Moving, shifting.

I moved house last night.

Out of the cold, old, dilapidated apartment with space for things and a good solid table to be fucked on. But it was too cold and old and the wooden window frames trembled at passing buses and I found myself retreating into my bedroom, first, and then my bed, where I lay with my solitude and my drinking and never wrote anything.

Yesterday my long suffering mother, still mothering me long past the gestation period of an adult, helped me move into my new place. Maybe I’ll get some writing done here.I’m all excuses. Recently I spoke to an artist, an actor, and he told me I needed to DO things and get up in the mornings and live my life like it’s not the waiting room for something else, and I felt like crying because he was right, no, not because he was right, but because I’d let my guard down and forgotten that intelligent people can see right through my flimsy bravado. I must have relaxed and let someone see me for what I am, my sadness pouring out in excuses and defence of doing nothing.

I feel happy, I have the symptoms of happiness. But I’m not independent, my life is paid for by the state, my mother shouldered more than half the weight of the fridge-freezer. I’m just like so many others. But I feel wrong, like this. You can justify any lifestyle, I believe, from housewife to banker to lunatic to whatever I might be, as long as your life doesn’t injure or abuse and you can pay your own rent.

It’s not my fault I grew up now, when rent is commonly half a person’s wages, and everyone feels entitled to avocados and parma ham, and craft beer. And suffers without them. But I’m a little ashamed that I grew up now, if I did indeed grow up, and failed to adapt to the world, as it crumbles and swells and freedoms are legalised and then encroached upon, and finally we’re told it’ll all sink into the sea. This is my generation. I’m built for it and by it. Maybe if I lived in the Chelsea hotel, and paid a pittance to live, I’d have been right, or right-on, there’d have been room for my dreams, but this is a bit sad, me, lamenting the fall of the starving artist, in post celtic tiger Ireland, like  a less impressive, less grotesque Ignatius J Reilly with his copy of Boethus.

I’m broke, I’m penniles, I’m cold and I’m a chancer. I’m Sebastian Dangerfield with a vagina. But I’m not, I’m not, I have cognac in my wardrobe and three avocados in varying stages of ripeness, a chilean one and a pair of new zealanders. And I have all these skirts and heels, and when I’ve worn them more than thrice they look old and like they belong to someone I haven’t been for a long time, or a week, but then I shed my passions so quickly, and I shed my skin, and need to buy it new. Because the shoes are worn from climbing walls at 4am and the skirts have been worn thrice and pulled lustily over my head by rougher hands than mine as many times. All my clothes with tags, a look of approval, lust, a compliment. From that moment, the clothes became his, like a lick of paint on a sheep. The skirt I wore to meet Jack, and it was all he thought about, lifting that skirt, he told me later, lifting it. The Shoes that Adam loved so, the ones that left angry red marks on his chest, his neck. The dress I wore for dinner with Antoine, dinner in my flat, with the candles and a tablecloth and he saw me and said “what a dress.” and I wore stockings and he’d never been with a woman in stockings before, he was so young. And he didn’t know to leave them on, when we made love. He took them off me, and I could see he wasn’t sure if they should go, because socks are bad in bed, or stay because they were sexy. And in the summer, I wore those shorts, my little shorts that barely held me inside, and Max watched me paint the sign for the bar in the sun while he sawed planks and sent a breath of sawdust onto the wet paint. And I didn’t mind, because he was so gentle, so adoring, then. And he held me while I was in crisis, not sure what to do or where to go, on the verge of tears at any time, and he made all sorts of promises. He should have let me be and stayed away, and he would have stayed away, but then I would were those shorts.

 I bought them for myself, for how I’d feel, who I thought I was that day and how she would look. But those men, they like to own things, and maybe the don’t know they do it, but they wear me down and they take possession of my clothes, and then I don’t feel like that girl I wanted to be in my skirt any more, covered in fingerprints. Perhaps I just want to give myself fresh to each new lover, and I’m afraid he can see the wear, and it’ll remind him how my mouth isn’t new either, how many hands have reached under my hair to release a clasp. Perhaps it’s not, it’s just there’s so much hope and possibility in new clothes. I remember when I bought my little black playsuit with the high neck and the short shorts, and I saw it in the mirror and thought I looked so sexy, and glamourous, and like I belonged draped on a couch somewhere fabulous drinking something expensive. But then where did I have to wear it, really? I wore it to Bob’s kitchen, to dance to 80s music, which was lovely and fun but my little playsuit went to waste. And then I wore it to the Market Bar, and it was too short, and I felt uncomfortable, but I looked great. And then I went home with Steve, and I shouldn’t have because he’s so wrapped up in himself, he can’t even tell that I don’t care about him, so there’s something insulting about how he never calls or sends a message later. These clothes have too many memories.

What I’m trying to say here, essentially, is that I need a new dress, and I hope you understand how I need a new dress. It’s not wrong, to want a new dress, when you can see how all my other clothes are tarnished so.

But ah, what was I telling you? About the move. Out of my hermit’s cave, into a bizzare houseshare of over 20 inmates, an old hospital of sorts, padded handrails down the corridors and three floors, and everyone has their own fridge, fridges littering the two kitchens and when I scurry down the corridor to the bathroom there’s a ladies and a gents.

And the inmates are friendly and some seem lovely warm people, and others seem obvious like characters written lazily by someone lacking imagination. When I was a child I entertained the thought that I was the main character, and all others were minor, or bit players, or extras. When an adult chastised me I felt sorry for them, that they were written that way, their only contribution to the world as a fleeting villain.

I eventually grew out of the idea that I was the centre of the universe but I never gave up feeling sorry for those people who were written by hacks.

It’s strange to be back in shared living… but it seems like a good thing. It’s warm, I’ll be less inclined to go out every night, maybe, maybe I’ll save some money too.

But the thing that struck me straight away is that I now find myself in a censored environment. For months I’ve surrounded myself exclusively, truly exclusively, with people who I can be so open about, tell every secret, every filthy secret and thought. And now I’m in this area where I don’t know the people, and some will be open minded freaks and perverts, too, but some will not, and so I’m keeping myself to myself, a little. Which is odd for me.

I got so used to being just me, living in a world of my own creation where nothing in nature is twisted, or dirty, as a man said long ago, I think it was Servius.

Changes, anyway.

I hope I write more here, I hope I do. I’ll try.

But it’s not, as people close to me who don’t write seem to thing, some kind of muscle I can get up in the morning and knock out 20 reps of 100 words.

I could write 50,000 words right now, and I’d forget to eat, drink, pee, masturbate, yes, even masturbate. But what kind of words would they be, and is there any point?

My friends tell me to just DO it. Do it and you’ll have written, and you can edit. But I don’t like to edit, because then I read back and it’s not the voice in my head any more, it’s something I’ve crafted. And why did I do that? It’s the honesty of writing I love… and beautiful turns of phrase, and sentences that make something lurch inside you like arousal of your sense of harmony. But mostly honesty, and when I edit I think why did I do that? What am I trying to say, and what’s the point?

And I collapse in nihilism, and I don’t do anything, and I feel bad about it, because even though I don’t think anything matters, it matters to me that I don’t fade into a sad future. Also, I don’t edit because I don’t know what’s good.

People tell me to just write. Just write, write all the time. You have so much free time, you should be writing. I know. I KNOW. I know. I just need to… do it. I know.

In my old place, you see, it was too cold. It was so cold, I couldn’t think, my fingers were cold, my brain was occupied in being cold and suffering from it and overcoming it. In France you may know, I thought I’d recreate the misery and solitude of my life in Italy, without being so miserable and solitary that I’d hate it, like in Italy.

But it seems it’s either one or the other. I’m too unhappy in Italy to live. I wrote there, maybe nothing great, but I was so unhappy I wrote like my writing was my friend who understood me and it just kept me from the abyss of true misery. And France, oh I didn’t speak French, but I learnt French. And I didn’t know anyone, but I met people, and I met wonderful people and they made me laugh and I somehow made them laugh in my awful French. But I wasn’t truly happy because I was like the dumb princess, the little mermaid, clumsy on my legs and deprived of my singing voice.

The prince didn’t love me without my gifts, but he was compassionate, he thought me charming with my strange ways and my clumsiness. But that’s fine, for a short time. In France there were men, but none of them loved me for what I was, they just loved what they could see, a ballsy travelling girl with a love of wine and food and a tendency to make clumsy puns that didn’t really work in French. And they murmured things in my ear, that sounded less beautiful as my French improved and eventually just made me roll my eyes. Fucking French, everything so doomed and poignant. On a beach somewhere near Bordeaux we watched a sunset together, feet curling in the sand, and one lover told me he was glad the clouds were there, on the horizon, because had it been any clearer the sunset would have been too much, too cheesy. “I ‘ate cheesy” he said.

“I ‘ate you”, I remember thinking. But I loved him a while longer.

I missed my wit and humour and I felt dulled. I drank far too much and snuck my bottles out of the lovely, jolly house I shared with 6 people so they wouldn’t know how far it went. I couldn’t write there, because I was learning French and my head was full of French and I was being pestered by romantic men who felt no shame in throwing themselves at me.

I had so many friends, there, I couldn’t muster enough loneliness to really write. I was aware as I made this excuse that I could never make myself be lonely, Italy was a mistake, I was trapped there with my husband and my mortgage and my debt. I’d have run home, long ago, had I not been caught that way. I told people I moved to France to be lonelier.

Really I think, now, in hindsight, that I knew full well I was moving to France to have a legitimate and shameless reason to be lonely. I was desperately lonely in Ireland but I was from Ireland, there was no excuse, how could I not find the right people? And I couldn’t write there either, because I had to work in this awful call centre and I didn’t have time to write because I had to work from 9 til 5.30 and didn’t get home til 6.30 and then I was tired and sad, and needed to relax and watch something absurd and funny and forget about my life, and I’d do that til 1 in the morning and then I had to go to bed because i had work in the morning. And if I tried to write anything I’d write how I felt, and god, that was awful, and I didn’t want to think about how I felt because I felt sad and hollow and like something really awful had been done to me and I was being made pay for it. Some awful wrong, my whole life was an awful wrong that had been inflicted on me by my parents, my teachers, my friends, my boyfriends, my parents, my parents, my parents.

And I was such a lovely girl with such a sweet heart and I loved so strongly and why did they all do that, tread on me and make me so sad and break my heart so now I haven’t been sweet or loving in years.

So I didn’t like to think about that, it was too dark and I cried so much when I thought of how I felt and who I had become or was becoming. And my eyes would be puffy in work the next day. Maybe I’d write at the weekend. That’s it, I’d get a bottle of whiskey and lock myself in my bedsit, quite a nice bedsit, not really suited to drowning your sorrows, but I’d make do. And then Friday I’d be half drunk and thinking of typing a few words about something, and I’d get a call from some man I’d vowed to stay away from because he kept giving me false hope and then hurting me, and whenever that subsided I’d remember he was no good, not very interesting and not at all impressive. But I’d be lonely so I’d go and meet him, and sleep with him, and start to feel the rumblings of emotion again, and then I wouldn’t write because all I’d write about would be how I liked him, and maybe I didn’t, and why wouldn’t he call when he said he would.

and what’s wrong with me.

Well, that’s all sort of gone now. I’m not that kind of unhappy now. I’m quite happy, really. In the short term. Long term, I’m not sure, because I need to prove to myself that I am what I claim to be, a writer, and that I’ll do something with that and not just be a drain on family and the state. Not that I care about being a drain on the state, because look at everyone else, and look at all the corruption. But it’s still not right for me, personally.

I am quite happy, really. I don’t cry, I don’t feel like I’ve been hideously wounded by life any more. I feel like I’ve been wounded just the right amount, to make me someone I could respect, if only I got off my ass once in a while and contributed something to the human experience. Because no, it doesn’t matter one bit if I drink and fuck all day and get old and then no one will want to fuck me any more, but it matters to me that I leave a little bundle of pages behind, with something in them that can be picked up, and read, and maybe enjoyed, and maybe someone will read and know me through them, and my life will be in there, and all the silly things that you couldn’t invent, that don’t matter at all, but that contain everything of me but my DNA.

Obligatory new year post, featuring resolution: Give BDSM a chance and my top five men of the past month, And other stories.

I’ve been quiet here, sorry. I’ve been very very out there in my life, however.

Christmas was an endurance test of the most ridiculous and hedonistic proportions. It started some time in November, maybe, when I moved into Dublin city, it started at a rate of three big nights out a week and steadily upped the tempo til mid December was just a barrage of inseparable nights and days drinking and sleeping with people and laughing and making new friends and drinking and waddling home with smelly armpits and heating up frozen meals and maybe washing and definitely changing clothes and RIGHT BACK OUT THERE INTO THE CARNAGE

All came to a head New Years eve where I uncharacteristically took a mystery drug offered me which turned out to be 2ci, and I went a bit weird and groped a guy’s thigh and he said (maybe influenced by the same drug)

“Sorry, I just find all of your friends more attractive than you”

despite the fact that I was wearing the shit out of a velvet skin tight  long sleeved and legged catsuit and my face was barely registering signs of liver abuse.

I went and sat in a room on my own for a while trying to send dirty messages to someone I met online (see point 5) but found my condition didn’t work with predictive text, I kept writing messages and ending them with “so he can” completely nonsensically. “I’m alone so he can.” “I wish you were here so he can”. etc.

I was later found by friends sitting alone in the room kneading my own arms and muttering “their bodies are so warm” and was put to bed where I slept through most of the party.

New year, new you, no more mystery drugs.

Not the first time I said that?

Well. But that’s not the thing.

The thing is… I’ve been enjoying the single life. I get too bogged down in individual menfolk, to the point that I get obsessive. So I’ve been casually seeing a few, and boy does that suit me. No obsession, I don’t even feel compelled to write back to them several times before getting an answer. Progress, progress!

I have a few men I like on the go.

One I fucked wonderfully a few months ago, he’s been away but has kept in touch intermittently and is keen to meet when he’s back soon. BUT he seems like the sort of guy who’s decent, and serious, and you don’t just mess around with. A total boyfriend type, and I’m not sure he’d be able to fit in with my friends, he’s not a drinker at all and that’s an awful criterion for a match but it’s true, I would hate to have to see friends and family all separate from whoever I was with. Actually no, that would be IDEAL. But he’d judge my drinking even if I cut it down to like 20%. Also, he’s a medical student and I DO NOT NEED THAT in my life. I’d be waking him up at 4am being like “honey, please, I know you said it’s not cancer but seriously is it cancer?”

Two, I’m actually sick of him now. Just use him like a short metal implement good for scratching an itch, that doesn’t quite get there. Phasing him out, although there was a relapse new year’s day when he gave me a lift home from the party I woke up in and I had the low self esteem of the weirdly rejected for a thigh grope, and I was wearing a velvet catsuit and I required some kind of validation of my rockin bod. (He gave me the validation but the sex was beyond awful and then he fell asleep which I didn’t like, in my bed! I had to get up and turn the lights on and  pretend to be looking for something noisily so he’d finally leave…)

Three, a guy I meant to tell you about ages ago because it was quite a good story. But now I have too many fresher good stories. Suffice it to say, met online, we had great sex and good conversation but it’s a feelings-free zone for both of us. But I’ll keep in touch with him, he’s a good guy. And the sex. But mostly just, he’s not the sort of person I’d usually ever meet, businessman and obsessed with getting rich, unfortunately not rich yet, but just… an easy going and different perspective.

Four…. Not from the internet, for a fucking change! Met at a party, took a little bit of a pill, got all loved up and gazed into each others’ eyes for hours talking about everything. Found we got along very well, plenty of similar interests. Unfortunately the pills made us more forthcoming and taboo-less than usual and we found ourselves discussing how we are both chronic cheaters and would be interested in open relationships. Which I didn’t really mean, because I only ever cheat from boredom or out of spite. And I’m WAY too jealous to do an open relationship, really. I think. Yes. But we had a great night, eventually great sex, and when he tried to make a second sex date I took a great leap from my usual silly position and said, BRING ME FOR A STEAK. Actually I said lobster dinner but we made a compromise. He took me for a lovely, lovely meal where we didn’t have any pills but still grinned at each other like teenagers for hours. Great easy conversation, smiling, smiling, lovely food, lovely sex… and he’s a fairly successful writer and other things. Damn. Intimidating. So I’m totally intimidated and totally into seeing him again, but there’s that silly prelude of us talking about cheating, and although yes I’ve done it and know I wouldn’t ALWAYS cheat, he said he does, always, absolutely. So that’s a bit of a red flag. But you know I’ll probably ignore it completely. Also he does seem quite keen, but he recently broke up with a woman who he says was great but he just couldn’t keep hurting her. Urgh… Yeah. Bode well, it does not. But he’s hot, and he got me steak, and he talks about books and he fucking writes. I’ll risk it probably.

FIVE… another internet one. this time, we haven’t met. It’s odd. He wrote to me a few months ago saying he’d be over in Ireland for a few days, did I want to meet. I said probably not, I’m busy. At the time I was seeing two men and felt that was enough. I’ve since stretched my….stomach? to the point that I would quite gladly add another to the mix, just to up my chances of winning. He wrote me a few times over the weeks, months, and every time I wasn’t too keen, I said maybe, maybe, he looked quite gentlemanly but dirty, tall and cocky, like the sort of person who’d fuck you proper but not get attached. But then I’d get attached. My kryptonite. But I was so damn busy, the party season kicked into full gear, I was so drunk all the time and so hung over in between, and then I didn’t have the money (read: it was being spent on alcohol) to pay for a professional wax, so I didn’t want to show up for a sex date with a guy who clearly knows how to dress and likes the finer things sporting DIY wax job and three day session face.

So I replied to him a bit but I was obviously giving him a good interesting challenge. Not a solid no, but not interested.

Eventually one night there was some sexting. I was drunk, I wrote back to a filthy message, and we got into a full on night of sexting. And surprisingly for me, the next day I didn’t recoil or lose interest. He actually spoke to my fantasies. He was filthy in a way I am, but never really let to the surface for anyone. He tried to coax me out to meet him. I was busy! I just met guy number four, I was going to a good party, I didn’t want to bring a guy over to my single bed and cold apartment. Then we had another night of intense sexy texting and I thought, fuck, I DO want to meet him. Desperately! We must meet. And then I got my poxy period. And no way was I going to meet him with that, because I was really keen on him going down on me as he promised, for ages.

So he came and went, and as he left we got into a very intense and constant discussion of fantasies and fetishes and fuck, it was like the floodgates opened. Normally I have a high sex drive. Since talking to him in the last… five days? Maybe? I’ve been constantly humming with the need to fornicate. I’m light headed with it. Giddy, distracted. We’ve stayed up chatting for hours. We’ve had phone sex, cum incredibly hard, discussed really out there things and somehow landed in this weird we’ve never met, sort of…. dominant and submissive relationship.

I’m kind of reeling from it. I’ve never considered myself in any way submissive, except for one time years ago when a friend and I got into some jokey game where I had to call him master and he called me his pet, and I sat at his feet and obeyed him, but it was silly, a game, and the only reason I remember it is because I remember being really excited by it and thinking if only I could let him know I wanted to do that for real, without having to ASK.

But with this guy… he’s confident. Authoritative. His voice enthralls me. It’s so steady, it commands respect. I’m weak with him… But I’m not a submissive person. I’m not! I’m an outgoing, loud, vulgar woman! I’m dominant, obviously.

And then I found this blog post that described Alpha female submissives…. and it was all about me.

http://dominantsoul.wordpress.com/self-understanding/alpha-submissives/

I’m not saying I AM a submissive, fuck I haven’t tried any of this stuff for real and I have always tended to cringe when it comes to templates for relationships… why the whips and chains? Why not a bit of fucking subtlety? Why pvc? WHY PVC?

BUT.. in the article which I can’t find now, it’s bookmarked on my phone, I’ll add it later..

I read about myself, my past relationships, why a strong supposedly great woman can’t find a fucking man who suits her.

Because I’m a strong woman, men think I’ll be a dominant one in the bedroom. When really I just want a really strong man to hold me down, be rough with me, and maybe not exactly punish me or do any cliché stuff like in that recent book I won’t dignify by naming, but definitely make me feel smaller, weaker, less in control.

I’m in control of my own life. Hence why it’s in such disarray… but yes, I make every decision. No one influences me really. I have to make every bloody decision about everything. I don’t want that, but I’m not just about to give up my power for anyone.

It would, I believe, take a very special man to make me cede the remote. But if I meet that man, then cede it I will. Because I don’t want the control. I never did. I’ve been independent in some ways since I was a child, headstrong and unwilling to accept authority…. unless I respected the person. I never had a problem with authority, just with the wrong people having it.

Now, I don’t know where I’m going with this.

I haven’t met this guy, we’ve just talked. And there’s a lot going on. The sexual thing is clearly very strong. But there’s something else here, something that excites me far more. The idea of exploring this, well, we’ve already started exploring some parts. And it wasn’t like he said “I want you to submit to me”. Fuck, most of it was my idea.

He lives in England, but said he’ll come back soon. We’ll meet. We’ll see what it’s actually like. I kind of hope nothing happens because I have college to go to next year and I NEED to make something of my life, and the last thing I need is to fall madly in love with someone in another country. Again. I can clearly not be trusted to make the right choices.

And yes, it’s premature saying that, but you don’t know… it’s been so intense lately. Just talking to someone. I’ve never felt this excited about a stranger, I’ve never felt so keen to please someone while so free from the pathos that has always come with my being overly nice and eager with regular vanilla type boyfriends.

So I’m finally getting to the point….

New years resolution

Give BDSM a chance.

if this is the right thing for me…. well, it wouldn’t surprise me. At all. The submissive alpha thing I read makes a shit ton of sense to me. I felt like smacking myself in the forehead and not just because I’m also slightly masochistic. It was like DUH!

Of course your relationships with “nice guys” don’t work, because they don’t treat you roughly in private.

Of course the dominant guys don’t go for you, because you seem like you’d dominate them in private.

And it made all my relationships look like jigsaw puzzles for toddlers. Four corner pieces. How could I not see this before?

Even if my new internet dominant ends up being an evolutionary dead end in my sex life, he will at least have flung up all these things that must be some use to me in my quest to find a good man who doesn’t bore me to tears. Like maybe I could just stop being so damn overbearing all the time and maybe let men I meet realise I’m not actually an ogre in the sack or kitchen. Just the bathroom.

Anyway. I haven’t written anything in ages… I’m tired (drunk also)

I have another NY resolution, it’s to write a motherfucking book.

I have decided to take the pressure off so I am not planning on writing a good book just A BOOk. I think that’s a good plan. Anyway it’s going to be an erotic novel, because that’s a pretty shitty medium, so again no pressure.

But I’m into the first chapter (sorta) and I’m finding it very hard because I keep having to masturbate because it’s really turning me on. I take that to mean I’m writing a very good erotic novel. I’ll keep you posted.

On both the novel and the masturbation, probably.

G’night

NEXT DAY UPDATE:

last night, weird footnote with my supposed new dominant. He was being pushy, asking for a video, saying he’d send one in return. I wasn’t comfortable so I said look, I just don’t think it’s right you remaining a complete stranger while I totally submit to you. I think it’s more important to establish trust first, than keep mystery. What do you think?

No reply. He’s been online all night and all day and no answer.

At first I felt crushed, like I’ve pissed him off with my disobedience. Why did I have to do that?

and then I realised I’m being pathetic, not submissive, and he’s being pushy, not dominant. I may not be cut out for the world of BDSM but maybe I am, maybe to some extent. And from my little bits of research on the subject, I think this guy is a bit too domineering and not quite enough into making me feel comfortble.

So. Don’t feel shit about letting him down any more, think he might be a bit of a dick really, just like all the men I go crazy over.

But now I’m in this position where I desperately want to push my limits, try something new that scares me a little, be dominated… and I’ve no one to do it with. I have zero intention of showing up to some latex and dyed black hair meeting and finding some new guy purely to be dominated by. I liked how this kind of happened organically, although he was pushy from the start, which I liked. Now I have my other guys left, well, realistically I have guy 1 and 4, but guy 1 is too romantic and guy 4 doesn’t have as high a sex drive as I’d like and is a self proclaimed incorrigible cheater.

If my sexuality is a scab, I shouldn’t have started picking it. But then who can resist picking at something?

Or maybe it’s a door that I should have left closed. But you can reclose doors, can’t you?

Yeah, it’s probably a scab.

Or floodgates! I’m not sure what they are but I’d say they are harder to close than doors.

Stupid metaphors.

Quarter life crisis!

I’ve been writing little bits and pieces recently, but nothing on my blog. I’ve been trying to write something more structured and less rambling but I haven’t really got anywhere with it. I guess my life has been all up in the air… Moved to France, moved to England, came back to Ireland…. Fell in love, got over it, fell in love, got over it….

This year has been the year of the quarter life crisis.

The… ok, I’ve had a lot of fun and done a lot of stupid things and met a lot of people but now what the fuck  am I going to do with my life?

I don’t want to be broke and I don’t want to trudge up the office career ramp while my bum gets flat and square from sitting in a swivel chair.

Those seem to be my options. 

So I decided to go back to college this year, after moving briefly to England and realising how fucking hard it is to find a job when all you’ve done so far is start again and again and never learn anything that comes with that bit of paper.

I decided to go and study business management. Because my dream has always been to own my own little cafe and make cakes and pies and feed people in a charming little room with twinkle lights and oh wasn’t my dream to have a bar and serve cocktails and craft beers and a vast range of whiskeys?

And then wouldn’t business be fucking boring, and not really guarantee me any way closer to my dream?

And then what about computer science, because I’m smart and I’m good with computers and if I hadn’t taken the slippery slope paved with sex and drugs and alcohol, I’d probably have gotten really good at programming…..

So that’s it, I’m going to do computer science.

I started to set it all up for next year. Did everything I needed to ensure I get my fees paid for with this government initiative that pays for everything, including a weekly living expense that could pretty much take care of me all through college.

Brilliant.

 

And I was going to do it. I started to take a little course online, an intro to computer science. Interesting.

Except then I started making excuses not to do it.

Like I’m hung over, or it’s the weekend and I want to go out and get laid, or it’s the weekday and I don’t have anything to do but I’d rather rewatch all the episodes of insert embarassing comedy series here.

So it started gnawing at me, the reality…

I don’t really really want to study computer science. I don’t. I’d like to have a smart degree, something I could impress people with, something that I could get a good job with.

But…. I don’t know. I’m interested in computers but what about all the math?

And then yesterday, I was looking up creative writing classes because now that I have all this spare time, as I have to stay at least partially unemployed to get the government grant next year, I thought I should take a creative writing class. Keep me busy.

I still want to write, but like, it’s such a pipe dream. I can’t count on that ever leading me to decent money. 

And I discovered there’s a masters program in a college in Dublin, a masters degree in creative writing.

I don’t know why I phoned the college, because OF COURSE I can’t do a masters without having a bachelors degree.

Except when I asked the lady on the phone, she said…. yes. Yes you can. All you need is good writing samples.

And then…

I got so excited! I realised… that’s what I want to do. That’s all I want to do.

My dream has never been to own a cafe or a bar or write programs or design websites, it has been writing, all my life it has been to write. And I could go back and do a masters degree and how much would i enjoy that? Jesus.

That’s it.

Suddenly it became totally clear to me that the business and computers ideas were just not me. they were me panicking and trying to catch up with everyone else I know who is SOMEWHERE in their life now while I’m floundering in what I’ve always called mediocrity but is sliding further down the scale as everyone else overtakes me.

It’s always been my dream to write, and I’ve never done it because I’m chicken shit and don’t know where to start.

And now I realise that I could probably learn and get guidance and DO IT and just find out if it’s my calling or not, and it would only take a year and then if I’m not cut out to be a write I’d just know and it could stop being the thing at the back of my mind that lets me get away with being unambitious.

what a great discovery.

Except, then I started doing my research, and I found out that the government grants I was going to get to fund me in an undergraduate degree, don’t count for masters programs.

So I’d have to come up with 7 or 8,000 euros and then all the money to pay rent and living costs for the year.

And Dublin is expensive. 

So I can’t do it.

And not only can I not do it, but now the other things I was going to do are so clearly wrong that I just don’t know….

what to do with my life.

 

I’m kind of totally lost in my own life. What the fuck should I do with myself.

I’m 26 this month and I’m finally, only now, finally at the point that most people are in when they first leave school.

Except I’m nearly 26. 

 

Ahh… I thought writing that would help clear my head but it’s just cementing how I have no fucking clue what to do.

Advice much appreciated.

Shall I compare my job to a summer’s day? A summer’s day where you sit in an office and everyone else is outside drinking and getting tanned and being interesting

I hate my job.

I hate my job.

I hate my fucking job.

I sit at a desk and I look at the screen and think of all the people out there, people with jobs they like and jobs they enjoy and jobs they maybe don’t even need but they just get up and do anyway because it’s part of who they are.

I wonder about those women who you ask at a party, what do you do? Who can answer without an apologetic “well, it pays the rent”. Those women who you would want to talk to, whose answers lead to questions and whose questions make you want to know more and more…

People who help people, people who make fantastic amounts of money, people who are responsible for things we eat and watch and think and feel and want….

I don’t want to be massively rich or famous, just not….

I’m a telemarketer and I earn minimum wage… or maybe a little more than that, but it’s awful. It’s awful and boring and shit and it gives me a headache and makes me comfort eat. If I stay in this job for too long, I will become a fat telemarketer and I will have nothing to talk about and I will just want to spend time with other fat telemarketers because at least they will laugh at my impression of the creepy Albanian guy eating his beetroot out of a lunchbox and will ooh and aah at my latest report on the office bitch. Then I will be a completely uninteresting person and I will probably forget all about how miserable I am and just start aiming for minor promotions until I marry some boor with neck acne and a Dunnes Stores shirt because he’s the best looking guy I see daily, and maybe he’s the office alpha male and his same wage as mine but no shopping addiction allows him to impress me by buying rounds, and then I’ll be bored and I’ll become exited about maternity leave and I’ll wind up living on the outskirts of Dublin in some nice big house and there I will DIE a boring fat telemarketer.

I don’t want to do this, not even for a few months, because that is definitely what will happen to me and I know myself, I leap into things so it would all probably go down in a space of two years.

But what ELSE can I do?

All I want to do is write.

I want to write but I feel like the people whose jobs are writing have either done the time in college or know the people or have some secret ingredient that’s just missing from me. Those people who just push themselves forward and seek out what they need to get what they want and I just languish, pining after the end result with no idea of what to do to get that.

I had another great weekend, a long weekend with a Bank Holiday Monday and I spent three solid days and nights drinking and taking drugs and having fun and laughing and smiling and people I didn’t know came up to me and told me I had a wonderful smile and was a wonderful dancer and when I danced I looked so happy… And they were on drugs too so that’s probably why, but I felt like I was at home again, and everyone was lovely and I felt like part of the city.

I took the bus in to work on Friday and I sat in the back facing the wrong way and watched the streets fly past. Dublin welled up inside me and I thought about why I came home and I felt happy and excited and told myself this is it, this is where you want to be and you don’t want to just be some asshole living for the weekend. Go out, lose control, get into stupid situations, say yes to drugs, fuck a knacker you don’t want to see again, hang out on the steps smoking joints and don’t worry about sitting in pee.

When I was wild I was vulnerable and I always got hurt but man, I love who I was. I would be proud to be the one who gets hurt again because now all I do is skirt around anything scary and I meet men and I’m not very nice to them and I act like I’m being the open and honest one but all I do is tell a different lie than they do.

I used to throw myself into the traffic of men, and they ran me down and again and again I wondered what was wrong with me. I’m still meeting the same imperfect candidates but now but they don’t really stand a chance now….

I went out on Friday afternoon and I stayed on the session til Monday morning. I brought friends back to the bedsit and we drank bottles of lukewarm buckfast and Jameson from the bottle and cans of Dutch Gold. I met an old friend I had never had a single romantic thought about and I said to him inexplicably in the pub, what do you reckon? And he said about what? And I said what do you reckon? And he said… good Dj? And I said no… WHAT DO YOU RECKON. And then somehow that made sense and we got into a taxi and went back to my place and had sex but mostly we didn’t have sex, mostly we just kissed and held each other and fuck it felt good, although the sex barely even registered… Neither of us were in a fit state, but it felt good to touch someone…. Maybe it was the ecstasy, oh yes it was definitely the ecstasy but I remembered how nice it was, the other bits of sex. I haven’t been close with anyone in years, because all the sex I’ve been having has been unfeeling on my side at least. I keep looking for the wrong things. I haven’t found the right thing either but it’s like, it was just nice to lie there with someone I feel at all close to. He’s just a friend, and an old friend I haven’t been in touch with lately… I’m sure it would be awful and awkward and not the same if we tried it sober, but it was a good feeling.

I’m getting lonely, properly lonely.

But I’m still happy.

I finally have a social life with people who will stay on the session for three days, not like the Italians with their three drinks and then go home…. People here you can wheedle and coax and bully into staying, regardless of work in the morning or family comittments…

Ah I needed this…

And I am probably not in the best mental shape after that weekend.

But ahhhh…

I’d like to meet a man I like. An older man with filthy suggestions in his eyes and interesting tales on his lips. A man who neither sleazes onto me, nor waits for me to TELL him we will be making the bactrian camel later. I like a good hand on my waist, the suggestion of claiming my body… Ohhh I’m horny.

And I have my job to go to in the mornings and my bedsit to come home to at night.

The weekends are all hope and pressure to enjoy it all.

I spend all my money at the weekends…

I want to quit my job and be a writer and write with my energy instead of coming home from that shitty, awful job that’s chipping away at me, and feeling like writing but then realising I need to wash clothes and they never dry outside and I have to wash my hair and iron clothes for my shitty job.

I’m writing today because I have nothing to watch and because I have been meaning to write for ages, but it’s like… blerg. I don’t want to just be complaining, it is still kind of the nasty depressing aftermath of a long weekend. I just wanted to get some of this out….

Man, I hate my job.

But I’m still happier here than in Italy.

I just wish I didn’t have to do my stupid job….

I’m still here, I’ve just been drinking a lot of beer.

Ok so maybe you suspect the inevitable has finally happened, my ego has collapsed in on itself, sucking the rest of my personality with it, and there will be no more blogs. That’s not true, I am just so goddamn tired lately. I mean my work is awful, really it is a hideous job. Sometimes when I am on the bus home (it’s a 10 minute walk but my job is so wearying to the spirit, I get the bus…) I stand beside the people who smell like pee but at least don’t grope my ass, and I contemplate how bad it might actually be to work as a prostitute.

Would ALL the men be gross and weird and creepy or would there be some hot ones who are just shy or want me to sit in pies or shout at them while they clean my apartment? Would I wind up murdered? I might be murdered and then my mother would find out I was a prostitute and my dad would find out I was not a virgin and it would be so awful, I couldn’t live with myself, and also I would be dead.

But I do get a good 8 minutes of optimistic daydreaming out of the whole scenario. Damn Secret Diary of a Call Girl with Billie Piper, she makes it look so fun, sexy, and lucrative. I bet it is lucrative…. i would need to get in better shape though. But then I remember, the murdering… the family shame… no. Don’t go there.

So that gives you some idea of what kind of job I have. That’s how you know you have a shit job, if the only con you can think of about being a prozzie is the chance of being murdered and your family finding out. Other than that… I really, really wouldl prefer to be having sex with weird strangers instead. I mean I do that anyway, for free.. and no matter how hung over and regretful I feel afterwards, it’s never quite so fatiguing as a day on the job as a telemarketer.

I’m tired and depressed by my job, so that makes me too lazy to write…

So here… no posts, not right now… just… I came in last night after a post-work friday couple of pints that lasted from 4.30pm til 2.30am… same pub, lots and lots of jagerbombs and apparently “my drink” is now smithwicks. I actually think that is my drink now, it certainly didn’t come back up again and I drank A LOT. I spent 80 euro on drinks and I only bought drinks for myself, and I was also bought a few drinks. That’s a lot of drinks.

Anyway, I drank a lot but didn’t really make much of a tit of myself in front of my new work buddies. More on how little I embarassed myself later, I have a party to get to, so I will just leave you with what I wrote last night when I arrived home from the pub at 3am convinced I had “drank myself sober”.

No seriously, guys, I think there’s something wrong with me, guys I have drank so much but I’m actually not drunk at all. No seriously watch me run down these stairs, see look ok so maybe I tripped a little but then I am wearing heels so that’s just normal.

That’s what I kept saying to people. I kept  insisting on running down the stairs to prove my sobriety, despite it being a constant reminder that I was of course drunk as a skunk’s uncle.

So anyway… I woke up remembering I wrote a greeat post and here it is in its entirety. I dedicate this to Brion, sorry I know you love drunk posts unfortunately I was too drunk this time to be very entertaining:

Buenos noches, motherfuckers.

Buenas noches IN FUCKING DEEd.

So I have been keping fairly shtum in the recent timecicles, I know, you know, we know, us knowest? But it’s not like I have forgotten my blog. I have thought of my blog, oftentimes an foondly. Fondly like fond, notlik fondle.

Fondling takes back seat.

Not that I bak seat fondle, just that…

fondle rides passenger these days. TJAT doesvbnt  make sense

I’m on a geetox.

ITs not like I dnt want foreign penile objects in myspecal are,  buuuuuuuuuut………

I

I jst am bored.

I havhad so mmuch of the casual an dnothingy…. WHERE are the men who will make me laugh and make

OH my basill planet is dead Again so thats s no peso tomomrosw. Psorry I cant now I ned sleip.

KKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK

I think   my workmates racists??

An open letter to the late Thomas Hardy

Dear Thomas Hardy,

You are an ASSHOLE.

And a jerk.

I just finished Tess of the D’Urbervilles, one of your many famous novels, and I am very very upset.

I should have known after the misery-fest of Jude The Obscure that you hate your characters and want them to suffer immensely in life and then die prematurely. But there was a curve ball in there somewhere… can’t remember what it was called, obviously Howard’s End wasn’t exactly happy either, but I know I read something of yours that didn’t end in death and despair.

You are a bona fide asshole, though, for making me upset now. I hate this bullshit.

Apart from one anomaly that I can’t recall now, all your books are really cruel to your characters. This is one of the reasons why I will never probably write a novel- I couldn’t bear to be so horrible and make my beloved imaginary people suffer so much and I hear conflict is important to get people to give a crap about reading on. The other major obstacle to my way of becoming a proper writer is probably that I have no imagination, people always think I have a vivid imagination but I don’t, I just get myself in ridiculous situations and I have pretty weird dreams. When I was a little child I won a writing competition with my “book” about a girl who goes to this magical dome country full of weird snail people who operate massive levers. I forget what else happens but in the end, she wakes up and it was all a dream. Her name was Jessie. I won that competition (the other entries were about people’s dogs liking to chase cats, in fairness) and everyone was like “wow so imaginative”. What happened was, I had a dream one night that I was in this dome country with these snail people operating levers. My best friend’s name was Jessie. I have NO imagination.

Anyway, Thomas Hardy is on my shit list right now.

You see, first what he does is give you a really virtuous main character. Virtuous as FUCK. So virtuous, for those of you who are big saddos like me with the classics, it’s almost on the same level as Pamela. Never read Pamela? You are missing out. It’s basically a whole book about this crazy rich dude trying to rape this young girl who is around 14 or something, well she’s probably younger at first because he has her locked up in his house for months or even years, and he tries to rape her ALL THE TIME. And to this she replies by whimpering and begging him not to take her virtue, but not trying to run away at first or tell someone about it or yell stranger danger, and she stays for ages and he offers her all sorts of jewellery and to be his mistress and calls her a cheeky sauce box which must have been a strong insult back then but I don’t get it, “sauce box” to me sounds like a special meal deal at a chipper, maybe like if you couldn’t decide between garlic and curry sauce…

Anyway she cries and wails and begs forgiveness all the time. He dresses up as a woman at one point and hides in her bedroom and then tries to rape her, but he is so shit at raping cowering little girls, he never manages to do it. I can’t remember how but something happens every time to stop him, and you can bet it aint Pamela or his conscience. Her defence on one occasion is to faint. Eventually he marries her and the proposal basically evaporates all that was wrong with the situation. Her parents are overjoyed despite knowing the whole story (and doing fuck all about it) and Pamela is the happiest cunt in the world, like a sex offender’s cinderella. Anyway. It’s the most infuriating piece of crap I’ve ever read. Apparently it was one of the first novels. It was written as a series of letters supposedly written by Pamela to her parents throughout her imprisonment. It was also the first appearance of the simpering fainting fool of a heroine: The consensus among the period’s authors seems to have been, it doesn’t matter if a girl is really really poor as long as she is distinctly good looking and very pious and humble and dignified. Kate Middleton, baby. In fact, if they were to write a novel about Kate and her rise to royalty, it couldn’t really go a whole lot differently.

Tess of the D’Urbervilles is a wee bit bolshier than Pamela, but not a whole lot really. Just enough for me to actually give a shit about her. But she has this annoying classical literature heroine attitude where somehow there’s dignity in just letting some asshole try to rape you or successfully rape you and sort of turn the other cheek, maybe tell him he isn’t kind and that you don’t care for him. So anyway, I was sure she was gonna get her happy ending on but no, far from it- she gets like 2 days of happiness with her true love and then she’s arrested for killing her repeat rapist after he attacked her, and then she is excecuted in prison and her true love winds up marrying her sister which is what she had asked him to do.

Eh, hello?

What was the point in my reading this shit?

Great novel, asshole.

I appreciate you, Thomas Hardy, you weave a good yarn all right, I respect anyone who can come up with fiction because I sure as hell can’t do it, and I do love a bit of period drama, boy do those perverts in waistcoats get my lady wood… but was it entirely necessary to kill her? She had loads of hardships already from the rape to the giving birth to the rape baby to the rape baby dying, etc…

No one would have accused you of sugar coating or Hollywooding up the ending.

And look at Jude the Obscure: Again, shitloads of hardships for all the nice characters, and then boom! The nice characters get together and are briefly happy although living in sin and they take in the main dude’s ex’s son because they are kind hearted people, and then the stepson goes and MURDERS their two or three other kids and then kills himself and then they split up and die alone and miserable. WTF THOMAS HARDY! WHY YOU GOTTA PLAY ME LIKE THAT? How so heartless?

I don’t need to get all wrapped up in your virtuous unlucky imaginary people’s heads only to find them completely screwed over and miserable and dead. It’s not necessary and it’s not cool. I can’t even tell what he’s trying to say, because on one hand his clever good characters you know you’re supposed to be rooting for, all seem to lose faith in god at some point, probably around the time their babies are murdered or die. And it seems like they are right in Hardy’s eyes, because the priests are not depicted in a nice light at all, but then it’s like they get their comeuppance for being godless heathens. I don’t get it Hardy, were you just pandering to the religious powers that were, tacking on a miserable end for the atheists while showing the punishers to be bastards in your opinion?

I don’t want to finish a book like that and find out that they are dead and had like 5 seconds of happiness in their lives. I want alternative endings for saps like me who can’t bear shit to get real. I’m sure glad Thomas Hardy didn’t know about Aids because you can bet his characters especially the harlots who got raped as kids, would have wound up riddled with Aids too.

Thomas Hardy, I know you are dead now so I can’t expect this critique to move you to write me an alternative ending.

So I’ll do it myself.

 

Alternative ending for Tess of the D’Urbervilles, by Chesty Le Roux.

(this takes place when Angel finally tracks down Tess and she’s being forced to be a sex slave for the guy who raped her before. It happens instead of her yelling “go away, don’t ever come find me, I’m his CREATURE now it’s too late” and then him leaving and her murdering her rapist and then going to run away with Angel who forgives her and they are briefly happy and then she is arrested and excecuted and he marries her sister but obviously will never love her as much as Tess.)

Tess: Ahh no it’s too late, I’m his creature now!

Angel: No it’s find, you’re grand, don’t worry about it, I’m not a virgin either.

Tess: Really, so my having had one other sexual partner doesn’t bother you?

Angel: It’s fine, let’s run away together now before you do something you regret.

Tess: Ok, let me just go tell that rape-happy asshole that I’m leaving him.

Angel: Better not, eh? Just come now.

Tess: What if he comes after me?

Angel: Well technically we are married, and I’m a gentleman so let’s just go to my parents house and alert the authorities that this man has been trying to fornicate with a married woman. In fairness the only reason he managed to get you in his clutches was that you are extremely feeble and also, he was generous to your poor family, but now you have me and my family to protect you and also we have money so we can save your family too.

Tess: Ok then, great.

Cue retro porn music…

THE MOTHERFUCKIN END.

They lived happily ever after.

 

So there. Now I’m not entirely satisfied with the closure my ending gave me, but it seems much more fair on the nice characters.

I would like some sort of system, in future, where books with a horrible ending could have like a black sticker on the cover so people like me could know not to bother. I don’t read to learn or to intellectually stimulate myself, I read because I enjoy the hell out of reading, probably more than I enjoy a good tv show or film. In fact a funny book has more chance of making me laugh out loud and uncontrollably than any sketch show or sitcom. I love reading, don’t make it a downer please!

Thomas Hardy, I know you are dead so you can’t write me another novel with a nice ending now, it’s too late for you. You’ve gone the way of all your nice virtuous characters, but you probably had a damn sight more happiness than they ever did.

But other authors, then, please be kind to your brain children.

Thank you.

Love, your biggest fan,

Chesty

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.”

“I’M VERY SATISFIED WITH MY PURCHASE, LET ME TELL YOU!”

“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.

Ok.

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.

Arrrk.

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.