanical tweezers and to women as an epilator.
That’s right. You know the concentrated yanking sensation of pulling out one hair at a time with a tweezers? No? I don’t know what men do to pass the time really, maybe you have never pulled out a follice in your life. Bastards. In that case, you rugged manbeast creatures out there reading my narcissistic ramblings, it is kinda like pulling out a splinter from when you were cutting large swathes of lumber, topless. Except splinters are a little bit more satisfying to pull out.
Anyway, pulling out one hair means you can uproot a pretty damn short hair like the little bastards I have going on right now, but it takes too fracking long to do all your legs that way, especially because I have long legs and also before you think I’m being a vain bitch, there are a shitload of hairs on them. So the solution here is to make a whole bunch of pinchy tweezer things that rotate and you run it over your body like a little mechanical piranha machine going “om nom nom nom nom” and it’s really sore but you can get used to it, you just need to get in the zone, grit your teeth, knock back some whiskey if you have any, and ride that mother til you hit the crest of the pain wave and hit the plateau of feeling where you don’t even know if you are in a lot of discomfort or excrutiating pain or if you are even attached to your body any more.
It took 3 hours and I was pretty fucking lucid for most of it.
I quaffed some pain killers first, being all out of whiskey (to be rectified this evening. Man I have no alcohol in the house at all right now, it doesn’t feel right.) but I didn’t notice any improvement.
My legs are considerably better than they were yesterday, although they are still crying rape and I’ve put as much nappy rash cream on them as will sit on the skin without coming off on the hand that is applying it, but still they punish me with redness and a sensitivity to cold and my tights.
Anyway tonight I will have to tackle the remaining stragglers but if I get some booze on the way home it will be much better, also there are not a whole lot of hairs left especially compared to yesterday.

And I wonder what I will say to Fabio when I finally cash in my 4 day Desperates Anonymous chip?
I don’t know, but I feel kind of like I should play it like Susan Sarandon in Alfie. I’m not going to buy him expensive gifts or end up going for someone even younger than him though so I need to rewatch that movie to remember what else she did. She kicked ass though. I also don’t know if I should lay down some “oh by the way this is just a sex thing, I don’t want you to kiss me or hold my hand anywhere outside your bedroom or my apartment, and I don’t mean avoid eye contact but if your eyes catch mine, make it brief and to the point. There will be no gazing at me.” and also he knows a lot of the people I know, including his flatmate who knows my husband-separation story, so I don’t know if I should just drop the H-bomb straight away so he doesn’t hear I’m married from his flatmate and think wtf?
I don’t know if I’m supposed to say anything or not. I’ve had fuck buddies before but it has always been a complete farce, like I have been really into them but too afraid of them not liking me enough for proper relationship stuff so I have just gone along with the sex only thing until it has blown up in my insecure face and left them thinking I was a total freak. I have never worn the pants, I’ve always just waited for the dick I’ve been hanging around with to define the terms of our interaction.

Anyway I am on the verge of sending him some message to initiate round two and see what fun and frolics may be instore: but I am sort of dreading it too. Because the moment I hit send on whatever over-wrought message, you know, 2 hours re-writing a sentence to hit just the right level of nonchalant, then it is OUT THERE and I have just thrown away all the cards I was holding. Right now I am hard to get, or as hard to get as you can play after fucking the guy the first night you met. The moment I send that message, whatever it may be in the end, I will be right back at the holy crap it has been six minutes and he hasn’t replied, maybe he hasn’t seen it yet? OR Maybe he is laughing at me and he will never reply and I won’t know what the fuck is going on and he doesn’t like me because of my low quality boobage and all the weird and irrelevant stuff I said.

So I like the mental peace I have right now. I don’t want to throw that away, but then I don’t want to be too aloof and miss out on sex. And also, the poor dude has low enough self esteem, he’s probably weeping into a tub of Ben and Jerrys right now (actually they don’t sell that here I don’t thnk) whimpering “oh god I am SUCH A FAT PIG now wonder she doesn’t like meeeee”

This is possible.

I should put him out of his misery.

But my precious upper hand!

What to do?

What to write?

AND if I do wrangle a meet up out of him, what the fuck do I wear?

Stupidly weak, I can’t stay away from shops lately… I’m just so surprised I can fit so much stuff that would have looked so shit before.

I tried on a pair of super slutty hot pants. I didn’t buy them, but I fell in love with myself all over again. They are the kind of shorts a slutty girl might wear to hand out free samples of Red Bull on a main shopping street or something. You know. Yeah.

Anyway I made myself not buy the shorts because they were basically underwear, but I got a new bra (it’s nice, leave me alone… all my other bras sag on me now because along with dropping jeans sizes comes the unwanted side effect: no more fatty cushioning under mah breasts either. So I need new bras. Hence, justified. Booya. See how I do that? And also, and I haven’t got a justification for this purchase yet, but I’m working on it- I got a little see through cropped lace jacket. It serves no purpose except I could wear it with my new bra underneath and look terrifically slutty.

Then I went into the tights and socks shop. I can’t resist tights, I have probably got over 100 pairs of tights. I am a disgrace.

Anyway I’m paying for my exorbitantly overpriced tights and considering buying a pair of lace topped stockings, when the sales girl is like “and can I interest you in some Christmas present ideas?”
And I’m lost in a daze of imagining myself opening the door to Fabio in a corset, suspenders, stockings and for some reason a trenchcoat with a whole bunch of condoms attached to the lining, and she jerks me out of it with this unexpected selling technique and I’m like “Whu whu what?”
And she’s all “Christmas presents? Can I interest you in…”
And I’m like… “uhhh no I just buy presents for my little sisters so…no thanks”
Damn why do I do the same shit customers always do, tell the employees unneccessary shit like that. They don’t care. They are paid to tolerate my presence and try upsell (she’s a better employee than me, that’s for sure), not look at the pictures of my sisters in my wallet which I had to get rid of anyway because I didn’t want hot barman to think I might be old and have children. Who knows how old I look, I did smoke for like 7 or 8 years.
She’s all “oh well we have kids socks too. Instead of toys, it’s a really nice idea.”
You what?  Why the fuck would I get my sisters socks for Christmas? I love my sisters.
They are kids. Is this bitch calling me poor? Does she think my sisters are orphans whose little scruffy faces would light up at the sight of a wooden spinning top, or a piece of licorice?
I feel sorry for all these children who are getting socks for christmas instead of toys because it is “a nice idea”. Yeah that’s a great idea, toys don’t keep your feet warm while you dance for coins anyway.
So I know it’s just some pushy saleswoman thing like “do you want to supersize your meal” or whatever and I am not supposed to take it as a personal judgement, but I still sort of hate the woman for saying it. Also I feel challenged by her superior work ethic, because I can barely restrain myself from making fart noises with my mouth when customers speak to me, let alone actually encourage them to buy more things. When a customer holds out money to pay for something I just rejoice they are willing to work through my barrier of hostility and I don’t push my luck, also I want them to leave already.
So she keeps going on about this, being like “oh are you sure you don’t want to look at some of our socks? We also have slippers too?”
So that annoys me. You know I don’t like being asked if I’m sure about something, unless it’s something I might really regret.
If I misjudge my desire for a cup of tea or some socks, I will not be weeping in remorse. If only skeevy dudes who get me drunk would ask me if “I’m sure” before I sleep with them, that would be great. I’ve never said “sure I’ll suck your dick” only to be asked “are you sure?”
Anyway I think I have been over this at length before in some previous post. So many posts about so many rambling topics.. hard to keep track.
So I start being kind of a dick to this woman, in my own passive aggressive way.
I’m like “actually, I did want to look at some stockings”
and she’s all, “oh well here we have blah blah blah, stockings, hold ups, whatevs”
and I take one she’s holding out, and I’m like, “hmmm, I don’t know.. You see I’ve bought these in the past and they always fall down, but if I get the smaller size, they are too short on my long long legs”
And she looks at my legs and I can tell she’s totally jealous because her legs suck.
She’s all, what about these? These are the biggest size.. they should go all the way up”
And I’m like, “No, they’ll just fall down.. It’s SUCH a pain to find stockings that are long enough for my legs but not too big for my thighs. Thanks anyway”
And I smirk and leave.
I love pulling that shit on petite women. I like to think it hurts their feelings as much as it hurts mine when pixie footed women see a shoe that is two sizes too small for me on display and go “uh are these MENS shoes? They are so big?”
Fuck you, tiny women… You can choose between ALL THE MEN and you get to look feminine while I panic that I may actually be half manbearpig, half bear, half pig and half woman and sob about how even if I met Johnny Depp in the flesh and I managed to challenge Vanessa Paradis to a bitchslap fight for his love and beat her too, and she looks like she’d fight dirty too, I would be too tall for him and it wouldn’t be hot for me at all. Anyway I’m over Johnny Depp. I really am. He lost all street cred with me when he did a SECOND pirates of the caribbean film. Ok, one movie doing a hilarious drunk character for sober people to laugh at, I forgive you… but two? It’s a family movie. Any drunk in a family movie is an object of ridicule. I disapprove of that negative portrayal of drunks.
Anyway, petite women: IT IS ON. It is so on.
You can’t have everything. I get to reach for the high up railings on the bus and oh boy does that make me smirk to myself.
Smirking is actually somethign I have to stop doing so much because seriously I only have wrinkles on one side of my mouth. Like it’s quite a fucking pronounced difference. I should never have bought a 2 sided mirror. I don’t know why they invented them anyway. Assholes.
Oh I’m just procrastinating again.
I am going to write some message to Fabio….
fuck shit balls.
Groaaan I don’t wanna…
I just want him to contact me so I can play defence, but he already did, and I let him make a fool out of himself by replying last (mwahahaha) and now I presume the ball really is in my court, if Italians are anything like Irish people, which no, no they are not.
And I guess if the ball is in my court it is tennis, so there is no such thing as offence or defence, or maybe there is, I don’t understand tennis. Or any sports. I know love means zero, and that about killed my interest in the beautiful game. Oh no that’s football. Whatever.
Ok I’m going already.
Oh btw- here is something really freaky and hypnotising and disgusting for you to look at if you want.
Warning: NSFW.
Viewer discretion guys… you can’t UNsee this. It may give you bad dreams. Just sayin.
I sent the stupid message.
I am not happy with myself… all my power is gone.
Damn it.
No reply yet.
I wish I had bigger boobs.
Fucckkk reply now you bastard, reply now so I can use you for sex like a badass maneater before the neediness of being ignored eats up all my aggression and I am left feeling like you’re better than me.
Ok it’s only been half an hour, I’m being ridiculous.
It has been like 2 hours now.
Urgh should have just kept going with the hard to get thing. I will learn from this.

Would you believe me if I told you you could gain weight, lose money, and feel worse than you have in months?

Oh fuck why did I do this? Why did I do this to myself?

I am in physical pain.

On Saturday night I finished work so freaking hungry I went on the ultimate fool’s errand:

A Lidl run on an empty stomach.

That’s right. There I had been so sure I was all mature and sensible… pride comes before such a terrible fall. Gah I am in so much discomfort. I can’t sleep.

I know that was Saturday night right? Should be better by now, should be so much better…

Except I WAS all better, and I went and did it again.

Maybe I’m not making sense.

I went to Lidl to reward myself for… no, there was nothing to reward myself for. I was just hungry as fuck and didn’t feel like eating any of the perfectly viable food options waiting in my fridge. WHY YOU FOOL, WHY?

Ugh hurts so bad. Seriously…. uncomfortable to sit up, lie down… can’t sleep. Can’t enjoy self in any way.

I went to Lidl after work, anyway, and managed to make it past the first sweet and chocolatey aisle of temptations and picked up some lettuce and avocado and I was so cocky, I really thought I could do it…

I made it half way into the next aisle and…

Oh god.

I arrived home in the torrential rain (it’s flooding here, that’s right I may need to evacuate my home with severely strained stomach muscles. Not fun, and I will look really awful for the hot coastguard or whoever… actually I’m being melodramatic, I don’t live near the river so I’m ok.)

and unpacked, in disbelief at what folly the hunger had unleashed…

A packet of mysterious origin “mixed” sausages.

A pack of high sugar high salt and that’s about it, crust-free bread


“yoghurt” with chocolate balls




Pear juice

A jumbo bag of salted peanuts.

Sun dried tomato pate


Also a whole load of salad-y bits and pieces but that is just empty nutrients, I stuck those in the fridge and moved immediately to consuming as many of my awful treats in one go as possible.

I made sausages and I fried onions, I buttered the white bread and put sun dried tomato shit on that and wrapped sausage and onions up like in little sleeping bags, and I made what I affectionately called a salad but was really mozzarella, avocado and a bit of lettuce..

and arranged this on a plate and my juice and the caramel squares beside my bed-slash-eating area (don’t judge me I couldn’t take it right now) and I settled down for the ABSOLUTE GREATEST SATURDAY NIGHT ALONE OF MY LIFE!

Oh yeah!

I watched some movies so forgettable, I don’t even remember what they were. Either that or I do remember and I’m just ashamed of falling in your estimation if I tell you. Yes, I know, I admitted to feasting in bed on my own on a Saturday night and I’m too proud to admit to what goddawful chick flick I watched. What, you never see a hypocrite before?

I ate my sausages rolled up.

I was unable to open the olives so they were left out of my “salad”.

I ate my “salad” and felt like this counted for something even though it was 50% cheese.

I was so over full and stuffed to bursting but I wanted more, more, MORE!

I moved on to caramel squares. Oh man were they good caramel squares.

At one point I had to turn on the light (did I mention I was in the dark?) to check if the base of the caramel squares was actually biscuit at all because it just tasted like crumbly but solid brown sugar. Mmmmm caramel… so good… I couldn’t stop eating.

It was so GOOD. But there was no room.

My belly has shrunk considerably since I first started torturing myself to better impress the men around me who don’t appreciate it anyway.

I used to be able to eat all this and more so much more.

I forget sometimes, but I had the appetite of a beast.

I would have had my sausages in sleeping bags feast and then the caramel squares and then probably some pringles or something and then maybe a pack of jelly sweets and then some ice cream. And I wasn’t really very fat, but I would have got there I’m sure… all the more annoying then that I am so MEAN to myself now with food and I’m still considerably more plump than Terri Hatcher or Victoria Beckham, not that I would want to resemble anything so haggard or skeletal but I feel like I should have got to perfection a long time ago with less effort and not be only a good part of the way with a huge amount of effort.

And it’s been so long since I have really indulged at all besides the odd pizza and then oh man the self flagellation for getting extra cheese… then salad salad salad for dinner. Damn it.

So I forgot how painful and uncomfortable it is to have your stomach try to double in size from the force of food inside trying to fit… ugh horrible.

And I ate ALL the squares that night. And I wanted to cry afterwards like when you sleep with someone you weren’t attracted to, and afterwards it’s like the biggest injustice ever because I feel like why should I pay with all the guilt and unpleasantness when I didn’t even reap the rewards of my self indulgence?

I didn’t even enjoy those caramel squares because I was so full. the last one, and yes I am ashamed to type this, I just pushed into my cheeks and licked my fingers because I was sick and tired of holding it in my hand.  And then I waited until I felt like I could handle some more and swallowed it gradualy. Oh the shame.

I tossed and turned in AGONY for hours. I had some fizzy things that go in water that are described, like most of EVERYTHING in Italy, as being “a digestive aid.” Eventually I was able to sleep. I dreamt of cheese, and being thrown out of a supermarket for eating cheese and throwing the rinds on the ground, and also trying to have sex with people in there.

I woke up today and was still in pain, so I just had coffee thinking, you know…


Then I had some herbal tea.

Then I thought, damn I have so much nice food in my house, I wonder will I ever feel normal again?

I swore I would only eat little bits of things.

I finally felt normal again around 4pm.

Then I had…drumroll….

The exact same thing I had last night. Well I had to finish the sausages.

This time I put melted cheese on top because I wanted cheese but didn’t feel like eating any lettuce today.

I did not have any caramel squares left but after my sausage rolls I imediately felt so disgusting and pained again that I don’t even think I would have…

oh who am I kidding, I just ended up snacking on peanuts all night.

And then I had some brie about 2 hours ago.

With olives (to celebrate that I got the jar open)

And now I can’t sleep because an alien it trying to stretch my stomach out so far… so painful…

oh man starting to freak out maybe it will…


ugh no…

I’m ok. I just need to not think like that.


Ok that thought freaked me out so much I went and tried to make myself throw up but it didn’t work, it’s too unpleasant to force yourself to puke I don’t care I tried, for some reason the only time my gag reflex decides to sit one out, it’s when I’m actually jamming my hands down to my tonsils.

Now I just want to say I will never put my body through this again, but I already did it so I can’t even say for sure if I’ll learn from this experience or what.

Either way, after the amount of crap I have ingested I am gonna need some kind of intestinal flu type miracle… I mean if a moment on the lips equals forever on the hips, what happens if I have spent about 36 hours with junk food in my mouth?

Don’t answer that.

All my hard work,

I am gonna hate myself for this one.

Oh but in non-stretched-out-stomach news,

I also went out on Friday night with my awesome heels (I conveniently forgot about the height of most Italians) and I looked great and I had fun and then we went dancing but it was pissing rain so there was no one out, we had to go this awful studenty night club where the music was shitty but I thought fuck it I just want someone attractive to validate me as a woman by telling me I look good, but then the only person who did tell me I looked good was a weird German guy in the queue to the toilets. He said “why are you so good looking?” and I was flattered for a second and then I saw he had a pot belly but it was the kind of belly that a 5 year old little boy would have, I am picturing a little boy in like christmas pyjamas or something and the idea grossed me out considerably also he was not attractive, and I was just like “amazing genes and a lot of expensive makeup” and then he leapt on me and I allowed the first part of his drunken leering hug but cut him off before he face and head could get too close to me. I tried to do this in a way that said “look, you gave me a compliment so I am being magnanimous by allowing an introduction to a hug, otherwise you woulda got maced”

Then I went back to the dance floor and noticed there was one perk to being a head taller than everyone- I could scope out the talent quite easily.

Or in theory I could have- but in practice- and here we have it, my freaking THESIS on why I haven’t had any luck with Italian men…

dum dum dum…

It’s because I avoid their eye contact.


I don’t know how I haven’t picked up on this before, but there it is.

It is so clear to me now…

I realise that’s what I’m doing. My best friend’s theory is that I do this to avoid actually having to be with someone, but I don’t think that’s right because when I find someone I think is hot then I am all about the eye contact, sort of…

I think what is going on is I am afraid of giving eye contact before I have properly checked the guy out and decided he is definitely hot or tall enough or whatever.

In a club it is dark and there is awful strobe lighting and you can’t tell quickly… by the time I have a lock on a potential candidate, I have already been staring long enough for him to think I am checking him out in a good way. And I don’t know, I sort of feel like having given eye contact i sort of enter into a non-verbal contract with the guy and will have to put up with his unwanted advances all night.

I am not just being paranoid here, this is based on some experience. but by avoiding all eye contact I am essentially cockblocking myself forever…

So have to stop doing that.

But it’s making me realise how stupid I’ve been, just standing around expecting men to fall all over me while avoiding their eyes at all costs.


Ugh my stomach, it will be too late now when I start eyeing up the menfolk next weekend I will be a good dress size bigger.


Wanna feel normal again.

For a second considered reverting to an earlier save game… damn real life, why no saves?

Too hard to get it right in one…

Uggghhh can’t sleep, won’t be able to sleep…

So miserable.

Stupid stomach.