A brief but still pretty long story of my sex addiction, and hopefully not temporary breakthrough.

Since I was a young teenager, I have been obsessed with sex. OBSESSED. I was always thinking about it and always talking about it. When I wasn’t talking about it, I was consciously holding myself back from talking about it because I didn’t want to bore people. Everywhere I went, I scanned the faces and bodies around me. Wondered who I’d like to fuck. What they’d be like in bed. I fantasized constantly. I masturbated constantly. I wasn’t attractive, so I didn’t have very much opportunity to live out my fantasies.

When I was 18 or 19, I started to come into my own. My confidence came from sex, from the brief high I got from a man’s desire to sleep with me, and from his approval of how passionate I was in bed, how willing to try things I might not really want to do.
I grew more confident. Flimsy confidence that plummeted every time a guy stopped calling, every time a careless remark reminded me I wasn’t really good looking. Sex was on my mind all the time. I slept with everyone who had a glint in their eye. I wasn’t good looking but I wasn’t ugly, and as I grew into a young adult I learnt how to make the most of my looks, and with sex constantly on my mind I exuded sex, and attracted more and more people. I wasn’t good looking but I was sexy.
It felt good, to have found my strength. It felt good, to be sexy, and although I couldn’t compete with the really pretty girls, when it came to sex I was in my element, and I got a certain satisfaction from the pretty girls’ boyfriends hitting on me.

But no one wanted to go out with me. Well, some did. Some fell for me, but they were the quiet, shy types. I had no interest in them. I was loud and bubbly, and I wanted the alpha males, not the “nice guys”. I didn’t really meet nice guys anyway. The ones who called themselves nice guys were usually shy, underconfident, geeky, and unattractive. They got drunk sometimes and the bitterness came out about all the assholes getting the girls. And then I’d think, it’s not because they’re assholes. You’re only as nice as you have to be, you’re only as much of an asshole as you can get away with. Woman aren’t prizes to be awarded to the most deserving. They are people who are just as shallow as you. While you’re complaining about the pretty girl going for the asshole, there’s a not so pretty girl like me bemoaning the fact that some other guy prefers a hotter, less nice girl, and when you set your sights on me, it’s as a plan b.
I chased men. I chased sexy, confident men. Fucked up men. Interesting men, I called them, until they tossed me aside or hurt me and then I called them losers and assholes.

I got a nice boyfriend. He loved me and for the first time I was treated well by a man. But he was quieter than me, and I was immature, and I needed someone to call me out on things, to calm me down, and he let me walk all over him. I did the walking, but I think I was far too young and selfish to respect someone who let me. I don’t regret the loss of the nice guy, because we weren’t right for each other, but I do regret being mean to him and not learning from him. We broke up, and I missed him terribly then, because he was for a while my best friend and my biggest supporter. But the sex was never right. He was less experienced than I was. Of course he was. But I didn’t know how to teach. I wasn’t entirely confident in bed, I just followed a male lead well. Because I was used to it. I was afraid to get on top, because I didn’t know what to do, how to move, what would feel good for him. It took me years to figure out just to do what felt good for me, and the rest would follow. I was embarrassed on top, I felt exposed. I didn’t know how to teach him, because all I had was muscle memory and he didn’t move me around the way I was used to. I thought I was great in bed, but I didn’t know how to be great in bed with him. We had sex drunk a lot at the start of our relationship and then less and less and less until we mostly just cuddled. I was sexually frustrated and masturbated whenever he got up earlier than me, whenever he slept earlier. 

I met an alpha male. He was unavailable. He didn’t want me, he just wanted to fuck me. He picked me up and flung me around with little regard for what I might want. And I played a game, for the first time, finally I had learnt to play the game. He fell in love with me, we fell in love, I was wonderfully happy, I had made him love me, a man who didn’t want a girlfriend tying him down. But it was under false pretenses. I showed him only my good sides, my agreeable, malleable sides. I didn’t show him anything I showed my previous boyfriend. I didn’t let him see the crazy, the weak, the emotional, the slob, the unhygienic, the bitchy, the lazy, the ugly, the fucked up, the sad, the jealous, the insecure.

When we married and settled down together, I relaxed. We both did. Slowly we got to know each other, too late. 

When we first met, the sex thrilled me. But it didn’t do it for me, really. I didn’t have orgasms. I wanted sex, constantly, and he obliged, and then some. But he didn’t try to make me cum, he just expected me to, from the pounding. I didn’t have many friends around me then, and those I did, weren’t very open about sex. So I didn’t know this was normal, that women don’t orgasm from being pounded. I thought it was my fault, and so did he. No other women had this problem with him, he said. 

It was a long time before I realised how many women women fake orgasms. I learnt I could orgasm if I masturbated while we had sex. But then he’d flip me over and I couldn’t do it from that position, so I faked orgasms. I faked orgasms while fake masturbating while he had sex with me. It was ridiculous. I started to resent him. He never went down on me. Once, on my birthday, extremely drunk, he tried to go down on me but it was so obviously a chore to him, I stopped him. He never tried again.

We gradually stopped having sex. I remembered my last relationship and it started to nag at me, that something was wrong with me, that I faked a sex drive for some reason, because I was starved of love, and when I got affection I didn’t want sex any more. It was me, it wasn’t my uninspired sexual partners. When we stopped having sex we put on weight. The fatter I got the less sexy I felt. The less sexy I felt the less I felt at all like having sex. I couldn’t fantasize about sex because it made me too unhappy to picture myself fat, being fucked, and it made me too unhappy to picture myself skinny, being fucked, because I wasn’t skinny. I masturbated when my husband slept beside me, and whenever he was out of the house. But I didn’t think of myself being fucked. I thought of him cheating on me with someone better looking and skinnier. It made me feel hurt but excited. And the fact that it was weird, and kind of fucked up to think about the man I loved fucking someone else, made it kinky and sexy.

I tried to initiate sex sometimes but my confidence was so low, because I was fat, because he didn’t want to fuck me, because his porn history was always right there when I checked my emails, and it was all big tit latinas, and not fat pasty women with small tits.

I left him. I had an empty apartment and no one to cuddle. I bought diet pills that gave me oily diarrhea. I ate big salads for dinner and bananas for lunch. I lost a stone in two or three months. I looked great. I fit into jeans I bought on sale, stubbornly, years ago, that I’d never managed to sit in. I took photos of myself in underwear, because I couldn’t believe I was slim, and I looked good, and I was happy, and my sex drive came back in force. 

Sex drive, or the desire to be witnessed, to be seen and approved of. And this is around the point where my blog started. If you go back to the very start, there’s a lot of bitching about people who annoy me, and I feel so young, reading it back, like shit, I can’t believe that’s just four years ago, or so. But that’s the point I was at. I had lost weight and I wanted to fuck, and it was all I thought about.

And then I went through a year of loneliness and sexual frustration in Italy, and then I came back to Ireland, and then I went to France, and then I went to Ireland again. And I decided to go back to university. 

And I spent a year partying and not writing, and making more friends than I’ve ever had, more close, real friends. And I’ve looked forward to college, more than I ever imagined I would. And I went through a stream… a torrent… a waterfall of men. 

I dipped my toe into the fetish community, because I was bored. I found the fetish community boring and cliquey. I had some fun, though. Learnt a few things about myself. I tried some interesting things. I met some people who, while annoyingly square about their kinkiness, at least put a lot of time and energy into both sides of the experience. People tried to make me cum. I gave them a few courtesy fake orgasms, because they made a good effort, and of course I can’t really orgasm without some intervention of my own. But then I let go, sometimes, and I found I could have orgasms, after all. I had the best sex of my life, by far. But it didn’t satisfy me. I still wanted sex, constantly, abundantly, until I was exhausted, and then I’d want more when I woke up, and more and more the more I had. 

I had an insane high from sex, even when I didn’t orgasm. And then I crashed, when it was gone. I was tired of fucking just anyone… my standard had been raised. Not for men, but for sex. I wanted the lickouts, the kink, the imagination, the spontaneity, the uninhibited quality of the fetish but without the crappy clichéd aesthetic, and the weirdly prevalent dominance and submission. Why so much bloody power exchange? Why did everyone expect that? I just wanted good, wild, interesting sex. I didn’t want to push my boundaries, I just wanted to keep things interesting. To treat bodies like climbing frames, to treat sex like a smorgasbord. I was too much of an anarchist to delve into anything properly, like bondage, power exchange, fetish, because the people who got there first had made up rules and etiquette and vocabulary that made me cringe, and lose respect for its blind followers. 

But I did have some great sex. But I didn’t WANT to just have sex. It was naturally unavoidable, that I would have lots of sex, all the time, because I had a drive, I needed it, I wanted it all the time. I wanted to meet someone lovely, caring, who would make me laugh and who would appreciate me, who I could have fun with, and cook for, and care about, and support, and then I wanted them to fuck me all night too. But where to meet this guy. I hadn’t met anyone in ages, I had never met anyone who really ticked all the boxes. There was no “one that got away.” All my boyfriends had in retrospect been awful. And all the men I’d overlooked… well, I probably didn’t remember them. But I wanted someone really special, for me. I had so many friends, and so much going on, and so much to look forward to, an actual life goal, too, that my confidence was growing, and not just from sex. But my foray into the kinky world had given me more sexual power, and now I knew I wasn’t sexually defunct, and I wanted more, and no longer could I kid myself that a quick casual fuck would satisfy my craving.

A couple of months ago I got fantastically drunk with a few friends and one of their acquaintances who turned out to be a kinky guy, and when he pulled out a bag of coke, and everyone else went home, we talked more and more about sex, and kink, and we trailed off back to my house, and I dressed up and let him tell me what to do, and I felt like a goddess, because he was so impressed by me, because I was such a strong woman, so clear about what I wanted, and so sure of myself, and yet I’d still go either way in the bedroom. And the next day I woke up and felt fine about it, he spent so much time going down on me, I couldn’t even count the orgasms or where one ended and the next began. I felt fine about it, not regretting drunk sex, as I have occasionally done. But I felt not just fine, I felt like I was too good, for this. Yes, I am a strong woman. Yes I do know what I want. I am sure of myself. Finally. I really am, I know my needs, my wants, I know my worth. Not that sex is a gift to hand to the worthy, but damn, why am I bending over backwards making it easy for people who have done nothing for me? I mean, yes, some of these people put a lot of work in with the orgasms. But mostly, they don’t. And I’m worth more than this. I want more, I don’t want to be this supposedly great woman and then just fucking any man who wants to and has a bit of confidence to ask. What a pity, what a millstone around my neck, this damn sex drive.

I imagined all I might achieve, if I freed up my mind, my energy, my drive, for other things. To work on myself, on my life, on getting me the real lasting things I wanted, not the instant gratification. The instant gratification that left me desolate, lonely, hollow, half the time. And the other half, left me attached to the object of my lust, falling in obsessive love for short bursts, thinking of nothing and no one but them until it burst and I went back to rudderless horniness. I wanted out, but I assumed I’d never be out, because I’d been like this since I was a teenager. It was how my brain had grown. Sex was the fulcrum. Sex was the monastery around which my brain had grown, sex was the old roads that couldn’t be widened any more, because the buildings were built there, sex was the reason everything was laid out as it was. Sex ran through my reasons for everything. I imagined ripping out the thing that had defined me for so long, and what would be left? Sex is who I am. By saying I was tired of meaningless sex… was I forgetting all the beautiful, meaningful sex and moments of passion I’d shared with men who, no, had not loved me, but they had, maybe, for a moment. I resided, just a piece of me, in the memories of so many men. All so different. I didn’t have a type. I had shared intimate, very intimate moments with men of all walks of life, of… well, not all ages, but a wide range anyway. I treasured the experiences. I had taken chances and opened up, and taken things, tiny things, from every man I’d given something to. Was that wrong, or harmful, or the very best part of me? Would I just be dulling myself, skimming the cream off the top because I couldn’t handle the ill effects? Was I just afraid I wouldn’t meet someone perfect, because I was slumming it? Wouldn’t the right person for me be slumming it too, waiting for the real thing? 

Ah. But there was a problem, I was forgetting it, the problem was I spent most of my time depressed from lack of sex, the rest of the time either high on sex or anticipating being high on sex. It was exhausting, draining, and it wasn’t making me happy. 

I googled sex addiction. I found a group in Dublin, Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous. I contacted them. Asked to attend a meeting. A man phoned me the next day, and gave me details of how to meet, because there was a pre-meeting first, to avoid revealing the location of the group to just anyone. I was going to attend. He sent me some pdf documents about the group.

I read a little and realised it was based on the 12 steps of Alcoholics Anonymous. The 12 steps, with the higher power step, where you have to admit there’s a higher power, or a god, and you can call it whatever you like but I’m not just an atheist, I’m totally anti-spiritual. I’m not going to sniff at what works for others, but in my personal opinion there’s not a whole lot of point in calling a psychological issue or condition or habit or addiction a “disease” and admitting you have no control over it. Maybe the point is to go to AA, or SLAA when you’ve tried everything alone, and come to the conclusion you have no control over it. But if you hope to get any help from a support group, which can’t give something up for you, what the hell use is admitting you have no control over it? I bristled at everything I read. I was still planning on going, because as righteous as I considered my opinions, I obviously wasn’t right at all, because I couldn’t stop myself from doing something what was frying me mentally, year after year, man after man.

But then the next day, typically, was a gorgeous day, and my friends were going to the river with a canoe, to drink gin and row and be reckless. So I called the sex addict man and wondered if he was attractive, and wondered if anyone at the meeting would be sexy, and I told him I wouldn’t make it today, and I would reschedule some time.

I never did.

Soon after I was horny and I thought who can I call, and I flicked through my phone book and saw name after name of people I’d slept with, people I could sleep with again, but nobody inspired any excitement, I just thought, yeah, I could… but why bother. Why slum it. Why give someone my time, my body, I felt like fucking, but I couldn’t bear to kiss anyone. I wanted to meet someone lovely, and sweet, and funny, and sexy. I didn’t want to suck a dick, much as I loved doing that, I just wanted someone to look at me and see everything, and I thought for the first time, really for the first time, something I’ve only ever heard or read with a patronising tone. 

I thought maybe I’m not letting anyone see the whole picture, because I keep shoving sex in their faces. I didn’t think “no one will respect me if I have sex with them straight away” or “maybe if I really like someone I should wait so I can see if he’s worthy of me” or “I should give it more value by withholding it”

I didn’t think women are different from men, and I should hide my sexuality. I just thought… I’m just LEAPING down their throats with sex. I’m expecting people to see I’m much more than that, but it’s all I’m really putting out there. I’m chasing men down and making the first move before I’ve given anyone a chance to see what they think. My friends don’t think I’m all about sex. I’m not all about sex. 

And I said, that’s it, I’m going to not have sex for a while. I’m going to take a break. I’m going to just… not give it up, exactly, because there’s nothing good on the horizon anyway, manwise. Just… I’m not going to go out looking for it. I’m not going to scan the party for a suitable penis carrier. I’m not going to fuck someone I don’t really feel like fucking just for the sake of it. I’m bored. I’m out.

That night, typically, I had sex. Very good sex, with a very nice, fun, attentive man, who made the first move because I didn’t give him any come on, and I left the next day thinking, that was great, that was better, and all because I didn’t try, and look how much better it felt. But how lousy I was at being celibate.

But THEN, I felt like everything I thought the day before, started to swirl around my head again. And settle into place. And I meant it, I felt like I wanted… to be free from sex for a while. And even though I had a dick in me a few hours earlier, I felt like I had snapped out of it. Like something clicked, I’d been going around on the same track for years, so long, all the time too bloody stubborn to accept that my own way of doing things that wasn’t making me happy, could possibly be the reason that I was unhappy in love and life and sex. I couldn’t, well, of course I couldn’t listen to anyone else. Their voices made the words sound accusatory. Their reasons for not fucking everything that moved, were kind of anti-feminist, anti-having any faith in men. Whenever I was told to hold off on sex, it was because men couldn’t respect a woman who was easy to bed, and because men wanted a nice girl, and because men had sex drives and women didn’t, and it made me angry, because that was all wrong. I’m not going to pretend I’ve had an epiphany, that I’ve changed my life forever, that I’ve got it all figured out.

The last time I had sex was nearly a month ago. Not that long a stretch, I’ve gone longer before, I swear. 

But the difference is… for the first time since I can remember, I haven’t been obsessing, I haven’t been scanning the people on the bus for faces I’d kiss, and I haven’t been flicking through my phonebook for names I’d revisit. 

And I haven’t felt empty of like I’ve lost my centre. Sex isn’t gone from me, but it’s not fast food, and I’m not looking for it. I got a message from the guy… oh, I don’t know if I ever wrote about him here. But I met a guy nearly a year ago online, and eight months ago we met and had amazing sex, and did some kinky stuff, and he lives in the UK so kept up a long distance thing, that sort of trailed off, but he was going to come back and we were going to meet, and man, that was great sex. And I liked his company, too. He was funny, and interesting. So of all the people to tempt me, someone I could definitely justify sleeping with as he’s not fast food sex and he’s not something bad for me, he’s pretty much as good as it gets. 

And he wrote to me and said he’s coming over this weekend, and I happen to be house sitting for a week and have a house to myself, and he could come over tomorrow and see me and we’d have all the privacy we could want. But I don’t want to. I have no interest. And this is pretty fucking big, for me.

So… I think I’ve made some serious headway towards something. I can’t do anything to hurry up my meeting someone great, but I think if I can fill up my life, with other things, with things that don’t just explode and fade to nothing, and be happy with myself like this, then I won’t need that person to show up so soon. And when I do meet someone wonderful and worthwhile, then I’ll be so much better placed to act and to let them see the things I want them to see. And maybe I’ll fuck them right away. And if they’re the right kind of person, that shouldn’t make any difference. But perhaps I’ll settle down by myself for a while, and see what happens. It’s not like I’m making some huge effort- perhaps I’m just going through a phase- but I really hope I’ve grown out of something that is rarely great for me. Being rampantly sexually active hasn’t all been bad. I’ve had LOTS OF FUN and fallen in love more times than I can count, and had great experiences and met great people in weird and wonderful ways. But the mental thing, more often than not, fucks with me, because I’m not unromantic, and I’m not able to separate sex from emotions. 

I feel pretty good, right now. Really good. So that’s probably more navel gazing than anyone wants to read, but I feel so hugely different lately, I just wanted to record it. Maybe if I go back to my old ways, it’ll serve to remind me how I felt, and put me back in this frame of mine. So for that alone, I’m hitting publish.

I just really hope this no sex thing doesn’t make me fat.

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.

Shoppin’, stalkin’, drinkin’ alone, and talkin’ ’bout religion. I’m an incorrigible woman

So, I know I do this every month and some of those months I write whole blog posts about it but:

It was just a period related fat week. I have not put on twenty pounds of belly fat, I have not conceived a baby oesophogaly, and my disgustingly sedentary lifestyle has not finally caught up with me. I have deflated again. OH period, you sly dog. I always fall for your hysterics, every time. Three days ago I was grabbin handfulls of loose flab and making “nyom nyom me hungry” noises and crying inside. Today I have pelvis bones again and if I suck it all in and stand with my bum thrust far back and my chest out, I can look in the mirror and think, damn girl, you fine. Except then I got too excited and tried on the Calvin Klein swimsuit. Ouch. That hurts, bro…

But so long as I stay away from the devil swimsuit, I can pretty much cope with my body this week.

The peep show will go on…

Even the weather is kind of back to normal. It’s a few degrees above 0 today. I feel so enthused by this balmy temperature, I may even achieve something later, like bring down the bins or wipe the kitchen counter. It feels like that kind of day. Productivity, hoy!

I have a collection of disgusting bins on my balcony saved up from the past week or two of snow. It was so cold outside, the bags are all frosty the microbes seem to be in suspended animation so it’s not like there’s a horrible smell coming from my apartment, giving neighbours the impression I have choked and lie decomposing in a puddle of whiskey and vomit.  There is a horrible smell in my kitchen but that’s just… well, I am going to look into that one of these days. I wonder if it’s possible for my floor to be so dirty, that it actually smells bad. It’s pretty dirty because my sweeping brush on the balcony was covered with snow. It’s melted now, I should really sweep the floor.

It’s such a relief, the cold abating. I was worried I would have to go to London next week and just… leave the apartment in this condition. Seriously it’s not like you think, it’s not JUST I’m lazy and keep pushing my responsibilities onto the plate of my future self, but it’s so cold in my kitchen. I get home from work hungry and grumpy, I enter the kitchen… I make some soup, chopping everything on plates with the good knife (I have to stop calling it the good knife now, those dinner plates have really fucked up the cutting edge..) because the counter is so dirty and gross… and I had to throw out the expensive wooden chopping board because it didn’t like the dishwasher and if you are gonna live in my kitchen, you have to learn to get along with the dishwasher.

So I make my soup, and while that is cooking nicely, I start to lose the feeling in my feet. I look for my slippers and find them in the bed. BAD GIRL wearing those filthy things in my bed. I put on my slippers, back into the kitchen. It is still too cold. What to do, what to do….. Hot whiskey. It’s really the only thing for it. I prepare a mug of hot whiskey and shuffle off to bed just to get my temperature up a bit. I sip my whiskey and feel waves of Irishness and contentment wash over me. O, to toast my pinkies by the fire… o, to graze the green pastures of home with my own herd…

I feel a bit misty eyed so I snuggle up under the duvet and watch some Seinfeld. This phase of obsessive Seinfeld watching has lasted a record 3 seasons so far and shows no signs of dwindling. I have also dipped back into playing Skyrim but it is too cold in reality to be hanging around a virtual winter wonderland.

After a while of horizontal relaxation I get up and check the soup…  mmm… wonderful. I put meat in my soup. Everything is better with meat. Or cheese. Meat, or cheese are the best foods in my lofty opinion. If you are lactose intollerant I feel bad for you, son. I got 99 problems but the lactose aint one. Hit me! (piece of trivia for you: They used to call me the Rapmaster. I have had many nicknames over the years, for some reason or other they never catch on. Except for one… The Masturbator. That stuck, like moss on a stationary stone.)

Fix myself another hot whiskey and take a bowl of soup back with me to bed with a stack of bread  riddled with the shrapnel of frozen butter. Oh baby. And there ends my productivity for the evening. I drink more whiskey, watch more Seinfeld, and eat mandarins whose peel I fling overboard.

I can do no more… until it gets a bit warmer. Today is a start, a cheery step in the warm direction. I will do the bins today, definitely. The organisation and packing of all my disordered worldly goods, that can wait until we hit a modest 10 degrees maybe. But it is really happening. I am going to London next motherfucking WEEK. And I have nothing prepared. I am the worst, I know.

And I have altered my trajectory. I was going to London on a scouting mission. Just to check out the lay of the land… party a small bit. But lately I have become disillusioned with my foggy plans. I used to say “hang the expense, I don’t mind slumming it for a bit, it’s LONDON it will be amazing.” But now it looms on the horizon, the moment when I switch from imaginary personality that can cope with being broke… and me, the real person, actually having to go away and be poor and not have all my nice shiny things and spending money.

And reality-me is not on board. Reality me says, no dude, I just wanted the social life bit. I am not really willing to hang around paying that kind of rent and paying that much for transportation and not being able to afford olive oil and avocados, probably.

So we (me) are going to hop over to London purely for hedonistic purposes then head on to Dublin… I would give you a whole bunch of brilliant reasons why i should choose Dublin over England but mostly I think, if I’m honest, it comes down to: I’m chicken shit.

The things I am yeller about vary from “scary underground trains” to “not being able to afford avocados or enough privacy to be naked in my own home” and plenty in between. I have friends in London, but I also have friends in Dublin. Wherever I go, it’s gonna be OFF THE HOOK. I’m excited, very excited. I have probably just transferred by silly optimism from one city to the other, but meh. I know what I can get away with in Ireland. Sure, I haven’t lived there in over four years… not since the worldwide shitstorm mopefest downer buzzkill financial crisis….. but it’s still my city, I know her oh so well…. Although last time I was in Dublin, over New Year, I took four taxis in the space of 2 hours because I kept forgetting where things were and the distances and I got a bit lost. I mean I wasn’t lost. Not really… But I was a little bit lost, yes.

I’m not just going to move over next week, first I’m gonna hit London for a weekend or so because I am stubborn and refuse to miss out on any of my holiday time even when I need every cent or penny I have… But meh. That’s like, my personality. You can’t expect me to just change my personality. It’s all part of my rogueish charm.

So London, then straight to Dublin where I will immediately hunt for a shitty little apartment to rent. I will hopefully find one. I will return to Italy, ship my things, spend some guilty time with my sisters and then back to Ireland to move into my new life. YAAAAYYY. And then I will start looking for a new job. Any suggestions for a job that doesn’t involve me spending much time with other people? Or animals. Or children. I am not good with plants either.

The time is so tantalisingly close now. I have been wanting desperately to move out of this country since I started writing this blog, about a year ago. The whole time I have been relating my humdrum adventures, I have been utterly miserable in my situation. I have had happy moments (wink wink) but mostly I was just waiting out my sentence. If I had been more active in the waiting maybe i would have more money saved. But hey, it is what it is. I’ll learn.. well, today I bought some cashmere tights and a dress BUT IT WAS ON SALE, so no… it seems I never learn….

But the time of action is almost upon me. Very soon I am going to have to say goodbye to people, and I am going to lose some of my independence and luxury. Butt fuck it.I am going to gain a LIFE.

Last night, Andrea invited me out for a meal. No chicken feet this time. Ha ha ha. I turned red and muttered something about how I wasn’t a fan of those feet but I loved the snails…  Yum snails… Oh MFO, just shut up already. It’s over. They must have known I was faking it… I know I’m not convincing anyone when I tell the customers they look good in MC Hammer pants, and that lie doesn’t even involve overcoming the gag reflex.

But it was fine, we went for sushi. I love sushi. But I didn’t realise how little cash I had left… I put my money in the bank and I don’t remember the pin to that card.. I counted before leaving the house and found I had about 25 euros liquid assets. Shiiit (I have since remembered my pin) WHERE does the money go? This meal better be cheap. REAL cheap.

I didn’t know how to broach the subject without seeming like a total bum. I would need to be like, uh how much will this cost, and can I borrow like a tenner from you? But I didn’t want to borrow anything because she is very generous and I knew she would agree but then never let me pay her back.

So we were getting ready in her house, and I fiddled with the question in my mind for a while, eventually blurting  “how much…err.. more or less…” but she wouldn’t say, she just said, oh no I am treating you. And I’m like, no Andrea don’t be silly, but she insisted, “hey you are leaving in a week and I’m not gonna see you again…”

Aww. Man, of course I’m gonna see you again. I will come back to visit my family as often as I can, and you can come visit me. It will be fun!

She was like, “yeah, I know…” but she stuck to her guns. “I’m paying, I want to!”

So I argued for a while, the old polite grown up back and forth… don’t be silly, etc… but secretly I was relieved when she ended the discussion by firming her tone of voice the way my grandad does when he is on the verge of actually becoming annoyed if you don’t let him pay. I didn’t want her to pay for me but like, I couldn’t actually afford to pay for it all myself. So I backed down on the condition I paid for our taxi there and back and my money just stretched to that. The meal was gorgeous and it was a set menu so it wasn’t expensive and I didn’t feel like such a shit for letting her pay.

We ate a LOT. We scarfed down plate after plate of sushi and noodles and when we went to leave we realised we had been eating for 3 hours. It was a great meal. I realised since the night with the crazy food experiments, I am no longer phased by any of the foods i used to be squeamish about. Mushrooms… courgette… shellfish… polenta… broccoli… squid when it’s not deep fried in rings…. I had a lot of food hang ups. But now I’m just shovelling it all down the gullet, yum yum yum. Next time I’m in my mother’s house I am going to try a brussels sprout. (my childhood nemesis)

I also finally conquered the chopsticks. I mean, I was able to completely empty every plate of food that arrived without once resorting to using my hands or even dismantling a california roll in the soy sauce. I was able to eat noodles, although I did get a lot of sauce on my face and the uber stylish hipster dudes at the table next to me looked a tad repulsed. But I made it through the whole meal. I didn’t leave aside a single piece of mushroom or squid tentacle and I didn’t get my hands dirty. This is momentous for me. So after all, the chicken foot episode was a good experience. It has improved me. Do one thing every day that scares you, indeed.

I always do shit that scares me, like google my symptoms, but usually that just makes me lie in bed at 4am, sleepless with a lead weight in my heart, convinced not only that I have one life to life but that it’s about to come to an end because of cancer or HPV or that thing Stephen Hawking has. I lie for miserable hours and wonder whether as a nihilist I should not give a single shit about what happens to my remains and let my family bury me or cremate me or whatever floats their grieving boat, or whether as a non believer I shouldn’t be insulted with churchy stuff even if I won’t know. I usually lean indignantly to the latter and start drafting clear instructions to my family that my earthly remains do not go near a church or a cross or a priest and if I am cremated they are to bury my ashes somewhere and not just fling them in the air where someone is going to breathe them. And maybe plant a tree or something there so they can visit the tree, but not if they are going to make up any bullshit about me actually being the tree. I wouldn’t want my mother getting all freaky about some tree and talking to it and generally letting her grief drive her insane. I would prefer her to just bore people at parties talking about how great I was. Aw I really don’t want my mother to have to go through that. I’m glad I quit smoking, I just wish quitting was like, a get out of cancer free card. It should be.

Ideally, I would like to be buried in the bog somewhere without a coffin, so the bog juice can preserve me and make me into some cool person-jerky like the bog man they have in Trinity College in Dublin. And then when the people who want creationism taught in schools have bullied science back into the dark ages and future humans start to question where we came from, they can use my shrivelled up body as proof that modern humans and whatever kind of Morlocks are feeding on them, once evolved from homosapiens. That would be pretty awesome.  But I don’t think you are allowed just bury people in the bog.

Sometimes I really can’t sleep with all those thoughts so I give up trying and turn my computer back on. And watch tv or compose my eulogy, it is coming along nicely by the way, although it is hard not to sound preachy…  Usually the next morning I have come to terms with my mortality all over again and probably don’t think I have vagina cancer any more.

Anyway don’t google your symptoms. That is just bad scary. Pretty much everything is a symptom of cancer, just like pretty much every emotional state is a sign that you have too many thetans or whatever and need Scientology to sort you out.

Anyway. Not to get too sidetracked here, but it was a great meal and we had a really nice time. I was getting very excited about moving away.

Andrea was quiet, I jabbered on about the streets of Dublin that are paved with proper chunky chips and the summer evenings with the sea breeze and cider as the sun sets… Of going shopping and buying a “Small”, of not being the palest person in the posse… or at least, not by too much.

Then she said, “I can’t believe you are leaving. It’s so shit… Who will I go out with now?”

I was surprised, I guess it just didn’t occur to me that people other than my family would miss me at all. Then I saw she had tears in her eyes. What the? I have, all this time, been treating our friendship as a beneficial arrangement where I get to hang out with her, I get to have a friend, I get to go out and meet people, and drink, and in return she has, so far, tolerated my company. I never really got why she kept calling me up and asking me to go out. She has a lot more friends here, but she calls me up every weekend and we go out, and mostly it’s just the two of us plus eventual menfolks. But she’s much more sociable than me. She has other friends too, the Eastern European group we went drinking with before… the girls are fun. I always just presumed she was being polite inviting me out, or she didn’t have anything better to do… but suddenly last night it occured to me, that actually, what I have here is a proper friend. She actually LIKES my company. Why this was so unexpected… I don’t know. I guess I just spend so much time on my own, and I’m so used to the people I meet here kind of frowning on my antics… I had made several little attempts at friendship before Andrea and each time, I got too drunk, they got too boring, and it petered out from mutual disinterest. Every venture was an exercise in endurance. A game of friendship chicken.. who would give up first?

But Andrea is my actual friend. I managed to, out of all that self-flagellation and ridiculous drinking and terrible ranting and sluttyness and vomiting and being weird and yelling… I managed to make a good solid friend. I never make friends with girls. Never. My best friends are girls, but I don’t know where I picked them up. I certainly didn’t charm them with my personality. I guess they just got used to me and learnt to put up with the ranting and the talking through movies and the self-centredness and whatnot. It was so much easier to  make friends with people in school or college or when I had lots of coworkers. In those situations, there’s no pressure for you to be each other’s ideal friend, you just hang out sometimes and you have your job in common, or your teachers, and then if you get along well, gradually they overflow into your normal life.

Outside those big forced socialisation environments like school or work, you have to really like someone to see them again. You need to make the effort and put yourself out there.  It’s like dating, I presume, because I’m too easy to have ever actually been on a date. I never bothered with making friends in school. I would usually make one good friend and then I was happy, and that friend would just keep accumulating other friends, and then there was a group, and I automatically had all these friends to hang out with. I have no idea if these other extra friends actually liked me or not, because I certainly didn’t like every single one of them… But it was a pretty sweet set up. I got a social life while really only bothering to make one friend. I didn’t think like that at the time, I just realised now that’s how it seemed to go for me.

But somehow this time, without any outside help… merely on my own merits, I guess, somehow I made a good friend. Now don’t think I’m going all low-self-esteemy on you. I know I am a super person. I am the shizz, in a good way. I am the Alpha and the Omega, baby. There’s no doubt about my kickass personality here. It just surprises me when other people, these saps I share the earth with… also manage to see how wonderful I am. I mean, if other people like me the way I am, all hostile and grouchy and unhygenic and vulgar and vain… then what the FUCK is the point in this whole culture of being polite and nice and the terror of people knowing you pee in the shower and masturbate and pick your nose? (not simultaneously, that’s just gross)

Apparently, it seems I can totally get away with my behaviour… I mean sure I’m not everyone’s cup of tea but that is ok, I just need a couple of folks to hang out with and laugh at my jokes. Also if everyone liked me, who could I feel superior to? Exactly.

Ahhh.

I started to feel kind of terrible, admiring my newfound magnetism and popularity while Andrea’s eyes welled up.

This was long after they had taken away the wasabi, we were having dessert so it was definitely tears and not the insane amount of wasabi she stirs into her soy sauce. She’s actually going to miss me, imagine that. I’ll miss her too, I mean she’s my best friend here… my only friend I actually like… I know I’m a bit of a cunt when I talk about her, calling her a bitch for being pretty and all that… but I think she’s a lovely person, really. I just get drunk and feel ugly beside her, that’s all. But honestly I prefer having a friend that’s prettier than me than a friend that’s less pretty. I briefly made friends with a girl here who was a bit of a moose, and it wasn’t so much flattering as embarassing. It’s not like, by being the better looking of the two of us, I attracted hotter guys. I just attracted a lot more ugly ones. It’s a bit of a kick to the ego, having these men make a beeline for my companion and not see me next to her even though I am like a foot taller. (Well, I exaggerate.) But it’s not like I really WANT them. She deflects a lot of scrubs, which is actually good as my usual reaction is to either bring them home and regret it, or threaten to mace them for daring to look at my exposed buttocks. (A scrub is a guy that thinks he’s fly, he’s also known as a bus stop)

Anyway, it was kind of sad but flattering to see Andrea all teary. It honestly didn’t occur to me before that anyone would ever miss me based on my crumby interactions here in Italy. I thought like, my family would miss me. I mean they’re my family, they love me…. But the fact that, all depressed and mopey and drunk as I am here in Italy, I have still managed to get someone to think that it will be worse when I’m not around… It’s a real surprise. And I am probably not going to miss her that much, really, after all. I will be losing a good girlfriend, but recuperating a plethora of other friends… My social life is gonna be so much better….

I don’t know what I would have done without Andrea, though. She has been my only real friend here. She has been pretty much all my social life. I have had other attempts, other trial friendships… but I always found myself craning my neck through the drivel conversation of my own group and coveting the laughing hooting party at the next table. Or any other table. I kept going out with these various dry shites, but it was a mechanical thing like eating crackers because you are hungry. You don’t wanna be hungry, so you eat, but you never want to socialise with their human equivalent. It’s a crappy crappy solution to a very important need…..

Most people when they move away from somewhere they lived for 3 years, have a leaving do. They go for a meal or have a party and invite all their friends… I have known people here who spent 6 months in this city, and had a 30 person sit down meal to mark their departure. I’ve spent 3.5 years here and what do I have to show for it?

Who would I invite? Andrea. My colleagues… All four of them. I don’t like the fifth girl, she’s a cunt. And even Gabrielle, my team mate and colleague, is really pissing me off lately. She’s so negative, she makes ME uncomfortable. She also recently came out with this speech about how vaccines cause autism and she would never get a vaccine against anything, and I was respectful but pointed out the eradication of polio but she just ranted and quoted anecdotal evidence that didn’t even make sense. Child got vaccine- child later was diagnosed as autistic. So the vaccine must have caused the autism. Post hoc ergo propter hoc, is it? Fucking ridiculous.

Sorry guys I just haven’t done a wash in ages so I had to wear my RANTY PANTS this morning.

Then there’s bum chum… eww. No.  Then there are all the aquaintances… my failed attempts at socialising. Moose face, she’s just a boring dick…. The Welsh girl I met once seemed promising… until she wanted to go home by 8pm because she had work in the morning. Eh, so did I. It was seriously like 7.30… We never met again…

The Scottish girl I met, who spoke far too quickly, barely breathing, I could hardly understand her… but she seemed nice, she came to visit me at work a few times and stayed for a long chat… I was excited, maybe we would be friends. I would love a girlfriend to talk English with… even if it required my undivided concentration to understand her speech. Then we became facebook friends. She started to appear on my news feed.

“Christina likes Church of the Anunnciation of the Saint of the Virgin’s status: “A woman went to the doctor asking for an abortion. He told her,why don’t you just kill your five year old son instead. She realised that it was true, an abortion is exactly the same as murdering your child.” And “if evolution is so true, then how come there are no talking rocks” and other similar pages, all these religious pages about priests delivering supposedly fatal arguments to Richard Dawkins and Charles Darwin…

I can not be even slightly friends with someone like that. I might have so few friends, in part, because of my intollerance towards religion, but it’s a total dealbreaker for me.

All my friends differ from me in some area of belief. Be it homeopathy, astrology, accupuncture, the Mayan prophesy, ghosts or simply vitamin c as a cure for the cold… there is something to disagree about. I don’t believe in any of the above, it’s a passion of mine… looking things up and finding out if they are fact or fiction, or if there is any evidence for or against, or if it’s an old wive’s tale, where did it come from? I am interested in digging it up… I’m totally skeptical. I welcome the dismantling of my old ideas. Challenge me on anything, I take a deep pleasure (oh yeah) in learning that I have been wrong about something all this time. That, and looking skinny, is how I get my kicks. And I’m not really sure about many things, because so much of life is gray area… not astrology or homeopathy, though. Those are just pseudoscience. I’m definitely right about that.

But I don’t really judge people on those beliefs like I judge them on religious faith. Because none of us are naturally rational creatures. I’m not rational by nature, I just have a strong interest in sticking to the real, the solid, the provable. It’s a sliver of a difference, between myself and the people who believe in things. Where I have a gap in my knowledge, I am happier to leave it blank than to fill it with something arbitrary, but I am sure my brain is still riddled with placeholder myths.. Most people prefer to smooth it over with faith than to have an “I don’t know.” And I don’t think this makes them stupider than me or more ignorant… because in theory, we both lack the knowledge, we just attempt to deal with the hole differently-

I honestly don’t think that is stupid. It is, I believe (based on nothing) one of the reasons humans are so intelligent. Our brains are able to outperform computers because we are not constrained by logic and reason. We can leap, we can make educated guesses. We can presume. And if we couldn’t do that, we would be like Vulcans, and have horrible identical haircuts, or maybe we would be like monkeys, or if monkeys are a bad example then mongeese. Imagination, inventiveness… I have no qualms with those aspects of humanity. I don’t want to be a robot. The problem I have is not the filling of gaps with guesses, it’s that as the gaps close up and there is less space for fantasy left, people are so firm about their fillers that they wind up rejecting the real, knowable answers in favour of the previous best guess.

I’m aware that filling a gap with a god is just the same as filling a gap with astrology or homeopathy or angels or kinesiology. It is the same, irrational, no evidence, leap of faith. But although I wrinkle up my nose when my family or friends claim to be cured by arnica or worry about the horoscope’s warning… I don’t think my family or friends are idiots like I think religious people are idiots, I look at it like they just don’t have the same insistence on questioning absolutely everything. My teachers always said that, that I always had to question EVERYTHING. I wouldn’t believe the text books, or the teacher, about anything “just because it’s in the book”. I would first argue my own ignorantly formed opinion and then I would go home and look it up and 99% of the time go back the next day, knowing I was wrong, and just say nothing. But sometimes I was right, too, and then I would become the most insufferably little shit and my smugness would know no limits.

I don’t think that my skepticism about everything is necessarily right or good. I have been wrong and dogmatic in my own route to knoledge, just as much as any religious fanatic or Mayan prophesy believer.

But I don’t hold astrologists or pseudoscience enthusiasts to the same standards as I do the religious. Maybe it’s because if I don’t agree with astrology, nobody will think I am wicked. Nobody will try to force astrology on my kids, if I ever have them. Nobody will think I am immoral or untrustworthy if I say I don’t believe my personality traits are determined by the planets moving into certain areas of space. The holders of these beliefs are tolerant of my lack thereof, so while I wish they wouldn’t waste their money and cling to redundant ideas, I keep my opinions to myself usually unless I am drunk. And then, as you know, they come out in the worst way possible and I become rude and insulting and make up laws of physics and throw around words I don’t understand like thermodynamics.

I have lots of views about religion and stuff though. If you made it this far, let me tell you, I really have been so GOOD about keeping the rants off here. Seriously I am on my best behaviour. I have barely touched on my feelings about religion.

I don’t want to preach to anyone, honest, I just want to let you in on all my thoughts because it seems a bit superficial if all I do is talk about hot barman and my failed social life and my dirty house when all the time, there is a philosophical battle raging under my pasty white surface.

INCIDENTALLY, it seems that now I am in the home stretch, mere days away from phase one of my big move…

Hot barman has become particularly chatty. Damn it hot barman, it’s too late for us. We could have had something beautiful, but now I’m going…

I have to go now….. go… walk out the door…. just turn around now…

I won’t be back here any more.
Weren’t you the one who tried to hurt me with goodbye not fucking me on the bar top?
you think I’d crumble
you think I’d lay down and die?
Oh no, not I, I will survive
as long as i know how to love get jiggy with it
I know I will stay alive,

I’ve got all my life to live
I’ve got all my love poon tang to give
and I’ll survive
I will survive

Hey hey..

Anyway it’s Andrea’s birthday today but we are going out on Saturday to celebrate. So I wanted to get her a nice present, and I know she likes this cool expensive shop so I went to have a look in the sales there. They didn’t have much stuff left. I have a problem as you know with shopping, I am not very good at buying gifts for other people and not for myself. So I went in, scanned the room for Andrea gifts and there was nothing. Then I saw some nice dresses for myself that she wouldn’t like and I tried them on and they were pretty but I said no, no, bad girl. So I tried to reason with myself, I said you are only allowed buy that… it’s really flattering by the way… if you find Andrea a good present. But there wasn’t a whole lot. The sales are kind of petering out.

I was looking at this one dress thinking… it’s pretty cool… Andrea doesn’t wear dresses really, but I think she would like this. Maybe. i don’t fucknig know, I can’t pick clothes for another woman, it’s too personal. It’s like, either I pick something for her because it is exactly like something she has already, in which case… lame gift… or else I risk it and pick something she might not like. So I was humming and hawing and the saleswoman was hovering around suggesting expensive things and being a really good salesperson, making me feel all pressurised into buying. I caved and told her I was looking for a gift… she brings out this 7o euro scarf. Uh, pass. I reject the scarf but in doing so, furnish her with more details about what I am looking for and my budget. The next suggestion is harder to refuse. and the next. I panic and return to the dress I was looking at. The salesperson jumps in and begins cooing about the dress, it’s so nice, it’s so comfy, it’s so pretty, it’s so cool. Ugh. Fuck off.

But it works I get all flummoxed and stressed and feel like it’s all because of the pushy saleswoman so that’s hardly my fault.

I buy the dress for myself and the one for Andrea, because at least she can return it if it’s not her cup of tea. I will insist on this, I hope she doesn’t feel forced to like it. It’s her favorite shop though and I think it’s a cool dress, so… well anyway, I feel pretty ok about it. I hope it’s not too much… no. It’s ok. Man I am going to obsess about this now, I can feel it. I feel awful buying gifts for people, I hate it.

So I took the dress for Andrea in a gift bag and jammed the one for myself deep into my handbag.

I stopped at hot barman’s bar before going back to work.

Hot barman was working the till so I knocked back my coffee and then like the pathetic sap I am, I wavered by the checkout pretending to think about the sandwiches. I realised I hadn’t actually eaten anything so I pick up a sandwich and go to pay. Hot barman smiled that “oh great now I have to spend the rest of the day in this underwear” smile.

Ohhhh the face… he’s so cute. I usually don’t simultaneously think CUTE and SEXY but with hot barman I don’t know if I want to put my hand out and tousle the curls on his head or drag him out the back of the bar and have loud dirty clothes-on sex in an alley.

Or both.

He made some joke about me having both a coffee and a sandwich today. I didn’t get it but I was like “oh hee hee yeah,” and he goes, “have you still not had lunch yet?” because it was pretty late. I’m like, no, and I put on a really insipid facial expression and say “I had to get a present for my friend’s birthday so I am just grabbing a sandwich, I’ll eat it in work.”

He’s probably really impressed with how selfless I am, buying presents for everyone else while I starve.

He asks me about whether I can eat sandwiches at work, and is it pretty chilled out? I’m like, yeah, totally, tee hee hee…

Oh this smiling, dude… I am probably going to get a wrinkle later in life which can be clearly identified as the hot barman wrinkle. He makes me turn to chirpy mush. If only all men were this hot… I would be a really nice friendly person. Unfortunately if you smile at less attractive men they are inclined to talk to you and ask for your number and then get angry if you don’t want to dance. That’s Italy, anyway. I forget what it’s like outside Italy.

I chatter with hot barman. I stand there for like… five minutes.. exchanging pleasantries.

Then I’m getting into the guts of our nice conversation… have no idea what we talked about but like… it was a great conversation.

And then the other guy interrupts, the older barman who isn’t hot at all. He starts saying he saw me on the bus the other day, and was it me? And I’m like yeah, the 68, that would be me. And he started talking about how much traffic there is there now down by that street with the roadworks and the snow. Urgh.

Hot barman dwindles into the background.

But I talked to him loads today. And he was totally happy talking, he kept the conversation going when I was letting it die… and then, stupid other barman interrupts. Wanker. Foiled again!

Ah well, I get annoyed but really, what is going to happen in the time we are chatting? Absolutely nothing.

Step 1: Talk to hot barman while he serves me coffee.

Step 2: ? ? ? ?

Step 3: Ride him silly on the top of the bar.

 

Seriously, need some help figuring out step two. I don’t even know if it is possible.

Unhealthy obsessions: Celebrity Edition!

Inspired by my apparent ability to treat my body as vessel and not develop feelings for a man who has been in it a couple o times, as well as my undying lust for Jude Law, I downloaded Alfie and watched it last night.

Hubba hubba, Jude Law is just my favorite male famous person… ever.

I know he MIGHT seem like an odd choice for such intense vehement adoration but he just embodies exactly the kind of man who has never been interested in me- extremely good looking with fine, lovely features, able to pull Sienna Miller and various other women with unobtrusive small noses, and cheeky and cocky looking. I have a weakness for men who are bad for me, shallower than I am, and don’t like me very much. (Don’t we all?)

I never snag me any cocky guys, possibly because they are busy pulling Sienna Miller and her petite, delicate nosed friends, possibly because my sleazy energy works best on a different kind of man. I tell myself that very confident men like a conquest, and my overbearing in your faceness appears to be the bait most suited to shy clueless males who aren’t entirely sure your hand on their penis is a come on or maybe you don’t know that’s where penises live and you just wanted to warm your hand in his pants with no ulterior motive?

Actually this might be a load of bullshit too, it’s also entirely possible that the reason I haven’t brought a Jude Law type  back to my place yet is because I never SEE Jude Law types out and about.

Also he might be totally different to his on screen personality. I read an interview with him fairly recently and he seemed really down to earth and nice and it left me thinking, why would anyone want to know what an actor thinks about things anyway? And why are all the photos of him shot against some moody cityscape and he’s wearing winter clothes which obscure pretty much all of the “interview” I was interested in perusing anyway.

I know, he sure can rock a scarf which is something I don’t usually credit to men I am attracted to, for some reason I find it really effeminate to feel the need to cover your neck to protect from draughts. Real men expose the jugular and DARE winter to fuck with them.

This is another problem I have with Italian men. They all wear scarves. I sold a pashmina to a girl the other day as a gift for her BOYFRIEND. A fucking pashmina. In Italy there is this bullshit medical condition they made up called “un colpo di aria” which basically means to get hit by air. I read an article recently by some British expat in Italy talking about this bizzarity so I won’t rant about it to avoid rehashing some other bird’s idea or whatever. I did emit a minor chuckle at the shared observation, and Italian-bashing, but I disagree with her point that there is no equivalent in the UK- in English it’s just “catching a chill” or “a draught” so it’s not totally Italian-unique, but in the UK it is something old people say or worry about and young people do not worry about the dangers of air. It would be hypocritical anyway to be so foolish with alcohol and std prevention and whatnot and then make a big deal about keeping our throats warm. But here in Italy they are convinced that there are pockets of dangerous cold and possibly pointy air that, when a neck is exposed, will latch on like a rabid doberman shake the stuffing out of you. Admittedly I have a sore throat today so I might have been neck raped by some air without realising it.

Anyway… Jude Law… I love his face.

Watching him doing his acting thing (no idea is he an awesome or terrible actor, he’s just Jude Law to me, I can’t see past his cheeky smile… mmm Jude Law…  makes me feel all insecure and depressed about my appearance. Maybe when I move to London I will see him around somewhere and fall into a spiral of despair at my own inadequacy? He could replace the hot barmen in my life, but as a celebrity he would probably identify my behaviour as stalking pretty quickly. The barmen are an easier target because, hello? Who stalks a barman?

It is at times like this, when I watch him on screen with these other women who don’t even appreciate him like I do, that I berate myself angrily about my nose. WHY do I have to have a stupid round nose like this? I seeth at Sienna Miller, and on another occasion Cameron Diaz who I normally like because she is sassy and her tits are small enough that I don’t just flat out hate her. (I feel like her small boobies but otherwise extreme hotness in my opinion makes her a perfect girlfriend. Attractive enough to offer real helpful feedback about what you are going to wear or what makeup and how to deal with a man situation, but not so perfect I just want to scratch her in the face.)

And I am sure it is just my nose that is standing in my way. The colour of my teeth and skin (if only they like, swapped colours it would probably be an improvement) and the general dishevelment and blackheads covered in trowel- loads of makeup, I presume has nothing to do with it. If only my nose was better, Jude Law would be all over me like ingrown hairs a week after I epilated. (amirite? fuck you epilator, painful AND inefficient? bullshiiiit)

Damn them bitches able to be cast opposite Jude Law. I watch them laughing and talking and sometimes getting pissy with him and I think, how superfluous a personality would be, if I was that hot. Nobody needs a real personality when there is that much sex appeal floating around. And like, the girls Jude Law gets with in Alfie only fuck up in two major areas of folly: 1. Being batshit crazy and violent, and 2. Being glaringly needy and relationship crazy.

I would not make those mistakes. I would pretend not to love his bones and I would then get called back repeatedly.

I wish there was less pressure to be a well adjusted and nice person. Sienna Miller in Alfie is mad as a bag of snakes on acid, and he still allows her to squat in his life for several months before ditching her for Susan Sarandon. Because she’s super pretty.

Even Marisa Tomei is Alfie’s example for “looks aren’t everything”. That is what I am up against, or not really because I’m not actually competing for Jude Law in real life. If Jude Law is the Olympic gold in men I want to fuck, then I’m probably just getting the “everyone’s a winner” ribbon for participation.

Look, I’m sleeping with someone because he is willing to and his face doesn’t offend me and he is good in bed. Actually those are good reasons. Sorry Fabio, it’s just that although you are hot in most of your facebook pictures I saw one yesterday while stalking you that was really fucking stupid looking and made me sort of hate you briefly for not being a charming cockney lad.

Anyway I have a plan to get me actual real Jude Law some day, but it goes kind of like, Step one: ????? Step Two: ????? Step 3: PROFIT!

The fourth step is detailed below.

When I become super wealthy I will hire someone to write a script that is arty and raw enough to entice the new serious gritty Jude Law and his new beard (which is not fooling anyone, I know there’s a perfect cleft chin under there… but I guess he wants to be a proper actor and not just someone for me to drool over. He’s so pretty though. You can freeze frame on any facial expression and it works.) to work on the project. The script will be “inspired” by my life, so I will show up all the time to try get it right and coach the female lead. At first the female lead will make some mistakes and just not GET it. So I will be like, director (I hired a director too) do you mind if I step in and show Miss Perfecttits what I mean for this scene? And he will say sure because he is on my payroll. So I will step in and do the scene with Jude.

And I will do this a lot because the actress will be shit and it will start to become clear to Jude that although I have a shit nose, I am a way better lead and have wonderful chemistry with him as well as I pay the lighting guy to make me look awesome. And by this time I am rich too so have someone to brush my hair for me and do good makeup, and stuff. So eventually the director will just flip out at the cold fish we have cast on purpose as the lead and be like, Miss Perfecttits you are fired, and then they will make me stand in because they can’t afford to find another replacement at this stage. And then we will shoot all the scenes with me playing opposite Jude. And he will be very professional and also relieved that he is now working with someone who can play the part properly.

And there will be several hardcore sex scenes in the movie but tastefully done, you know?

And that is how I will get Jude Law to have sex with me.

Otherwise, I just have to wait until I am a cougar.

I am too young right now, I am not wise or worldly or sexually fantastic enough yet to entice a charming hot 20 something year old away from my peers who are in better shape and have better noses than me.

But when I am a bit older, the great equaliser will kick in- gravity, baby. Everyone’s tits are gonna be a bit crap, except for the rich people. I plan on being so rich, every morning when I wake up and remember how rich I am, I will puke with shock and gratitude. Susan Sarandon’s character in Alfie had been married twice and had a succesful company. I think if I just aim for a rich husband number two, I will be fine. I fucked up with the first guy, I realise. I won’t make the same mistake twice however.

And then one day the Alfie types will be all “ahh I’m getting kind of tired of these boring 20 year olds and their stupid bronzed midriffs” and then they will find me intriguing with my mansion and my cellar full of expensive whiskey and wine and leather items and my swimming pool sized bed that takes up a whole room and has a massive chandelier hanging over it that isn’t a light but actually loads of fruit so when you are lying in bed you can reach up and pick a grape off to eat, or some orange segments that have already been peeled by my entourage.

And I will be massively interesting and they will be in awe of me.

I know Susan Sarandon was a hot tamale when she was younger too, but I have decided it’s not all looks with her and she’s just a sexy woman and would have managed to work past a Jessie J nose (I’m sorry Jessie J, your nose is actually nicer than mine but they are quite similar).

I am pretty confident I am not at my peak and am going to be like the blue cheese of women: you know, gets better as they mature, far superior to anything young and mild but not to everyone’s liking. And since I stopped smoking I can start ageing at the proper rate and will hopefully stop looking like a crackhead every day I get less than 7 hours sleep.

Also if I do age prematurely I will just pretend to be 40 when I am 30 and I’m sure that way I will seem really well preserved and still get the hotties.

And I have a card in my wallet that I made which says, if I ever injure my nose but there is no time to ask me shit before the operation, I want them to also take some of the extra cartilage out while they are there and fix it up. I don’t agree with surgery for myself, personally, because I think that as a shallow person, it is immoral to lie about your genes to potential mates.

Example: I meet a hot guy and think he is attractive enough for my dna to get jiggy with his, which is how I excuse my shallowness because hey I’m just defending my genes baby, it’s instinct… anyway all’s well and beautiful until I pop some kiddywinks out of my special purpose (nod to “the Jerk” there) and suddenly, woah oh! Whose chin is that on little Hortensia? (I’m not a maternal person, I haven’t come up with my future babies names so I am calling them Hortensia and Rudiger until some time maybe in the future.) and then he’s like, oh yeah I used to have a massive chin. And oh fuck, now I’m landed with unconditionally loving the freaking lovechild of Demi Moore and Bruce Willis.

It’s dishonest is what it is.

Also, what kind of message is that to your offspring: Sorry mommy couldn’t live with having that awful nose, yep that’s the one.. just like yours! so she hacked it off, but you’re totally beautiful anyway, it’s just a fucking nose, learn to love it…

So I wouldn’t do that shit.

Unless I already injured my nose then that wouldn’t be exactly a cosmetic operation. I think keeping the please operate on my nose while I am unconscious card a secret is more of a white lie.

And it will probably never happen anyway, and probably whoever goes through my wallet and finds the card is just stealing my cash anyway.

And I don’t think that card is valid anyway. I also made an organ donor card which is also probably not legally useful but they are supposed to be making a European one that is valid everywhere here but I can’t find any information on it online. But I think it would be such a pile of shit if I died and nobody got my sexy non smoking lungs, so I made my own card. It says, “in the event of my death I wish to donate all of my usable organs to people who need them OR medical science and research but ABSOLUTELY NOT TO ART SCHOOLS, if that is a thing they do.” (I don’t want some first year hipster bitches laughing at my probably unattractive oesophagus in a jar)

I wonder if that counts as a legal document?

But where were we?

Oh yes, I was inexplicably taking you on a journey into my obsession with Jude Law. It’s not entirely Jude Law-based, this obsession. It’s just a general sort of obsession with anything less mundane than being at work looking for pants to fit over some grouchy heiffer’s rump, after I freaking TOLD HER that the sizes are all “terribly small” when no they are not, they are fucking maternity pants, she is just massively obese and it is not some lifestyle choice, unless leaving your apartment by forklift is a fucking hobby. She whines that the biggest pants I have for sale are “tiny in the waist” and I nod sympathetically but seriously woman, you are that big, you can’t just expect one size fits all to actually fit ALL that. I am surprised she even got her ankle in the waistband. She walked in the door sideways. Yeah, I’m not being an asshole, she is THAT BIG.

My customer so fat, some of the items for sale in my shop began to orbit around her as she waded through the aisle.

My customer so fat, her waist measurement has a superscript “2” after it.

My customer so fat,

Urgh this is not my calling.

I really don’t know what I should do for work when I move to the big shmoke. I definitely don’t want to work with customers of any kind really. I would prefer not to be exposed to idiocy for prolonged periods of time. If there is some kind of high paid job that involves using a computer but does not require great computer skills, and where I don’t have to talk on the phone or in person to anyone, that would be ideal.

I have no education to speak of beyond secondary school and a brief laughable foray into university where I think all I learnt is the locations on campus where most comfortable naps could be taken (the science fiction society- disappointingly it was not a sci fi club. They just called it that to get funding. What it was, was a room on campus where there was a leather couch, a tv and a whole load of dvds.) and where there were blind spots from the security cameras.

I am fluent in 3 languages but in using those languages to get employment, I will be forced to either speak or communicate in writing with people, and that is exactly what I wish to avoid. I know I write here a lot, but this is enjoyable for me because I don’t have to pause in the middle of my soliloquoy on Jude Law to let you interrupt my flow of brilliant ideas or ask you how your day was or if you still have the same number of relatives as last time and if you would like a beverage or something.

If I could do customer service like this, I would be fine.

I’d be all, welcome to the awesomeness emporium, my name is Chesty, how may I be of assistance?

and then before the dickbreath customer has a chance to ruin my peace of mind with their amateur description of some woe or comment, I would launch into a diatribe on something that actually interests ME.

And they could take it or leave it, bitches.

Ugh noo…. real world looming.

What am I gonna doooooo?

I don’t want to go back out there with all the other people, letting my personal comfort be trampled all over by companies and bosses and co workers and designated break times and not eating at your desk or whatever. And no blogging during work hours, probably.

All for some social life? Man I never thought a lone wolf like me would make such massive sacrifices for a social life. It must be done though. The more time I spend talking to myself the less able I become at gauging when I am supposed to speak and when I am supposed to listen in real conversations.

As well as other stuff like remembering to take an interest in the other person and not sharing stuff with strangers about personal hygiene shortcomings etc.

URghh.

Today is already annoying the shit out of me. I believe it is almost time for it to be that time of the month again, I think. I should start keeping track of that shit again, I am really bad at it.

Also: this flight of fancy and nose hatred is brought to you by the fine folks at, I had a really horrible argument with my dad yesterday.

He is kind of my hero but also kind of a dick sometimes.

Yesterday I sensed him being in a particularly belligerent mood and I said I would go home because I had defrosted some salmon, which I thouhgt was a pretty airtight reason to get home and not stay for dinner, but he just said, ah come on stay for dinner, you can eat your salmon afterwards.

And I was like yeah but I’m on a diet.

And he was like, it’s just a bowl of pasta..

So I was like, fine, because it was ravioli and my dad buys good fresh ravioli and not those Buitoni condom shapes filled with uht cheese that I usually buy for my depressing alone person dinners.

So I stayed and the pasta was really good but before it was ready we had a huge and upsetting fight which I’m not sure if we were both right about or if I was just being a dick because I knew my dad was in a foul mood so I expected him to be in the wrong and fought my stupid corner with extra vehemence and indignation.

I don’t wanna talk about it actually, I would prefer to tell you about how I like Jude Law’s face.

So that’s why I wrote this post instead of another post about my fight with my dad and how sad it made me.

And then I spoke to my colleague and she also had a fight with my dad yesterday and I think maybe he was just being a really angry boss man on a crusade to upset everyone around him. But still, he was mean. He also said I couldn’t have any wine because I was being argumentative. Then later I really wanted wine so I was like, “it’s ok dad I forgive you” and then I took some wine, and he was kind of pissy and the argument threatened to kick off again but I just started making jokes and playing rock paper scissors worm hair fire rain magnet lettuce thumb pacman with my sister which is an improvement on rock paper scissors and involves a lot of reasoning and imagination. It is pretty fun actually, she is only 6 and she is already really good at cheating by waiting to decide on being worm until the second she sees me bring out my lettuce, and also she calls me on my bullshit when I try pretend lettuce is actually paper and anyway worm also beats paper so I haven’t a leg to stand on.

And yes, I ate my salmon as well as the pasta.

I also didn’t sleep enough last night because I was so full and uncomfortable from eating the salmon and the pasta and then half a loaf of banana bread that I just lay in bed and hated myself and thought about Alfie and how I’m not good enough for him.

So there you are, up to speed.

I should do some work now.

Sorry about this post.

But not enough to not post it…

 

PS: I am getting heartily sick of the stupid hyperlinked spam comments about ugg boots. I do not want to sell or buy ugg boots, I think ugg boots are fucking hideous. They are of course lovely slippers, but I can’t deal with wearing something that unattractive outside the house. I’m sure if I wore ugg boots once in public I would run into someone hot.  So please stop with the spam about uggs it is not appropriate. Bring back the hippie spam, where someone called Brett Bretterson would comment “Awesome read, bra” and link to a site about top china export import justin bieber selena gomez nipple slip. I miss those, at least they made an effort to get past my spam filter by complimenting me.

Too busy to get busy? FUCK YOU, student.

Well, this is a disappointment.

I waited ALL DAY to hear from Fabio about what time he was gonna come on over to my place for the sexing and then he finally gets back to me after I lie to my family and tell them I am having dinner with my one friend so that I can keep the evening free to make myself and my apartment presentable, and then Fabio breezes into my inbox at 8pm and is all

“Yeah I have to do this, this and this tomorrow… If I didnt have to get up so early I would come over to your place”

EXCUSE ME?

I’m sorry, mr Studentface, you have to get up early?

Fuck you.

I had to get up off my ass and go and have hairs pulled out of my body, hairs that did not want to be pulled out.

I had to get up and leave my bed where I have cmputer games and movies to watch to clean up my messy house so that you and your stupid Italian upbringing would not suspect me of harbouring crabs or something because my apartment is like an extension of my being.

Or smoething.

And I wasted my whole day-admittedly you do not know this because I played it cool apart frm invitiing you over in the first place- I played it way cooler than you did, and yet here you are TURNING DOWN A CHANCE TO FORNICATE.

you live 15 minutes away from me.

You know this.

It was 8pm.

Fuck you.

My apartment is FULL of condoms and I put on makeup and even straightened my hair so it is long enough to cover my boobs adequately while I sit on your dick and DO ALL THE FUCKING WORK.

Oh I’m sorry, you got shit to do tomorrow.

Fuck you.

Do you have any idea how much of my day was spent in preparation for your visit? Of course not, so it’s not your fault.

But FUCK YOU ANYWAY.

then I have to tolerate a whole load more of this not going anywhere conversation before we leave it at “another time then”

You know at this point I have spent more time actually talking to you than I have fucking you. Or nearly, anyway.

This does not bode well.

I made my best ever banana bread because the smell of baking really works wonders at masking the stench of hermit woman who never leaves the house and spends a lot of time on the furniture naked.

And then I ate it all because you didn’t come over and my whole Sunday was wasted and I am very angry with myself for depending so much on some arbitrary man for my happiness and fulfillment.

I am worried now, you will continue talking to me and then when we do see each other next time you have a good stretch of sleepy time up ahead you student DICK, then I will already know how many brothers and sisters you have and a whole load of what you say will make sense to me.

I don’t want that.

I am very angry with you now.

I have decided that, as punishment, I will not wax ANYTHING until you give me a good fucking reason to.

You could have come over here today and I wuold have given you enthusiastic “I don’t know you” head and I would have been all kinds of eager but instead I am downloading some porn (quaint huh, I usually just watch online but I found this one video I used to have…  it was the first and only porn video I ever bought, also one of the dudes in it is hot which is nice.)

Anyway now that my Sunday has been reduced to drinking the rest of that wine alone eating too much banana bread (yum, though. I put almond flakes, dessicated coconut and chopped up papaya in it. REALLY FUCKEN GOOD SHIT YO) and watching porn then I really don’t see why I should make any fucking effort for you anyway.

Is it not the case that sex is the best thing? Doesn’t sex trump having got enough sleep?

I have given up a lot more than sleep for my craft in the past and hot dog I’d do it again.

Strike one was the dead granny.

Strike two is the having to get up in the morning.

I am all eager and desperate right now but let me tell you I lose interest quite quickly. My obsessions live fast die young and nobody ever finds a corpse.

So cop the fuck on and get over here fucking pronto.

My porn is downloaded so this rant is over now.

Later.

50 ways to leave your imaginary lover

And so it ends, the brief obsessive one sided love affair between me and the unsuspecting barman.

Not with a bang on top of the marble counter, but with a silent and unnoticed whimper.

Last night I washed my hair, got to sleep around 2am and woke up incredibly refreshed and bright eyed. I applied so much makeup, my own mother wouldn’ta recognised me. I entirely obscured all of those pesky features that make me who I am, added a short but otherwise non-threatening dress and a pair of flat boots and left the house looking about as damn fine as I am capable of with only half an hour’s prep time.

I flounced into the bar and hello… sexy barman is right there waiting for my coffee order. I order an Americano to stretch my barman facetime to its utmost. I’m so excited, we are so going to have a conversation I can tell…

He shouts across at another customer who is leaving, some joke that elicits a ripple of laughter.

I have no idea what he’s talking about so I just try to look friendly over my nervous smile (it don’t come easily to me) and wait for him to devote his time and energy to the preparation of my beverage and that solid customer-barman bonding conversation I long for…

The customer pauses at the door and they exchange some unintelligible banter.

He leaves chuckling. Barman leans over the bar to me in a conspiratory manner that sets my creepy little stalker heart all a flutter…. and explains the joke to me. He probably saw the weird fearful smile plastered on my face and thought I needed to be put at ease that they were not discussing the black market reselling of my organs or something.

So he explains the joke:

“He’s my girlfriend’s dad and he’s 45, and tonight I’m having a party and as I’m 20 all my friends who will be there will be 20 or 21…” and then came the explanation of the joke but after I heard the words girlfriend AND I’m 20, I was lost in a spiral of despair.

The whole obsessive fantasy of mine regarding my lovely barman disolves around me like drain cleaner going to town on toilet grime.

He’s 20. He has a girlfriend… I could overlook the girlfriend if he was older because I think once you have been in a couple of shit relationships you stop bothering with the whole fidelity thing… unless you’re a nice person, or whatever. Anyway he’s 20 so he’s either A) a total shit, or B) convinced he’s with his soulmate. Either way… also, Jesus lapdancing christ, I didn’t have much fun in bed with 20 year old guys when I was that age myself, I’m certainly not going back there now… As well as fuck man, no wonder he has such a lovely friendly gorgeous face, he hasn’t been whipped across the buttocks by life and her bitch-ass lessons yet (crying take the pain,you optimistic little shit…through delightedly gritten teeth).

I watched him juggling cups and saucers… only yesterday that seemed like a private circus of flirtation put on for me and me alone, and now instead I connect the dots between how nice and friendly he is to me, and how nice and interested he seemed in that old crone’s lumbago complaints yesterday. Oh man. I am the old woman. He is just believably friendly.

I am a creep.

I knock back my steaming hot Americano in one burny swig.

I smile weakly at the rejected barman I had originally been aiming my bizzare stunted flirtations towards. He was friendly too… he’s definitely in the desirable age group of “between my age and 35…” But I don’t have the heart or stomach or any of the internal organs required to start afresh with yet another barman… to build up the nervous chatter and fleeting eye contact… no. This is the end… My barman lust ends now.

I trudged over to H&M to try on those jeans again. I mused over that if I am going to be attracted to 20 year old boys I will have to start wearing jeans to put them at ease. I tried on the jeans and just couldn’t bring myself to accept people seeing how big my ass really is. I mean they didn’t look that bad… but then I tried on a black dress (yes another black dress) and I gave myself some serious lady wood so I had to buy it. Damn I look good in that dress. I am wearing it tomorrow to a party.

So that lifted my spirits a little.

I felt so enthused about looking amazing in that dress that I sauntered over to the bar where the original, neglected hot barman works.

What the hey, one last dejected lap of my stalking circuit, a solitary goodbye to a hobby that at best promoted hygiene and looking after my appearance and at worst was a little bit psycho.

He was there. He was friendly. He’s hopelessly hot… and definitely at least my age. But I was looking at him and I just felt a massive sigh of disappointment over how long I have lived here and how much energy I have put into building my creepy fantasies over these barmen who have no idea of any of the crazy that is bottled up beneath my slutty looking but quiet exterior. It makes me shudder to imagine how many weird guys there might be out there who have used me thusly in their own freaky fantasies, and I none the wiser. Gross.

And it’s all based on very very little…. they are just friendly barmen. They are just the only good looking men who are not ridiculously old or crazy looking who are friendly to me and smile at me. It’s sad. I just want a metaphorical pat on the head and for some attractive men to approve of me. My self worth needs it. Don’t even start me on how much my crotch needs it.

I just feel like some weary worn out thing with makeup and a load of dresses and a tendency to obsess over men who I then beat myself up over because I consider them out of my league.

This is messed up.

I haven’t had sex since the end of August also.

I’m just tired of getting all dressed up and there not being any takers.

I know I’m leaving here in mid January early Feb, but damn it feels like forever.

And what will I do now that I no longer am frenzying myself over some indifferent bartender?  What reason do I have now to put on slap in the mornings? You know it’s really hard to constantly make an effort with no positive reinforcement.

I totally get Mrs. Havisham staying in the same stinky wedding dress… what’s the fucking point anyway?

I feel like if I do eventually give up on all this effort (well, in fairness it’s not THAT much effort.. under my tights I am very hairy) it will mean I admit defeat, and go back to my pre-makeup state where I had to get by on my personality and we all know that may be awesome as fuck but it’s not exactly sexy when I rant about things. No way man. I want to stay in denial, keep aiming high and then scuttering away before I can be rejected.

I’m so glad I’m a woman, or I’d probably still be a virgin.

Oooohoooo why do I feel so shit? I just burst the bubble of my sad little delusions, there was no rejection! I shouldn’t feel so shitty but I feel seriously shitty.

If you have a heart, please could someone just secretly pay a male model to come up to me and tell me I’m beautiful. That would (sadly) sort me right out.

Womenfolk: I apologise for being such a floundering representative for y’all. I know there are worse representatives, like the insufferable wenches in tampon ads and the hags peddling senokot (gentle laxative for the modern constipated woman) while swapping recipes with their aged mothers… but still.

I fully intend my next post to be not about mooning over a barman, and not about me being sad that I don’t get hit on.

I need to buy groceries anyway so you never know you might be in for a supermarket visit related post.

YAY motherfuckers!

Move over hot barman, there’s a new unwitting barman crush in town.

I’m normally pretty fucking clumsy as it is…

Today I let slip from my hand, slow motion, both my second-favorite mug which had previously survived a fall but lost its handle, and my muesli jar which was an old stylee sweet shop one. Not at the same time- there was an hour or two in between accidents. I had to sweep up TWICE.

In one fell swoop I lost: my only awesome sweet shop jar with screw top lid, my entire store of muesli (ok so it was like 3 bowls worth) and all the papaya I had bought at great expense, to add to my muesli because I can never find the one I like with the papaya so I had to buy my own and chop it up myself, and instead of keeping the huge excess of papaya for later purchases of muesli therefore decreasing the cost of having papaya in my life, I went and munched on the rest of it, uncut, in its massively fattening form, totally negating any benefits of eating muesli over say, any NICE cereal. Or bacon. Or cream filled tubes of pastry inexplicably ribbed (for her pleasure?)

Incidentally, you can’t get bacon here.

It’s probably a good thing, I don’t need to add bacon to the list of desirable groceries I wheel past on my dejected supermarket rounds. I do start my grocery shopping all buoyant and enthusiastic, picturing carrots with the green bits and sheaves of wheat emerging from my trolley as I roll past the salty sugary insta-meal-laden carts of my obese neighbours… I feel like Amelie on a marvelous quirky adventure in healthyland.

But soon I have rejected all the avocados as no use to man or beast (why do supermarkets that can’t do a proper avocado, still sell them? And what excactly are they doing to their fruits before laying them out at 1 euro a pop, green on the outside, and only squishy where they are bruised? Do the staff first roll them down the car park ramp, betting on the fastest? ) and then I have selected one of the TWO mueslis, and grumbled over the shitty selection of potatoes,

and I try not to look directly at the yummy convenience crap taking up most of the supermarket’s real estate, but after the third ailse I cave and buy salami, or if I manage to do the whole round without a single indiscretion, I’ll probably end up loading up with beer or martini rosso as a kind of calorific reward.

There are 6 metres of wall freezer just selling frozen pizzas. There are five different brands of coco pops, or choco krazies or whatever the fuck they call them these days, and there are 5 different brands of cola but there are no free range eggs. And there are 3 types of instant white sauce in the fridge, but no fresh cream.

I don’t even need or want fresh cream, but it is unnerving having three big supermarkets nearby and not one to supply me with fresh cream if I perchance need some. I will need some in a month when it is my sister’s birthday and I am making my twice a year cake.

Anyway these days I am getting quite bad with my eating habits.

Yesterday I spent the day with my sister and had coke and fruit juice and chocolate and tortilla chips and popcorn. I feel about a stone heavier today although I’m just sitting down to my coffee now so…

anyway.

I should never have allowed salami into my house. I keep getting up for midnight salami eating munches. I wake up with a distinct ass flavour in my mouth and bits of salami carcass between my teeth.

I have to be good or I will slip back to my pre-diet size, and I was looking at facebook with my sister and saw some photos of myself, looking like a proper fattie, not just big for a normal sized person as I always told myself I was. I blame other people for going “not at all, you’re fine!” when I was starting to put on weight. They should have been honest. I did eventually figure it out for myself but at that stage I was quite porky and it took a lot of work to slim down.

I still feel like I’m carrying a spare tire but it’s like a city bike tyre, not a car one like I used to have. I received the ultimate acknowledgement of skinnyness the other day- actually it was the night I ended up in bed with my bum chum. The other guy who was there was Argentinian, and in South America it’s normal to call a girl “skinny” as a nickname just randomly, but if the girl is properly skinny. Anyway this guy shouted, hey skinny! And I didn’t turn around, and he’s like, “hey skinny! You! Hey can I put this one song on?” And I was so flummoxed and happy because I have hung out with South Americans all my life really, and never ever ever been called skinny before. Not that they called me fat either, but they would just say nothing at all.

Also, in other stuff I didn’t write about because… meh… some things get lost, between one non-event and another…

I don’t know what to make of this, if anything (but I’ll damn well think it out!) but I was in my usual bar (I have totally abandoned hot barman’s bar as it is too far away and depressing) and I think I may have been barman flirted with.

There are, in this bar, three potentially hot barmen. Two are new- one has been a vague object of my affections for a while, but he is not really that hot, so he’s just kind of background scenery as I knock back my morning shot of caffeine. Anyway he has a girlfriend because a petite little girly girl came in a couple of times and they kissed quickly.

Well he has always been very smiley and nice but the girlfriend kind of throws a dampener on all the previous smiles I have interpreted as declarations of desire, but now there are two new guys and one is particularly attractive and I can tell is much more confident and likely to follow up shy smiles and coyness. I believe I have a new project! Woo!

But he isn’t always there, I think he’s just the extra weekend guy.

Anyway on Saturday I went in for my coffee and girlfriend guy is run off his feet with all these slips of paper before him, making all kinds of effeminate looking coffees with chocolate and froth and different kinds of cups, and so I have a few minutes to bask patiently in his presence before he gets to my double espresso.

Then new hot guy (who is tall btw) appears on the scene and he doesn’t appear too stressed, and he says something sort of half to me and half to the other guy, but I don’t hear and I sort of smile because I never understand what bar guys are saying because they talk so fast and they don’t realise I’m not Italian because they have no reason to, I only say “coffee please” or “can I pay for a sandwich?” and those are phrases that at this stage, I pronounce pretty fucking well. So I just smile, no idea whether he said something funny or “my dad just got diagnosed with cancer” or “I hope you remembered to jizz in these coffees” or whatever, but then he calls me on it, he turns to me and smiles at me all lovely warm, mmmm I love him long time… and he’s like, “yeah, don’t you think?”

And so I kind of lose my “party to the joke” expression and I’m like, “uh sorry?”

And he goes “you know, these young guys, they can handle all this work…They’ve still got the good body for it, not like me!” or something along those lines.

You might think that seems a bit gay, but NO, it’s not gay for Italy. Italian guys will squeeze each others biceps and stroke each others abs and be like “ooh lovely, really good…” and that’s not gay, that’s just them being “men”.

Yet again, it’s a mystery to me what I could have said back to that and what it was he meant in the first place. He can’t be much more than 5 years older than the other guy. Although I am a bit shit at age-rating Italians.

So what, is this another instance of barman flirtation where he’s fishing for a compliment or something? I don’t have a quick wit in Italian. Damn it I could probably fire something out in English- it would have a 50% chance of being devastatingly witty, the other 50% being I said something extremely weird that I can’t recover from.

So I just mumbled and smiled, and the moment was gone.

But in restrospect, if that WAS flirtation which by now, I don’t even think so, but at the time the cocky eye-twinkling delivery seemed to imply it, what was I supposed to reply? What would have been a good answer?

I mean what can you say to that?

Is he fishing for a compliment?

If I had just lashed out with the first thing that came to mind, it is entirely possible I would have bellowed “why don’t you both take your tops off and I’ll see who has a good body?”

or “Ah come on age is just a number… like penis length.”

I am at least glad that I have someone in my sights again, it sort of makes me feel secure to know there’s a vague point in my looking nice every fucking day.

If there’s no one hot to walk past apart from sexy homeless guy, it just depresses me that I put on makeup and a dress every fucking day of my life.

At least with a new hot barman- I will call him sexy bartender to differentiate, starting NOW, then I can at least feel like there’s an audience to my effort. Even if he’s not there every day. It’s something to focus on. I just wish I had a little pocket book on flirting in Italian. And I wish I could tell if that was actually flirtation, because it’s fucking weird.

I miss Ireland, and the fact that you don’t need to flirt at all- you just figure out that you like the other person, wind up sitting next to them, and eventually you are kissing and then you go somewhere and the next day if his face doesn’t make you vomit, then you have found a good’un. Although to be honest I have not had a whole lot of awesomeness arise from this method of man hunting.

Anyway. I just work in the afternoon today hence the daytime posting.

I must shower and make my face look decent and then traipse in to town and see if sexy bartender is on today.

Let the bunny boiling re-commence!