The Last time I saw Dick

The last time I spoke to my husband was a year ago, he contacted me- first time since the separation hearing- because he got a letter informing him that he had to pay property tax on our flat, and it wasn’t fair. As I read his name, there was a flood of emotion. Not hatred, not hatred. Just the memory of when his name went with mine, when we were tied up together. His name, his name, the name I was forced to sign after my own on the act of sale when we bought the apartment, even though I didn’t take his stupid name because I didn’t want to, and I already had my own double barrelled name anyway. But they were all men around the table.

There was the ancient white haired notary, impeccable, ivory hands like a pope’s, latest in a long line of king’s lackeys, Oh the money that man skims off the top. The cream of my life’s earnings. Then my father, shaking hands and knocking his fist on the table, asking if it’s mahogany, one piece? What a table. One solid piece of wood. One of these for the office, eh? Waggling his eyebrows at me. So alien to us, the legal, the formal world. He’s a businessman, there’s a certain amount of respect for him even though he’s scruffy and unconventional with bitten cuticles and a battered leather briefcase. Me, dressed up nice, makeup, well groomed for an Irish woman but not quite up to Italian standards. I was just a little girl to them, playing house, peering over the shoulders of the men. And there we were, my dad, my Papi, who was getting more estranged from me every day, and my husband, and then the owner, a weasly man waving his hand sickly to indicate all the properties he owned, who regarded our odd little family with some disgust. Foreigners, and an Italian who didn’t drive or dress in the style he could clearly afford to. Those men, they just looked at me blankly as I said I didn’t want to sign his name after mine on all the documents.

Why should I?  I elected not to take his name when we married. Isn’t a signature something important, something expressive? How could I SIGN a name that isn’t mine? They just looked at me and said “that’s how we do things in Italy.” I said no, it’s not my name. There were so many pages in that document, each to be signed. Each page. And it wasn’t my name. But my dad said this isn’t Ireland, this is how it goes here. I bristled. The little notary added, trying to help, trying to move it all along, because his time was more money than I could imagine, he said “it’s so we know who you are, who the document is talking about.” Without my husband’s name at the end, presumably, I could have been anyone, anyone. I wonder if an unmarried couple buys a house, how the hell anyone knows whose name that is, with the female name, the name unattached to any man mentioned. Who is she, if not someone’s wife?

But this feminist blather, I couldn’t even begin to verbalise. I was outnumbered, and making too much of it, so I swallowed the bile and gracelessly signed around 80 times, 80 times, like I’d been a bad girl, 80 times to drill it into me, Abby Natascha Di Gianni Flicker in Garcia Ramirez, over and over as the men watched until I had hot tears stinging my eyes, and I fell into a place where the words had a beat, and it drummed through my fingers, Abby Natascha Di Gianni Flicker in Garcia Ramirez, again and again and again and my fingers cramped and seized up, it wasn’t fair, nothing was fair, I was buying a lousy little apartment that needed work, and I was the only one of us with any money at all, and I was putting my every penny into the notary fees, to pay the little man, and the estate agent fees, so Graziella could have her Jimmy Choos, the odious woman, almost deformed by her sense of style. Blue mascara and perma tan and frosted lips, and everything so bright and lifted, a sad caricature of youth.

All my money, my grandparents’ generous gift to me, into this apartment with this man, and I loved him still then, but then I know that I had learnt to love alongside hate, too. Stubbornly, because I didn’t want to let go of love wherever I found it, it was too intoxicating. And I sort of always hated him, from the beginning, when he was awful and cruel and used me. And made me feel stupid, or invalid, or like a silly woman, when I was so much cleverer than him. Perhaps that was why he did it.

So I handed over the money, all those thousands, I never saw money like that before or since, and the notary thanked me but it was nothing to him. It was just some kids playing house, plankton, and he had such big fish. But it was all the money I ever had. And then three years later, a year ago, maybe, he emails me, this man whose name I signed with mine, his name brings me back to that table made from one piece of mahogany and impregnated with the metallics of sweat and money. And after his name, after I let myself float off into venomous memory, it subsides, and I can read the message.

We haven’t spoken in so long, it’s surreal to converse with him. Scary, because for so long he’s inhabited a world that’s unchangeable, fixed- that is, the past, but now he’s writing to me and I remember how volatile and poisonous he became, so I’m very aware that this exchange now is not fixed, this is all being written as I write, as I choose my reply. Choose carefully. He holds some power still, to fuck with my life. So I read and reread, and think before I type. He says they’re asking him for property tax, but it’s not fair, because he doesn’t even live in the apartment, so why should he pay? Oh, fair. That word. What is fair? Who teaches us the word, even? What use does it have? The last time you could judge a thing to be fair, I believe it was a birthday party and somebody was cutting the cake with Pythagoras theorems and a spirit level. I point my index finger at the computer screen and its neighbours squeeze tight into a fist. It’s a strange gesture, I’ve never made it before. But I must be physical, or I’ll burst something in my head. My jaw is clenched too.

Oh you you you… Not fair. Not fair to leave me with the whole mortgage, and all those old bills, and never pay, knowing if you don’t I will, and if I don’t, my father has to, because he’s our guarantor. And all the money I put in, and all the money my dad put in, and then you say it’s not fair I get to live in the apartment.

When I told my lawyer, the bitch with the sexless frame stamped in Versace, when I told her he moved out, and never paid me another cent, she told me firmly, you’re a fool. she didn’t think much of my dad or I. She was polite to him, and talked to me like I hadn’t just got married too young, but more like I’d come over from Estonia and given my passport and money to a man in a van who claimed he was a modelling agent. She glared at me as I spoke, her jaw sharp enough to castrate, and I never knew if I was giving her too much information or too little, but she thought I was a damned fool for not trying to get anything from him when we split, and not just that, but to lose money too.

I asked her if I could sue him for the money he owed me, but she said no, there was no point, it would cost more to sue than I’d get back. And he could just skip the country anyway. That wasn’t fair. Debt is an awful thing, it hangs around your neck like a bag of rocks, and it hurts because it’s heavy but also you remember when you picked up those rocks, and you remember that you made that choice for yourself, back then, and you didn’t care it would hurt now because it was good then. It was hard to be stuck in Italy for a year on my own, with a separation, having lost my closest ally in the country, and custody of all our friends, and with my little sisters wanting to cheer me up but lacking the tools, because they were too young. And with that debt, but it was worse still because it wasn’t my debt, and I hadn’t picked up the rocks.

They were his, him, the man with the name, the name they slapped on me, and he left when he wanted, he moved on as soon as he was ready, he met a new girl, kept the visa from our marriage, met his new girl. An Italian. She’s older than me, less attractive, simpler looking. The kind of girl a man would go crazy to love, because she’d make him happy. Not me. I don’t make men happy. I drag them down, and up, and down again. I’m sweet sometimes but then maybe too sweet, and then I’m all claws and pathos and I need, need need. And I’m not sure of anything but I’m passionate about it all, passionately optimistic, but nihilistic, and obsessive and compulsive and impulsive and lazy and hopeless and full of scorn. A woman like that, all simplicity, grounded, real; god, I’ve looked down on that kind of wman but she could make a man happy.

I don’t feel jealous, no, he’s a stranger now, I look at his face and I don’t even know if I remember anything about him, anything I used to know, his secrets, his face, the lines… Oh yes, but there were lines under his eyes, in a sort of network, I remember looking at them, scrutinising his face and thinking he’s older than me, he’ll die first, and I’ll be so lonely without him. But that was another face, and another version of me. there isn’t a grain left of the girl who loved him or cared if he lived or died. I’m not jealous, not of that petty, greedy, mean bully. I’m not jealous. It just feels sad, sometimes, that the people who aren’t good enough for me, supposedly, well, they’re much more capable of finding happiness. Simplicity, and perhaps humility. I find it harder now,because I want so much, and I start to wonder if all my self satisfaction isn’t just self soothing, and maybe i don’t have anything to offer a man after all.

Maybe I’m just young, and men are attracted to me, and I’m intelligent, so I tell myself I’m this full package, this wonderful woman, too good for most I meet. But I’m lonely, now, sometimes. Not in my own thoughts. It’s the physical space, it starts to feel like time for me to move on, onto someone, try it again, more sensible this time, less of a fool, or a different kind of fool. I’m not jealous he moved on, I’m just sad that he’s better at it than I am, that I’m the one still recalling these moments with anger because he’s the last person to share my life, and I haven’t found someone to fill that space since, not really. And tonight, he wrote to me again, a year since we last exchanged some curt, emotionless words, and tonight he asks not for money, but for information. When are we getting divorced? When can we apply? Can we already? Are we good to go?

It occurs to me, he wants to marry his girlfriend. I tell him October. We’ll need a lawyer. A lady told me we could share one, if it’s amicable. I snorted.

Amicable, like our marriage. He never hit me.

He never hit me. But I took a fucking pummelling.

Tonight I tell him October, and I’m about to say we need a lawyer, but I choose not to. I don’t need to enter a discussion with him now. I can’t bear to let him back into my reality. He’s boxed up, fixed, sealed, he stays the same, in the past. If I engage with him now, I can’t… it’s all old. It’s all been pored over, I’ve woven all my own justifications around the past, processed everything, and now I’m firmly in the right, and I didn’t hurt him, no, he deserved it. And anyway I was hurt too.  And he got a visa, and I got his debt. So it’s all set in stone, and let it rest. Please.

But sooner or later i’ll have to not just engage, but speak face to face with him.

With husband. Dick.

The last time I saw Dick was Italy, two years ago, and I had lost weight and given up smoking and I felt so good and happy to be casting off the things that held me, that saddened me. I wore a blue dress I’d bought before our wedding, that I’d considered getting married in but it was a bit tight and then it got too tight altogether as I put on weight.

I had never worn it before, and he didn’t know it was nearly my wedding dress. But I knew, and it gave me a secret power. I wore it confidently, looking great, looking much better than I looked on my wedding day. I felt better. I felt free, or closer to it than ever. In the pit of my stomach was a little twisted piece of pleasure, because I was wearing a dress I couldn’t wear while we were together, and now I was better, a better version of myself without him. We met outside and walked in, the Palazzo di giustizia, big awful hideous eyesore, reminds me always of the Ministries in 1984. Minitru, Miniluv… We walked past staircase A, B, C… it’s a huge complex. A path runs all around, and it takes ages. Lawyers everywhere. The invisible strings of money and power whipping past as heels clicked neatly. Ball stomping heels.

We made small talk. Waited outside the courtroom, finally were ushered in. An old man, a beautiful old man with crinkled eyes and an appropriately gentle smile for us,  in a little room. He was the judge, apparently. I expected an amphitheatre of a court room. Of course it wouldn’t be that. It was a little office. We sat in rows facing the judge. Mari Angela, my lawyer. Dick. Me. I remembered our wedding day. The stony faced registrar asking do you, and Dick bellowed “ABSOLUTELY.” And I was embarrassed, a little, and annoyed that he did it and not I, and then I was going to be the boring one who said I do.

But the judge read our statement made nine months before when we had really split, and the terms of the separation, which I craned my neck to see because I remembered his tears falling on the page and a sick part of me wanted to see the smudged writing. We agreed and signed, and I signed my own name, and then the judge said you are now legally separated, and I wish you the best of luck. And his eyes were on mine as he said that, and I got a feeling of his wishing me well, specifically me, and his understanding, in those eyes, of what I had escaped from, the sad stifled life. I felt he must see so many couples do what we did, and he must catch these glimpses. But his eyes sought me out, and I thought he recognised me and understood. And I felt the whoosh of freedom, and my mouth stretched out into a grin, and I begged myself to stop grinning, to switch it off, go back to the sombre divorce face, it was so rude, so cruel to grin, god, no, and Dick there looking sad and lost. I couldn’t stop smiling so I smirked, but that was awful too, so I strained and strained and covered my face with a hand and scratched my nose, desperately. But the smile leaked out anyway and I was just grateful my body didn’t break out into a dance, or leap into the air, because it felt like it might have.

Oh, to be truly free. October, October. How long will it take and how much will it cost, to get there?

To finally leave him behind, Dick, his name, his face, his part in my life.

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10 things I hate about dickhead features! A list-based moving on session.

I feeeeeel good.

I feel happy.

Guess who helped me feel better?

My mother.

I called her earlier teary and full of mucus and she offered to come see me and that was what I wanted. I said please bring tobacco because… and I didn’t tell her this… I had been smoking butts of cigarettes that were in my ashtray and it was horrible and then I smoked all the butts and I had none left and that was a full ashtray.

She took her sweet time, she did, but she came with houmous and tomatoes and lettuce and a bunch of fresh wildflowers and a bottle of wine and just enough whiskey to make three hot whiskeys in a plastic bottle, and tobacco, and a bar of chocolate and oh my god I couldn’t have asked for anything more.

Except maybe if she had brought my towels, I left them in her place when I went away because she was going to wash them not because I can’t wash my own towels but I didn’t want to leave damp towels in my bedsit for two weeks and come home to rotted smelly towels. But she forgot to wash them so I didn’t have any towels. I have been drying myself with my pyjama bottoms and my tablecloth for over a week now. Now that I think of it, I have only had two showers in that week. Mostly because of the lack of towels, but… hmm. Skankay. I really should have showered today but I was too depressed. Anyway I forgot all about the towels but the rest of the stuff was just what the doctor ordered. If I was the kind of timewasting individual like Sinead O Connor, who would take her heartache to a trained medical professional. Which I’m not.

But we talked. I told my story, we talked… we talked properly, for hours, without fighting… for the first time in a long long… long time. It was lovely. She felt for me, she was horrified at the sight of my swollen eyelids, I look WEIRD. I really do.. but she was helpful, I don’t even know what she said but talking and talking to someone with more experience, who knows me… it really helped.

I feel pretty good.

I attribute some of this to the wine.

Then rebound guy was online, actually this was before my mother showed up, and we had a nice chat. Good banter. I’m not going to lead him on but it just reminds me, I am not some discarded loser of a woman, I got suitors. I got people who want a piece o this… I am so much better than the blubbering ex of some immature guy whose main attractive feature is an instinct to hold a woman’s face when he kisses her and say pretty things.

OH YAY! Another breakthrough, I’m reducing him. This has been really tough because I kept coming back to no, he was still great… but I’m reducing him now. Booya. Progression along the stages, from self loathing to him loathing. The lesser evil.

Also I have wine, the wine is helping fo sho.

And I’m back in work tomorrow if my eyes manage to de-puff… wine probably not helping this. God I look insane with these eyes. They are super swollen. I’m not talking puffy, red, I’m talking looks like I got punched in the face, the old one two. Fucks like a butterfly, stings like a bee that you are allergic to.

Wow we really were made for each other… I’m a motherfucking poet too.

God I want to smack that boy. A woman scorned.. oh boy you don’t know what you are messing with. I will destroy you if you ever decide to come crawling back. I have done the revenge-get-back-together-with-just to screw-with-your-head before and I am not above doing it again. No that’s just bravado… it’s true but I was like 16… I am not going to do it again and I am probably not going to get the chance, but I’m proud of myself for being cheery enough to think of REWENGE.

He can suck on my hairy ballsack. I don’t have one but if I did it would be really hairy.

You know when I went over to see him in France he had shaved his pubes? He isn’t a very hairy guy, he’s kind of blonde.. so it was utterly pointless and sort of pathetic. Like it was just patchy and there were still hairs randomly. I didn’t know why he did it, but the friction after three days of constant bedroom shenanigans (not all of which occured in the bedroom) has left me still kind of raw.   It was such an unneccessary gesture.. I put it in the vault of things I will eventually remember when I don’t think he’s amazing any more. YAY!

Let’s open the vault.

Bear in mind this is the passtime of a loser, a rejectee in love. None of these things bothered me when we were together. but now, let us deconstruct the image of perfection I built to keep all the nagging thoughts and nagging friends at bay.

1. That Italian accent he thought was really funny to put on all the time. But I didn’t know it was supposed to be an Italian accent at first because it was awful and uncalled for. Seriously, it sucked major ballsack. And not in a good way. (I do it in a good way)

2. The stupid youtube video of two babies. I have always found it hideously offputting when a guy invites me to watch somethign “hilarious” on youtube. It’s supposed to be one of my dealbreakers, if it isn’t hilarious. This wasn’t hilarious. I forced a laugh, because I’m a weak willed man-pleasin’ biatch.

3. Minor bum acne. Nuff said.

4. He made a big effort to avoid things that were too cheesy. The sunset would have been too cheesy if it was perfect. Oh sorry, I forget that it’s important to be poetic at all times without actually hitting the cheesy note. That’s important.

5. He didn’t like my plastic wine glasses so we stole real wine glasses from a bar. I enjoyed the stealing aspect of this, but not so much the responsibility of having to keep wine glasses in my house that might break. I liked my plastic red ones. They were safe and practical and nice. Obviously not POETIC enough. But practical.

6. He didn’t know what he was doing in the oral department. I don’t mean to be crude (haha. lies.) but he belonged… belongs… to the school of cunning linguists who think the hanging rashers are an erogenous zone. No… no. No one wants their bacon bits nibbled at. I didn’t care because really it’s all about the penetray for may, but it’s still a legitimate a flaw. I gave him GREAT head. I wonder what rebound guy is doing?

7. He’s a hypocritical emotional fuckwit.

8. He lives with his parents.

9. Some of the music he listens to is really shit.

10. I’m clutching at straws here… oh wait, he’s 21 and thinks he knows about love and life and he doesn’t know shit. That’s one. There we go, 10 flaws.

OH!

11. He didn’t really read much. what is that, he loves poetic things but not reading? So then I get to feel like a dunce because he watches GOOD films, films about things… and all I like are romantic comedies and non romantic comedies but actually I read a fuck load of books so that’s just stupid, movies are my mindless escapism, I read books when I wanna think.

I’m feeling optimistic because this is the first time I mention any of these things. Because they interrupted my perfect man appreciation, but there they are. Not really very good flaws, nothing like ex husband’s, or anything. Ex husband could fill a page of detailed, mind blowing dealbreakers.

I am moving oooonnnn up!

And I’m moving to France! If I get into English teacher school. And then I’ll be all by myself again but it will be exciting and I will not be a hermit, I will go out and meet people and learn French and teach English and make friends and meet an older, more mature French man with a name like Jacques and he will bring me to his really fucking beautiful apartment full of art, and we will drink amazing wine but he won’t be pretentious about the glasses, but of course he will have nice glasses, and he’ll show me how to eat oysters but not act like it MEANS anything to know how to eat oysters or not, and we will lie in bed talking about books with our sweaty sex legs all tangled up in a white sheet, and he’ll notice tihngs about me that are flattering but also kind of make me sad, and lonely, and I’ll fall back into his arms and he’ll admire me and tell me… not ask me… that he is taking me somewhere on Saturday, and to wear something fancy, and we’ll make love and fall apart and come together and fall apart and eventually there will be croque monsieurs that he will make appear out of thin air, when I think he’s going to the bathroom, and he won’t care about all the crumbs I get in the bed and he’ll tell me I’m wonderful and his bathroom will be so far from his bedroom and the windows so big, there will never be any need for me to hold it in again and get all bloated, and I’ll leave before he could ever imagine wanting me to leave, and he’ll lie looking at me getting dressed and grinning at his good luck at finding such an awesome lover and then he’ll send me something to my house, flowers, a note, something…

Yeah I believe I’m actually pretty good now, I’m just hopelessly in love with the idea of being in love.

I want a big romantic sexy story. I want it better than Antoine, I want it so much better. I think I’m good though.

I just want more of what I had with him, more but BETTER. For grown ups. YES I WANT ROMANCE.

I am feeling damn good. Fuck Antoine, just wait until I meet Jacques the art dealer with his cellar full of wines and trouser full of snake. He’s going to make me feel aaaalllll riiiiiight.

I’m sorry for all this I subject you too. I am a rollercoaster woman. This is what most pissed me off about my argument with assholefeatures. Because he thinks I’m soooo in love with him, crazy in love. NO! I’m just a hyper emotional, possibly bipolar type of person. I don’t mean to bandy around terms like bipolar when I don’t understand it but whatever it is, I’m so fine I don’t even care any more, he’s a jerk. Also I have wine! Wine is fine.

I might see if rebound guy is online and use him for banter and to pad my self esteem a little bit.

Love is like a boomerang

I bounced back with a snap, like a hastily removed condom.

Went to see the Stone Roses and didn’t see a whole lot of anything but hot photographer guy’s closed eyelids.

We made out in the tightly packed crowd and I lost all the rest of my friends and his camera had run out of battery so there were no flattering pictures but I took him back to my place anyway and we desecrated my love-bed with passionate, unfeeling, but passionate sex.

He gave me insanely good head. Insanely good. He told me I was stunning, he told me I was amazing, he told me I was so hot and so sexy… I didn’t even need him to go down on me, compliments are so much better.

I rebounded all over him and then I saw him again accidentally on Saturday night and brought him back here again after a drunken row with my best friend who was staying with me. FINE GO HANG OUT WITH YOUR BOYFRIEND YOU ARE JUST LIKE YOUR MOTHER!

FINE! I WILL! AND HES NOT MY BOYFRIEND! HES JUST THIS GUY!

My best friend took this moment to tell my poor rebound guy (well, I think he counts himself pretty lucky actually) that I am a sex addict.

“SHES A SEX ADDICT!” She bellowed, as if this was going to put him off me or something.

It was all fine the next day, she luckily wasn’t raped or murdered wandering the streets of Dublin on her own with that much whiskey in her veins, and she went back to a house full of cool people she had been dancing with, so it was all fine the next day.

I took him back and on the way in the door, drunk as I was, I felt the first pangs of what am I doing?

I thought I was moving on, moving on, cool, breezy, ready for the next lover.

But I’m not. I’m ok, really… And the sex (of course I went through with it, I was horny…) was great, but…

I started to see HIS face again. I felt weird, like I was betraying him. Maybe it was because the first night with hot photographer guy, I hadn’t heard back from my French lover and I was building up a wall of he wasn’t worth it anyway. But the next morning, Friday morning… I got a message from him, at 6.30 am, saying he loved me and he was so confused, and he didn’t know what to do… that he needed time to get his head together and he was so lost but he needed me to help, to say what would be right….he would be so happy with me, but it might be too difficult…

So when I took hot photog back to mine on Saturday night… it wasn’t the same. There was a Frenchman back in my head and my heart, and it wasn’t his dick between my legs. It felt wrong and I felt bad. I’ve cheated on people before who I was actually going out with and felt nothing like the creeping guilt I felt on Saturday night, and then three more times on Sunday morning.

The sex was good, it was good.. I was fantastic if I say so myself. He told me several times.

“You are so good at doing that… so good at sex.”

Yeah, I am. I really, really am.

But I want to be doing it with my French boy-man. I want his face on my belly, looking up hopefully.

I want him and I didn’t really stop wanting him. I’m ok now, really I am. The crazy has left my system. I’m over the withdrawal symptoms, the panic, the hopelessness.. But the love, or the approximation of love, whatever it is when you’ve known someone a month… it remains strong and it wells up inside me.

I eventually kicked hot photog out on Sunday afternoon because my friend was coming over and I thought in light of our previous whiskey fight, it wouldn’t be so cool if he was still there.

And then he left and she hadn’t arrived yet and I missed my French lover… I ached for him with a dull ache, not the madness of last week, but a manageable ache. A hunger that doesn’t impede my happiness, but a distinct hunger…

I found him online for the first time since he left, today, after I got home from work.

We exchanged pleasantries- he’s doing well on paper, new job, new place… but in reality he’s just ok.

I’m good… but I miss him.

I replied to his email yesterday and threw out a lot of contradictory statements about wanting to be with him but it being too crazy for me to move to France when I don’t speak French or have any money… and so forth.

I don’t want to scare him off with the fact that I would move to a leper colony and wash leprous asses for a living if I could be with him, so I’m being like yeah I’d like to but I have to be sensible..

I don’t know how much he is doing the same thing.

But we spoke today and he does seem to be quite defeatist about it. Sure we would not be happy where he lives. I want him to explain WHY but I don’t want to ask WHY so much or I will appear like I don’t get things and maybe getting things is something he likes about me.

I told him I would rather try seeing him once, and then another time, and then maybe another… and at least know I tried, than never try anything just because it looks difficult. He told me he needed a cigarette and when he came back he told me he couldn’t talk so he would talk later.

Hmm, important conversation here… I have a feeling he is curled up in the foetal position chain smoking right now trying to find a way to just put his foot down and say definitively NO because he is scared of how big it would be if I moved over.

Groan.. I don’t WANT to move over, I want to have that as an option and just continue spending whatever time I can with him, a weekend here and there… jesus, it’s not too much to risk…

Regret the things you didn’t do, and whatnot.

Says she of the failed marriage with a complete douche and four wasted years in Italy. Good point. Good point.

But he says there’s no point in spending a weekend together… of course it would be wonderful but it wouldn’t change anything. Maybe life will throw us another chance some day…

And I’m just like… oh fuck…

Life isn’t some mystical entity that bestows happiness on you. Life is dumb and uncaring and sometimes beautiful, and it doesn’t give anything, we sometimes just get opportunities to make our own happiness and we can either seize them and squeeze out as much juice as we have strength for, or we can shrug and move on and regret it later.

Life doesn’t give a shit if I’m happy or not, but then it won’t stand in my way if I try to reach out and take something I want. And it won’t laugh at me or shake its head if I make a mistake, or the same mistake a hundred times. It’s just life, it’s a fucking playground, and there aren’t always second chances but if you shy away from things because you don’t know if you’ll get a second chance or not, or you’re afraid of making a mess… you won’t do anything wonderful, ever, probably.

Or maybe I’m wrong. I have done a lot of stupid things…

But here I am, richer for having done them, and no scars except maybe the sex addiction thing, although that was probably just a mean thing my friend said. Although when you fight with your best friend, she does have the best ammunition…

So I’m waiting for a message, again. this time I’m pretty sure there’s no hope, but I’m ok, I’m chilled. I know now that I can get through it, and I can have fun, without this man… this intruder into my life.

I’m not ready for a new one, though. I shouldn’t really string him along, he does seem to like me quite a lot. And I like him, but he’s competing with another man, a man I am quite insane for… he can’t compete.

I asked him at the concert, does it not bother you… we met while you were taking pictures of me kissing another guy? And he said “he’s gone, right?” and then when I nodded, he shrugged and went back to kissing me.

But it aint that simple, he’s gone but he’s not forgotten. It’ll take a while, and first I really, really, really need to know if it’s over…

I don’t want to fight for someone who isn’t fighting for me… but I don’t even know what kind of internal battles he has going on right now. His independence versus constant sex. I don’t know how he thinks… he told me he purposefully didn’t reply to my email for a week because he thought it would help me move on. So why didn’t he just let it go and let me move on? And if he doesn’t want me to move on why is he telling me now, that it will be too difficult? Stop deciding everything for me! I want my voice to count, I want to feel like I have a choice here.

I have to wait again now, until he comes back online, and is ready to tell me… I’m so sure it will be no.

But I still have the little bit of hope that he will be just as foolish as me and say yes.

But whatever he says to me, I know I will be ok, and I won’t just be ok in some misty future… I have got through the really awful time and I am not going back there. I can take it on the chin this time. I have a backup guy to use awfully if I get lonely.

I’m a dick, I know.

But the oral was amazing.

A ma

zing.

 

I do need more of that, hot dog I DESERVE it.

But I miss my Frenchman. I can’t even give him a fake name because his name is great, it’s just HIM. It’s magic, when I hear it or read it or say it, it brings him back a little bit.

I’m having some hot whiskey now but not in a depressed way, in a kind of post-work way.

I’m not going to have nay more because I need to be in sound mind for when HE comes back online if he does.

 

I want to tell him he doesn’t have the right to decide how or when I move on, he can only make those decisions for himself. And if I want to make things harder for myself I have the right to do that, and if he wants to join me then he is more than welcome, and we’ll know we tried. I’m not asking for him to lift me up and carry me through France on his shoulders, I’m just asking for a weekend of sun and wine and lovemaking so he can leave me at the airport and we can know we tried something, and if I’m there and I see he lives too far from a city for me to EVER get a job and pay my own rent there (I will not live with a man no matter how in love I am, not for a while anyway…) then maybe I’ll know there’s no point, but I don’t know that now. Right that’s my last bit of whiskey I am having, there is quite a lot left because we were greedy and thought two bottles wouldn’t be enough for three girls, so I can have more if I want but I don’t want….

I’ll let you know how I get on BUT I won’t cry or anything.

Progress

Ok. Three or four posts today… Thanks to my blog family who are actually reading through all the insanity!

SO I still feel like utter shit and depressed and all but I am making brave plans,

I decided to go to the Stone Roses gig on Thursday, just decided to go and fuck it, and I found cheap tickets last minute and I’m going, and my best friend is going and so are some other cool people so YEAH!

Progress.

I’m not saying I don’t feel like crying, I’m just saying I am able to look forward to something, and it’s only a LITTLE TINY BIT about him seeing the cool photos of me having a great time and looking skinny and missing me. It’s only a little bit about that.

Also the guy who took the amazing photos of us together on our last weekend together, he’s going to be there and I was talking to him and he said if I was there he’d love to take more pictures of me. Because I’m so photogenic, well he said that when we were at the party anyway. So there, Frenchie.

There will be lots of really flattering pictures of me having fun at a concert and then you will be sorry.

And come back and be with me again.

Groan…

But look it’s improvement, definitely. I actually am looking forward to this…

And photographer guy is pretty hot and cool…

NO!

BAD ABBY!

No weird, common aquaintance-incestuous revenge fucks! Remember the lovely… oh. Yeah. No more FUCKING people. Want looovee and affection!

Might try to masturbate about someone else though tonight, see if I can do that without weeping.

Now what am I going to wear to this concert in the rain so that I look hot and like I am having a good time and so he regrets leaving the best woman he is ever going to meet for a few years anyway?

I think I might wear that dress, the black and white one with the stripes. I wore it the first night we met and I was all bloated with beer and period, and I still looked pretty damn good…. Now I’m in fantastic, frail shape… We shall see… It’s my sexiest dress of the moment anyway. It’s cool. I’m in fantastic shape thanks to a month of intense bedroom gymnastics and three days on a banana, some oat cakes and a cup of miso soup and a half a bowl of pasta. I’ll just stick on a pair of boots and a shitload of makeup and oh my god, this is lots of progress.

And I’m starting to be able to think, fuck him.

Like really, fuck him.

Just a little bit. Just a small bit… I’d still jump… but…

but…

But it’s progress.