The Last time I saw Dick

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amicable, like our marriage. He never hit me.

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

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

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

With husband. Dick.

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

I’m going a little bit crazy today.

Sent off the application for one course.

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

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

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

“Wen I groe up I wana bee a teachair”

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

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



I have another crisis too.

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

I will not stand for this.

I have gone a little bit crazy.

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

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

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

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

And I collapse on a chaise longue.

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


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

Door’s always open, loverboy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Please not that….

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

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


End of rant.

I’m off to do the purple rain dance.


The Whore Moans… A post about woman things.


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

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



I’m a lousy rotten excuse for a woman.

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

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

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

It is always a big drammatic surprise…

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

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

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

But no.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I can still. wear. the dress.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’m terribly sorry, ma’am.

Can I come in?

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

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

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

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

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

150 times I have gone through this.

One… hundred… and… fifty.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Start to think…

Really, really can’t remember.

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

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

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

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

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

This is just actual fatness.


Not fair.

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


This is shaping up to be a bad Friday night.

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

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


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

Happy weekend y’all.

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

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

Immaculate conception?

Drunk and immemorable conception?

Conception through stomach?


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

I’m joking of course*


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


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

Lots of love,

your pal,

Smooth-Ass MoFO


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

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

That is a spoof of those magazines they always advertise…

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

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

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


What? You want to know every thought that crossed my mind this morning? All righty then!

This morning, I was selflessly nodding at a customer’s tale of personal foot woes, when…

Enter the bearded midget woman.

She’s not an actual little person, but she’s very small.

Her beard isn’t just a few stray wisps like you usually see on some abandoned old biddy, it’s full-on chin coverage. It’s sparser than a man’s beard, but not by much.

I call upon all my mental strength and will my eyes to her eyes, and away from the beard.

I better have a family some day, or maybe no one will care enough to tell me to wax the first tentative feelers out my chin regions…

BMW (bearded midget woman) begins to tell me about a skirt she bought here a while back. She points down to the skirt she is wearing. I recognise it, except it’s covered in some mysterious pale spattering. It may be paint? It may be… I don’t know. I think it’s paint. My eyes creep back to the beard, and flicker down to the skirt again. Is this woman… a crazy homeless? OR a crazy? Or just a slightly eccentric hippie artist type?

I’m starting to feel the pricklings of fear- fear that I’m in for one of those horrible exchanges with someone out of their tree, who I want to yell at to get out of my face but I have to be marginally polite until they get TOO hostile.

She tells me that first off, the buttons all fell off and she had to sew them back on.

Oh, I say, trying to muster some tone of sympathy, and failing.

“AND THEN! I washed it (here I repress a snigger… it doesn’t LOOK like you’ve ever washed the thing, although in fairness she didn’t smell like stale piss like the usual homeless/crazy types)… and all the colour ran out!”

I say “Oh,” again, wondering does she want me to give her her money back for an item she’s wearing? I’m not playing ball here, no way.

She starts to look short-person furious, which I usually find quite endearing because, I could rest my boobs on her head, although I wouldn’t, because gross. But I could. Yeah, this is the sort of unwanted thought I have to deal with when talking to other humans. It’s a yucky curse.

“LET ME tell you, I’m VERY satisfied with my purchase! VERY SATISFIED!” She’s dripping sarcasm from her whiskered jowls, like a rabid prostitute’s crotch.

She glares at me, expectanctly. What does she want? Go away. The other customer has at least stopped yapping about her special, unique, problematic feet.

I tell BMW that she should have brought the skirt back when the buttons first fell off, and I would have given her back her money, no problem.

“AND THEN the colour ran out!”

I don’t even care any more, I’m staring at the beard. Why shouldn’t I? It’s fucking shocking. I owe her no special efforts in politeness.

“If you had brought it back when you first had a problem, I could refund it. You can’t come back wearing the skirt and complain, because I can’t do anything about it now.”


“Yeah, well you appear to be, because you’re wearing it. If it was so unsatisfactory, why are you wearing it?”

She just fumes at boob level, at a level of fury that from a normal-sized bearded woman would have me cowering and reaching for my gippo stick.

“It’s a GREAT advertisement for your shop, selling clothes like that!” she yells, and storms off, waddling adorably.

You know what’s a great advertisement for “my” shop? Homeless bearded women wearing OUR clothes, cum/paint-spattered around town.

I’m so tired of these freaks. I’m actually really good about exchanges and stuff.

People come back with no receipt, but I remember them, and I’ll give a full refund as long as I can be sure they didn’t steal the thing or that the problem with the article is a manufacturing flaw and not that they boiled it or threw it in the wash with a black shirt or something.

And the crazys come and act like I’m being an unreasonable tool.

The other day this girl comes in with a bag that I vaguely remember having had in the shop a few months ago.

A velvet bag, really ugly by the way. But velvet bags are things we only sell around Christmas, so it was a long time ago.

And she doesn’t have a receipt, and she claims it was a present and the only thing wrong with it is a small side pocket has a broken zip. Now, I don’t know how long she’s had the damn thing but it’s definitely at least 3 months, and the main zip and the other pockets are fine, it’s just one small zip broken, and that can be changed or ignored or WHATEVER. I also don’t know if she broke the zip herself, or what.

She pouts at me while I explain that most shops don’t even do exchanges without a receipt, and I can’t and won’t exchange anything that’s from the fucking 2010 collection! It’s fucking AUGUST.

And she storms off vowing to never return. Great, now I lost a customer. A batshit crazy customer. But a customer. Now she’ll tell all her friends that she was given a bag as a gift a week or two ago and the zips were all broken and there was a hole in the bag and she came back to the shop and I smacked her upside the head and told her to stop crying about it and being a little pussy and also then I stole her wallet and then tied her up and brought out the gimp and laughed while the gimp violated her in the nostrils. And those customers will not come back either, or they will come back and find me in a randomly foul mood and think I’m a cunt and it confirms their whiny bitch friend’s story.

So I don’t like working with people, what else could I do?

-computers- I don’t know enough about computers. Maybe if I squish my boobs together and go into some computer company and pout, I can be the token girl on the team? It doesn’t matter if I suck at computers, I’m a girl, that should count. Except, there are fuckloads of girls who ACTUALLY know about computers and they would destroy me with withering gazes and probably better racks.

-animals- no, I don’t like animals. Fuck animals, they’re just like people but even more ignorant, and they don’t even find me amusing or laugh at my jokes.

-children- children are people too, except they require even more patience and tolerance than real people.

-rocks- I should make a career doing something with rocks. Rocks don’t judge, and rocks can’t piss you off, can they? I don’t think I can recall ever being pissed off because of rocks.

So that leaves:

Sculpture. I could make sculptures out of rocks. Except, I’d still have to sell my sculptures and that would involve pandering to dickwads just like I do now. No thank you.

Masonry. I’m not entirely sure, but I think I just used a fancy word for a builder. And I’m not strong. And it’s a bad economy for building, aparently.

Geology. I could study all about rocks, and know about rocks. And I’d probably work alone in a musty cellar, whinnying excitedly about layers of rocks in rocks where I didn’t expect those types of layers of rocks. And I’d work with other people who reached the same conclusion as me, that they didn’t want to work with people and that rocks wouldn’t piss them off. So we could all hang out and make nerd jokes and wear shirts saying “geology rocks”, and it would be awesome.

I want to be a geologist, but I don’t want to go to college, really.

Could I be an apprentice geologist?

I will look into it, or probably not. I get enthusiastic about a new career every two days.

It fizzles out pretty quick because I’m never willing to go to college after the first awful attempt, and most of the cool jobs require college. DONT quote me on that, I’m going to be like Bill Gates or whoever else didn’t go to college and has lots of money anyway.

Don’t tell my parents I regret dropping out of college.

I only slightly regret it anyway, what was I going to do with LATIN? Even my professor shrugged when I asked him if there was any point in studying Latin.

You know I would have liked to be a lawyer too, but I know that would be a shit job really because it wouldn’t actually be like Ally McBeal or any other show on tv with lawyers, and I’d have to work with nasty murderers and sometimes you wouldn’t know who was right or wrong and you’d have to defend or prosecute them anyway, and there would be lots of paperwork, and I’m a bad judge of character because I tend to base all my judgements on looks. Hey, at least I’m honest.

Also, my cry of at least I’m honest permeates every page of this blog, so I would suck as a lawyer. I’d be all,

hey, look… my client’s a murdering dick, ok, I agree, but…” and my client would be hissing at me what are you doing, and I’d be all “hey, at least I’m honest.”

And there is no Liar Liar court where the judge indulges and the multi bazillion dollar firm hires me based on my honesty or whatever. Stop thinking about being a lawyer, it’s NOTHING like Liar Liar.


Maybe I could be an actress?

If it wasn’t for my nose, I’d so be an actress. It’s the damn nose that’s holding me back, I swear. I’d kick ass as an actress, I’m super emotive.


Sorry. Will stop talking to myself. It’s just a slow day, I feel like typing out everything I’m thinking.

Oh man, it’s an amazingly bad habit and easy to fall into, just verbalising every thought I have.

I usually do it when I’m around people, and they tend to just tell me to shut the fuck up eventually, but now typing… I’m a really fast typist, I’m not mentally slow, ok?

Right. Going. Gone.


You wanna know why they sell that 2 in 1 shampoo/body wash?

I’m naturally very hairy.

It’s a pity, because I only have a limited amount of motivation to get things done, getting things done is a massive drain on my energy. And grooming… keeping back the constant waves of body hair… takes all I’ve got. Keeping my lower body aerodynamic is a full time job. It means the bins are still camping out on the balcony, stinking the neighbourhood out of this world. It means bills not getting paid until the phone company’s desire to get paid overtakes their desire to avoid a phone call with me. And even sacrificing every other responsibility in my life, I can just barely keep on top of things. It’s relentless.

I don’t know if I’d even have time for a social life with all this plucking and waxing and… that’s a lie. I have lots of time really, it just gets spent on internet fuckery and playing games and reading the odd book…

You might think, dude, chill out about the hair and your weight and shit, go out, have fun and get a life… but I’m decided now. I’m leaving this city. Not today, not next month, but I’m not staying. And once that’s decided, there’s not a whole lot of hope for meeting new people and trying to adapt to this country managing to interrupt my hairless hermit regime.

But while I’m here… I’m waiting for time to pass. Waiting for my court date to even begin looming on the horizon… waiting for this awful “smack across the face, you’re a grown up now, just deal with life’s hissy fits” year to come to an end… so I can up sticks and take my hairy ass back to the land that comes close to accepting me just the way I am… While I’m here, looking my best is about all I’ve got. You may have noticed a distinct obsession with my appearance on my blog. It’s true, I’m as superficial as celebrity rehab. But I’m not ALL about how I look. It’s just that right now, it’s the only thing within my control that makes me feel good. Which is probably why I can’t stop shopping. Or taking photos of myself in that fucking swimsuit. (Wish I had that fucking before photo but I deleted it in a fit of self loathing)

I’m stuck for the next 6 months at least, in a city that rejects me like I’m an incompatible transplant. Which I suppose is what I am. Immigrants or expats (the difference being that immigrants are from poor countries, are resented and take the lowest paying jobs and bitch about hardship and discrimination, and expats come from rich countries, are considered exotic or interesting, take the awesome jobs and bitch about the difficulties finding cheddar or creme fraiche.) are human transplants into a culture. Not everyone takes to a different culture. Some marry locals and stay forever… in fact, you only stay if you fall in love. That’s how it goes, from what I’ve seen anyway. It’s partly why I have such a shit time with other people in my sitch- because English speakers here are either students (lame!) or couples (lame! Lame! fucking LAME!) And I’d say I’m about tied between marrying an Italian and sticking a jesus fish to the back of my bike.

So I’m here, I’m hating it… I don’t have the energy to keep trying my luck with more and more people who are complete strangers and never seem to become familiar. So what can I do? Keep pulling out those damn hairs as fast as they can grow back, and at least my appearance won’t stick in their craw. (What is a craw?)

But it’s taxing. There’s a lot of hair. I looked it up- I used to think I was a hairy Mary because of my eye-tie blood, but if the harpies at the waxing place could be that rude about my lady jungle, then maybe Italians aren’t that hairy after all. So I looked it up and apparently it’s because of testosterone. Yeah, that sounds about right. It also accounts for the slightly aggressive attitude to sex and the knife obsession. Maybe. I don’t know. It’s hard to know which gender differences actually come from having an innie or an outtie, and which are just taught by our parents and tv. Maybe there was only ever one woman who got pissy about having to put down the toilet seat, and everyone else just saw it on tv or something and copied that moronic behaviour, and it was added into the Book of Woman, and then eventually Sex and the City came along and cemented us in our confusion. Who knows how much of female behaviour is real and how many of the polished, together, ball busting women on the globe are just Liz Lemons pretending to be something they’re not? Behavioural scientists, probably.

That would be a cool job. You could get asked to state the obvious on Penn and Teller’s Bullshit, and all sorts of documentaries based on flimsy evidence that need sciency type talking heads. I’d love that job.

Oooh… I can feel one of my life goal moments coming on. I know! I’ll go back to college (snort) and study behavioural science. AWESOME. Yeah tomorrow I’ll probably look up some online university and then give up because it actually expects me to study science. I have these burst of enthusiasm for subjects every so often but it always dwindles quickly and leaves me feeling more useless and slovenly and uneducated than before.

So. What is there? I’m here for another 6 months. My life is likely to continue along the same reclusive lines, all work no play (except Fallout and a large carrot here and there…)  and blogging about my trips to the supermarket… I honestly would love to have something interesting to write about, but I’m doing my time here people… you can join me in scratching the days off the wall, until I rejoin life and its lovely chaotic uncertainties, and I promise I’ll show you a wild time.

I can just about take the weight of solitude, because I know it’s got a sell by date. And until then, hopefully this time in my cell will give me some perspective and gravitas ‘n ting and when it’s time to butterfly the hell outta here, I’ll be like that creepy vampire dude in the 17 year old body still hanging around a school even though he’s like 100- I’ll have done my time, spent so much of it thinking about life and shit, I’ll be a freaking guru… and I’ll be all skinny too.

And smooth. Just have to keep on top of that. It’s tough though. Tough being hair-free when I could get by so well in my limited social life with just shaving the bottoms half of my thighs and my lower leg. But then if I get hit by a car… I don’t want to blow the only chance I’ll ever have with a hot doctor with the dreaded:

“Nurse, get those fur shorts off that gorgeous skinny patient and prep her for minor, non-scarring surgery!”

“Ehh… doctor… those aren’t shorts…”

You see, I need to keep things sweet down there in case of hot young doctors.

Well. I’ve successfully wasted my entire day off in the following manner:

1. Slept til 1pm.

2. Stayed in bed til 3pm drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes and watching movies I downloaded ages ago but that are totally shit.

3. Decided to make some dresses. Cut up some clothes I kind of liked. Sewed some stuff together. Got bored- left everything balled up in a plastic bag for “later”.

4. Put some of my clothes away. Washed some clothes. (yay!)

5. Played fallout until I got bored then completed the game, like an idiot. Now I can’t play anymore. Shit.

6. Wrote this because I had nothing to watch.

7. Ate some pasta with tomato sauce and a natural yoghurt.

8. Took photos of self in swimsuit.

9. Going to have another yoghurt because just realised, that’s not enough food. I’m hungry, too.

10. That’s it. That was my day off. What a jip. Now I won’t have another day off for 13 days.


Oh but countdown to festival and london and all… we’re on baby, we’re on like…not donkey kong… definitely not like donkey kong. There was no sex in donkey kong. But we’re on. And there will be fucking. And unless I do the bold thing again and wind up sleeping with someone I really shouldn’t, and who is a friend and stuff, then I will give vast pages of details. Promise!

Normality is resumed.

Ok ok so I was a bit of a sad sack in my last two posts, admittedly there has been no improvement in any area of my life since but I have managed to cheer the fuck up considerably, thanks to lots of stand up comedy on youtube and then I even managed to whack one out after a particularly hilarious comparison between single and married people. Oh the joys of single life. I do love it so…. Anyway yeah sorry about all that noise and complaining about shit. I’m back to normal now I think so let me tell you about the newest addition to my fortress of sluttitude, a set of black silk sheets. Oh I love them. They make my bedroom look like a place of sex and not just eating and internet fuckery. Just hope I don’t stink them all up and have to wash them too soon, because it’s very unlikely I’ll get some man back here any time soon. I’ve escalated the shared eye-fuck moments with hot barman since coming back here, but honestly have no idea how to get him to make a move. Why is his bar so damn busy and popular? There’s never a quiet moment to give him a chance to slime onto me, and also, whenever I go there and he doesn’t hand me the bag with my sandwich, I avoid his gaze in a really impolite retarded manner I have no control over.

Ahhh kind of tired now but so feeling better about shit, can almost handle the idea of going to work tomorrow, almost. Mmmmh Saturday night in alone… so fucking boring. Maybe I’ll try on some clothes and heels and cook myself a proper dinner.

Had a frozen pizza when I got home from work in a moment of despair, then popped some nasty pills. Get right back in the saddle. And made another fucking decision about shopping today- there will be no more shopping. I will go through my wardrobe and take out EVERYTHING. And only put back in the stuff I actually wear and like and that suits me. And catalogue everything else with photos and put in labelled bags or boxes… actually that part is unlikely. I won’t ever get around to doing that. But I do want to sort my stuff out because I have SO many clothes, you have no idea. I mean really, I have like… I don’t know how many dresses just hanging in my wardrobe right now. I’m going to count them now. But bear in mind this is just the dresses hanging up right now, and doesn’t include my winter clothes which are in old broken wheeled suitcases and bin bags because this country has fucking seasons, man. Oh dear sweet jaguar penis, I counted them. I have hanging up in my wardrobe 78 dresses. This is only summer clothes, and it doesn’t include all the dirty ones waiting to be washed or the washed ones waiting to be put away, so that’s probably another 20 or so floating around the house…. I got a problem. Do I wear all these clothes? No. Not really. I have a lot of clothes in there waiting for a fancy dress party I will never be invited to, or some ridiculous one night stand fantasy that will never happen in precisely the right way for the dress to be suitable…. Ok I’m going to reduce some of the shit I don’t wear. If only I took better care of my belongings I might be able to sell some of them…

Damn laptop is at insane heat levels, it’s burning my FINGERS just to type. Should turn it off. Turn it off… what would I do then? No fucking way. Well at least better stop typing because it is actually burning my hands, seriously. Ok. Good night.

I hate magazines and websites “for women”

All women’s magazines are obviously shit. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think men’s magazines are too great either, but if you compare it to Cosmo, Maxim looks like the epitome of comedy and entertainment. I sometimes cave before a long train journey and fork out some money on a magazine. I always regret it. I enjoy reading stupid crap about celebrities, I really do. And I’d like the odd make-up or skincare tip.. I’m not completely out of their target demographic, I do share some interests with the stereotype of woman. But women’s magazines are so mindlessly stupid. the makeup tips aren’t tips. They’re shopping lists (ok, not surprising). The celebrity gossip is always about 3 weeks old, and purely speculation. Pretty much any magazine you pick up has the following bullshit non-articles. Flick through any one and tell me I couldn’t add 50 pages of ads and fake advice columns sponsored by Tampax, stick Jessica Alba in a bikini on the front and sell it.

1.  two page spread on how Jennifer Aniston wants to claw out Angelina Jolie’s eyes or is trying to adopt a gay baby or desperate to get back with Brad. “A source close to the star” says she talks for hours about some pathetic topic and then the rest of the article is padding that mentions a few of the films Aniston has acted in, a few other non-events that might have upset her in the past year, and the rest is photos of her looking nonplussed while reading a book.

2. Is your boyfriend seeing prostitutes behind your back? 5 tips for paranoid bitches.

3. Get some ridiculously hot woman’s look at a fraction of the price. Here’s a photo of a photoshopped celebrity in full makeup, and a list of 15 products that are similar in colour to the ones she’s wearing, but that won’t have the same kind of effect on you because you look completely different, and no one’s looking at the colour of her eyeshadow anyway. If it was an interesting or difficult look, fair enough. But it’s always Jessica Alba or someone similar wearing neutral colours. Are there people so gullible they go out and buy beige eyeshadow and soft pink lipstick in the hope that someone will mistake them for Jessica Alba? Or are the magazines catering for the niche market of people who look very much like Jessica Alba but have previously been clowning it up and ruining their natural hotness with silvery blue eyeshadow?

4. An interview with some bitch no woman actually likes, advertised on the cover as “X tells all” or “X Revealed!” but in reality is just a bunch of bullshit that could be interchanged with any other female celebrity. When I read an interview with some gorgeous bitch, I just want to steal her secrets to being skinny. That’s all I care about. I know what her secret is. She has a personal trainer and eats proper portions, and wouldn’t be famous or earn so much money if she gains weight. That’s the truth, but instead she attributes it to some new yoga/ dance hybrid before adding with a giggle that she “can’t live without hamburgers.” Fuck you, bitch.

5. Some offensive guide to being more successful with men, supposedly written from the top-secret man camp no woman can ever venture near. Never mind that the magazine is aimed at adults who, stupid as they (we?) are, have probably had a few male friends or even relationships with men. No, in this guide we get a glimpse of the mysterious male psyche, and a few gems from some grinning idiot we’re supposed to think would go out with us all if we just stopped being so insecure. Tips range from “don’t wear so much makeup” to “be yourself.” These particles of misinformation and the lack of mention of a blow job, anywhere,  leads me to believe it wasn’t a man who wrote this article at all, but someone’s mother.

6. Horoscopes fill up a few of the last pages, which is cool because I like to play horoscopes when I’m bored, and there’s more to read than the last 120 pages of ads for crap I should think I need but am conflicted about because Cameron Diaz also said I should feel beautiful from the inside, or something. Sometimes it’s fun to compare the horoscopes for the same sign in a few different magazines, but that’s better saved for the doctor’s waiting room, when you’re really bored. For shorter trips, like the bus to work, you can just enjoy reading how 6,000,000,000 people’s week will be unfolding. It’s an awesome power, knowing that if you were to guess what was going to happen to every single person on the world next week, even just guessing one of the 12 options would mean you’d be right about 500,000,000 of them. I used to like astrology because it was flattering, and it made a lot of sense. I had all the qualities of a Scorpio. What a great sign. Then I started reading all the other signs. If I did with the other 11 what I had done with Scorpio, which is focus on the bits I like and disregard those I didn’t, I could just as easily claim to belong to any other sign. And that was all when I was around 12 years old, so I figured out that was a pile of crap before some of my peers found out about Santa. (Seriously. Well, there was one girl in my class…)

7. Some heart-melty piece about women in Africa starting their own businesses, or children with leprosy or something. These articles are probably sponsored by Veet waxing strips who promise to put 1 cent of from the sale of pink bikini wax towards some charity. Feel bad for a second, then turn to the next page. Ooh, luxury holidays.

What was I doing? Venting about magazines. This was actually meant to be about how much I hate all things marketed to women, but I got sidetracked. Magazines are just so shit. And then there are films and tv programs featuring women who have been obsessed with Cosmo or Elle or something since they were teens. I’ve bought more magazines over the years than I’d care to ever be reminded of in monetary value, but I always hated myself for buying them. I’d prefer to be caught masturbating than reading Marie Claire by someone I respect, although I do read that shit on the bus (but I maintain an incredulous, disgusted expression on my face at all time, and it is in front of my fellow bus zombies and no one I know).

Well, sorry to leave like this,  I can’t stay up all night hating stuff, I need my beauty sleep as advocated by Demi Moore in this month’s Glamour.