Ode to albatrosses

Hey sweetheart,

I’m no good at Valentines, really never have been. I was always the girl that watched other girls with hugely elaborate bunches of roses and mountains of cards. I was the girl who called it an over-commercialised waste of time; an exploitation of the media to ensure Hallmark didn’t go out of business in the mid February card sending abyss that is the late aftermath of Christmas. And, while it totally is all that, it doesn’t mean I didn’t check my mail every two minutes from the 10th of February to somewhere around the 20th, or wish that someone would give me just one card.

You weren’t my first real Valentine, but you’re the one that’s mattered. You’re the only person that I’ve ever properly fallen for, the only person that made me say, “I love you.” Even if I mess things up somehow and lose you, you’ll always be my perfect other half, my soul mate. You’re the only person who can make me almost normal, the first person who’s managed to make me happy.

I love you more than I ever thought it possible to love anyone. I adore every single aspect of your personality from your warped sense of humour and complete loyalty to your complete obsession with football.

The first time I said it I didn’t mean to, but this time I mean it- you’re the love of my life and I fully intend to spend the rest of my life with you even if I drive you crazy.

Happy Valentines gorgeous,

Your Harriet

Labels: Courting

Apparently men with really big penises can never get fully hard. This is due to the fact that they are so big and heavy that they don’t have enough blood spare to maintain a full erection. I’m not going to get pornographic with you; I just felt that this information seemed interesting because it explained a few things.

Unfortunately, finding out this particular piece of valuable information has been about as close to sex as I have come lately. Or not come as the case may be. Being single full time is occasionally rewarding, and generally better for me than the boring coupled-up counterpart version of me, but it is a slight strain.

Looking for love is about as rewarding as looking for your keys when you’re late leaving the house. There’s just no way you’ll find them and still be on time; you might as well just give up. Looking for sex in a drought is similar. When you swear yourself off it you find yourself a magnet for attractive, nice men. When you need it all you can find are complete shits and stalker-freaks.

My love life is boring. I’ve got a Best Friend [of the ex] thing which, whether I like it or not, I can’t touch, and a charming, attractive bartender with a girl friend and far too much emotional baggage. Oh yeah, and in the spirit of repeating mistakes over and over and over, the ex (who from this point forward shall be known as The Numpty) wants to know if I’ll be back home [and able to have sex with him] at Christmas.

Casual sex, even with an ex, is fine, brilliant even, it’s just that when you’re planning to meet up in three months time and shift plans and everything, it starts to become less casual and more planned. Planned is less good. Planned means that you’re thinking ahead, you’re committing to a date, time, and practice. Commitment, to anyone, and especially the Numpty, is not good.

I’m in limbo. As soon as I go to uni I’m going to be over-run with people and wishing I was back here stuck in limbo again because it was easier. But I don’t leave until next Sunday so I guess I’ll confront that when I get to it. Right now I want to complain.

But, as irritated with limbo as I am, I’m also slightly relieved. I can listen to Counting Crows- Accidentally in Love again. I haven’t been able to listen to it since April because when you realise how much you’ve lost, that song just sounds so smug and well, irritating. That, my darlings, is major progress. Music is the biggest outlet for my emotions. There is absolutely no doubt about it, you can tell what mood and state of mind I’m in simply by which playlist I’m listening to on my mp3 player.

Single life is boring. It’s incredibly interesting, embarrassing, and eventful at the same time, but eighty percent of the time it’s boring. You don’t have consistent sex, someone to phone when you’re bored, or someone to cuddle up to and comfort you when you feel down. If it isn’t by choice then it’s the most miserable state of being that it is possible for you to be in. But once you choose it, once you realise that real love and happiness is impossible to find properly when you’re stuck in a bad relationship, you start to appreciate the boredom.

It’s like stars in a night sky. Most of the sky is black, empty, dark and dull. It’s depressing, soulless. But without the black you don’t notice the stars. The emptiness emphasises the fact that there are stars. You need the blackness to find them. It helps your search.

I loved the Numpty, and right now I simply can’t abide the celibacy. But I understand the need and I accept it as my due. Being with someone is comfortable. It’s easy, and it’s rewarding. But it’s lazy. I need to find the stars, and I need to be bored and frustrated otherwise I won’t look; I’ll sit at home with the boyfriend who isn’t really, but is just enough to fill the need. I need to be single because that way I might learn how to search.

* * * * *

Kudos goes to blogger for working out how to put labels onto posts. After opening a wordpress account months ago, the lack of labels has been the only drawback to blogger weblogs. Now, due to the new beta version, I am an extremely happy bunny.

Labels: Courting, Flying, Pleasure

I use men. I use them to relieve my boredom, to make me feel better, and as devices to make other men feel jealous. And of that ever increasing (and ever more depressing) list of flings, dates, and drunken incidents, I’ve actually only really liked two of them. I give up working out how many men there are anymore, for some reason the joy that came from categorising mine and Stacey’s lists of conquests started to dispel when she became so happy, and I became so sad.

As a child I dreamed of being a princess. I dreamt that knights and princes would travel from across the world to win me. As I got older it became less fairytale and more modernized, but essentially the same. Instead of being a princess I was simply Barbie (brunette) beautiful, and the princes and knights became rich and attractive.

When life eventually conspired to turn me into the cynical bitch I am today, I figured it might be fun to be an ice queen. To be adored, aloof, and ever slightly detached from every man I met. I always attempted to act the ice queen, the realisation that for the past six months or so now I’ve been living it is somewhat a shock to me.

I look back and come across various blurred faces. Men I’ve ridiculed as puppy dogs, or simply pathetic because they’ve been stupid enough to like me. Men I’ve led on heartlessly when I’ve known from the start that the only way they would ever have a chance with me would be if they either became millionaires or had a face transplant. Problem is, I’m starting to lose track. I’m sure there haven’t been that many. But when I think about it, even the times when I haven’t directly pulled anyone, I’ve acted as a cocktease in some capacity or other.

I don’t set out to break hearts. Most the time I maintain that I’m not capable of it due to the fact that I’m unattractive/ too much of a bitch/ just not a heartbreaker. And I’m not breaking any hearts with what I do. Or, at least, I’m pretty sure that I haven’t got close enough to any man to manage. I’ve only been close to one man, and he definitely hasn’t had his heart broken by me. But though I’m not breaking hearts, I’m not exactly being nice.

If any man did what I do to them (and this includes the one that broke my heart rather pathetically) then I would be beyond pissed, I’d be livid. So why do I do this? Pick men up and drop them five minutes, an hour, two weeks later? Is it some stupid survival reflex from the various times I’ve let someone get close and they’ve hurt me? Am I so self obsessed that men are no longer other people and are simply another form of self gratification for me? Or am I just a heartless bitch who’s never going to be happy with anyone so goes through everyone just to check?

I don’t know anymore. I don’t like myself. And I definitely don’t like some of the things I’ve done.

And I don’t know how to stop…

Labels: Courting, Flying

I did the `I’m going for men the same age as me´ thing, and I think now its time to give up on that. It just isn’t a match that is ever going to work for either of us. I go out with them, get bored, and move on. And yes, admittedly I have had some problem with dating guys significantly older too. No names needed but he was so irritating that even the fact he had a Jag and was smitten enough to offer me diving lessons couldn’t keep me interested. But I am going to swallow every post-date thing I said about older men being awful, and write him off as an anomaly that can be avoided in future.

Translated: from now on I’m only shagging older men. I realise that age has absolutely no relation to maturity; that isn’t why I’m making this decision. I just feel that older men are more attractive, and they sort of make me feel virginal compared which is pleasant. I feel like the little girl dressed up in her mother’s high heels with prostitute-red lipstick plastered across my lips. I don’t know why that imagery is attractive to me, but the idea is seductive in more ways than one.

I’ve been doing some research unintentionally by hanging around places I am likely to meet fathers rather than people my own age. At the start it drove me crazy; I guess it still does to a certain extent. But then I realised that okay, the idea of falling for a daddy is ridiculous, as long as he’s still married. But the older you get, the more sensual you get, and the better I get treated. And you never need to check to see if they’ve remembered to bring their ID.

Evidently I’m going senile being forced to go to mother and toddler groups, kindergarten, and food shopping. Food shopping is more than enough to push anyone over the edge- have you seen the crazed people in there fighting over the lettuce and making innuendos to each other about baked beans? And living in the middle of nowhere with no means of transport is putting a serious dint in my social life (boyfriends) that I would normally expect to be having right now.

So I admit it. I’m definitely going crazy. But just look at Pierce Brosnan, Johnny Depp, Sean Connery (possibly a bit too old now)- they’re attractive, mature, and they make me feel a little less crazy than I felt ten minutes ago.

Labels: Courting

Think tall. Not so tall that I have to wear heels permanently, but tall enough that I can’t complain. Dark hair, three quarter length combats, and a sleeveless black top. For some reason he reminds me a little of Robert Redford. Except younger, and so much more attractive. Even though Robert Redford is pretty hot for his age.

He’s older than strictly I’m allowed. Thirty five-ish maybe, so approximately double my age. He’s with two kids, a girl and a boy, both beneath the age of ten. He’s a daddy. They’re feeding the deer and he needs some change for the food dispenser thingumy so his kids can feed them more. At first glance as it’s explained we’ve run out of change ourselves, I think he’s good for his age. But I’m not paying attention; I was there to watch the kids not the adults. But then I do watch him a little. He notices and I pull the sunglasses over my eyes and watch him some more. I’m too young for this, and suddenly remember how young I must seem to him. I’m “oooohing and aaahhing” over the furriness of the deer’s antlers (who knew antlers were furry?) and I’m standing there in pigtails after deciding to do my hair ironically that morning. Of course, I’m the only one who knows that it’s ironic, and all he’s gonna see is a big kid in hoop earrings and over sized sunglasses.

Nothing happened. He obviously has a wife somewhere, though he was on his own with his kids, and if I were to play Sherlock to the situation I would make a guess as to them being broken up and him having the kids for the weekend. But that’s still a very bad excuse for flirting with him far too obviously for the next half hour or so. And it was entirely unreciprocated; if it had been I wouldn’t have been flirting, merely watching with interest. But it was still wrong. I mean, the guy had kids.

So this is one of those situations that means nothing. I won't ever see him again, and even if I do there is a very slim chance that we would recognise each other. But it was nice. It was nice to feel that even with my hair ironically making me look twelve, and two bawling kids at both of our ankles, there was still a brief connection. He was probably the most attractive person I've ever met, and it was strange because his face wasn't conventionally attractive (though oh my god his body was) and he was so far off limits that I felt bad smiling back at him. But I couldn't help it.

I hate those moments. The ones as you're walking through a crowd and you meet someone's eyes, or a brief conversation when there is too much at stake for it to ever be something more. But I love them too because even though it was nothing, he was still the most perfect nothing I've ever encountered, and he made me remember that people as attractive as him do exist after all, they aren't just myths, and occasionally they'll give you a short period of time in which the world is perfect, and you feel attractive and wonderful. Even though, in the end, you know it will never happen.

Labels: Coquetry, Courting

I remember the first time we met. Or at least, I remember not remembering the first time we met. I had to write your name on a piece of paper before I drunkenly collapsed. I knew how drunk I was, and also knew that if I had to ask Stacey what your name was again before I could write it down, the odds were I wasn’t going to be able to remember it in another four hours time when I got up.

You didn’t remember me either. You knew vaguely what I looked like because you know Jack, and you’d seen me waitressing before. But you used a bloody line on me. Told me you’d just got a new phone so couldn’t give me your number. I can’t believe I fell for it either. Yeah, so you actually did call me in the morning; I’m still pissed off that you didn’t intend to. Bastard.

I was horrible to you those first few weeks, I’m sorry for that. But I really wasn’t lying when I told you that I was confused. That night that I met you, I’d decided before I left the house that I wasn’t going to get involved with anyone for a while. I was pissed off with men in general, and then the first person I saw when we walked in was Mark. I ran away and hid behind this weird huge Greek urn thing. It was propped up in the corner and I sat behind that for half an hour until he went away. He may have been a bit pissed off about that. Though actually, he still probably thinks that I was in the toilets or that he just hadn’t looked properly.

So for a week or so I was blanking Mark, being annoyed, and trying to stay single. Which, of course, meant trying to work out a way to reject you. Quite obviously it didn’t work. In the end you just told me to call you when I was less confused. I figured that was it. But then we got talking again, and you took me out, and you treated me like crap the whole night. Admittedly in the morning you were much, much, nicer, but you still acted like a bit of a cock.

When that other guy was hitting on me, Christ, when you told me to go and get in there cos quite obviously he was interested, I was so ready to smack you. But I think we both got it out of our systems when I said okay, and went to dance with him. Dancing with him was fine; he was sweet and actually not unattractive. But really much younger than I generally go for (i.e. my age) and if I can walk over a guy in the first five minutes then what am I meant to do for the rest of our time together? There’s just no challenge.

Then the night afterwards, Hayley, Christine and I came into the pub. You actually went out of your way to see me, and you just seemed happy that I was there. People being genuinely happy just to see me is unusual at best. It was a crappy night, Stacey was pissed out of her brains, and Christine was grouchy. I had such a huge hangover that I had one sip of tequila sunrise and went onto lemonade for the rest of the night. But I still came home reasonably happy. Because of you.

I’m not sure how I managed fitting you in between my exams and everything else in the following weeks. I think that some of the answers to that question would explain my rather disappointing results. But somehow I managed it.

I suppose we had sex too early. You would have waited for a while; you didn’t push me into anything. But we were drunk, me more than you, and I wasn’t in the mood to go home. Well, to go to Stacey’s home as that was where I was meant to be staying that night. So I left with you. I’m still not sure about that. I feel like I should regret it, and after everything I think that it would have drawn the relationship out longer if I had waited, but maybe it was drawn out enough anyway. It was a reasonable length of time; we had a whole season.

Everyone hates you now. Though, to be fair, I’d say that a few of your friends aren’t too ecstatic with me either (*cough*Jack*cough*). There isn’t really any reason for them to hate you. Yes, on occasion you were arrogant, nasty, and altogether useless. But you never professed to be anything else, and you genuinely did care.

You’re texting me as I write this. I think you’ve worked out by now that my heart isn’t in it anymore. I’ve replied, but haven’t been too forthcoming with my own woes, achievements, etc. I’m acting aloof- something I’ve never before done with you. And I’m sorry, I have no reason to. It’s been nearly three months now; I should be past all of this.

But… Look, I was sure that I was over you. I thought that I’d managed to get past all of this crap. And, in a way, I did. But I loved you. And, I guess that I still do. I couldn’t tell you at the time because self preservation told me not to. I was scared of being rejected, of scaring you away, of you simply not feeling the same way. And you don’t. Yeah, you cared enough, but love? Nope. If I told you then I gave you power over me, power to hurt me, power to make me feel like crap.

This is no longer an open wound for either of us. We’re okay, and I can talk to you without it all being awful. But I can’t act like I used to around you, and I can’t talk to you too much no matter how much I want to. You were my best friend, the person who understood me, and still liked me. Scarily you are one of the few, and I’m including my oldest and closest friends in this.

So it isn’t that I want us to be awkward. And it isn’t that I don’t want to talk to you all the time. When something good happens you’re still the first person I want to talk to and say “yay me!” But that isn’t good. So I’ll talk to you, we’ll remain good friends. But I can’t let you in too close; I can’t let us be how we were before. I need the separation for my survival. Now it’s hard for me to just keep you as friend because I know what it’s like to have you as more than that, and it’s a hundred times better.

Labels: Coquetry, Courting, Falling, Friendship, Mistakes, Past tense

My previous blog was simply a way for me to find enlightenment. It ended when the anonymity had gone, but I’d been thinking of killing it for a while before that happened. Mostly it just had to die because I got my enlightenment; I worked out who it was that I am.

This one is my search for love. Or at least for romantic happiness. I figure it’s a better thing to search for because it lasts longer, and there is less chance of me finding it. So it’s actually worth writing about. Anyway, if I am to properly search, then I should at least work out what it is that I’m searching for. So I’ve made a list. It's slightly longer than I intended.

My ideal man would be:

• Tall. Height is important. It’s one of the few physical features that I ask for, so I’m not being shallow here. Or at least, not especially shallow. I average five ten/ eleven in heels, and I always wear heels. But I still enjoy looking up at a man, so short is out of the question.
• GSOH. But by good, I mean my sense of humour. I want someone who is slightly ironic, and slightly nasty in their sense of humour.
• Off the wall. The last guy I went on a date with was lovely, but boring. I said I was insane; he got confused thinking that I was insulting myself. If you think insane is bad, it just isn’t going to work. Crazy people do crazier things, and crazy things are fun.
• Good sense of fun. I don’t mind someone who’s a big kid at heart, in fact, I prefer it. Serious types don’t do it for me; I need you to agree with me when I decide that it’d be cool to go for a walk in the rain, or try to escape out of the window. I love heights, I love rain, and I don’t like people who always need to do what’s normal.
• Creative. Be it artist, writer, musician, actor, dancer (as long as he really isn’t gay, rather than gay but not quite out of the closet yet), or simply someone who just enjoys making things, or fiddling with them. It’s important.
• Passionate about something. Even if that something happens to be Led Zeppelin or Exxon Mobil’s conspiracy with aliens to destroy the earth.
• Strong enough to lift me up and carry me if I break a heel or twist my ankle. I’m barely over eight stones, I’m not asking for a steroid driven Sylvester Stallone type, I just want someone who isn’t weak and pathetic. Christ, I can carry my sister around and she weighs more than me.
• Intelligent. Being crazy is great, and having fun is wonderful, but having conversation is good too. I don’t want an airhead, or someone who is insecure about their IQ so tells me that they never paid attention at school anyway. Einstein isn’t what I’m looking for, just someone who reads a newspaper (broadsheet, not The Sun) occasionally, and can laugh at me when I’m being obtuse.
• Someone driven. To do anything. I don’t care. But telling me that you’re quite happy in a dead end job, or living with your parents for the next few years because you don’t want to miss your “home comforts”. That isn’t for me (and that isn’t nice either. I shouldn’t have mentioned that). You don’t have to want to get as far away from your parents as I do, but some ambition is important.
• Someone who wants to travel. This isn’t code for someone who is rich and will fly me around the world on his private jet. I’m happy backpacking and staying in hostels, I just want to see the world. I don’t care if I don’t have a penny to my name while doing it.
• Someone who understands that I have two levels and can deal with me on both. On the one hand I can act like a petulant child, and will do on fairly regular basis if I think that I’m not getting what I want. But I can also act like a self-possessed woman when I feel like it. I may act like a child at times, but I’m independent, confident, and am strong enough to go after what I want when I need to. I don’t want someone who will hold me back by treating me like a child all the time, or who expects me to always be an adult.
  
• Someone slightly commitment phobic. If you start professing your love for me and the wish to stay with me forever in the first two weeks, I’ll either run away terrified, or laugh in your face.
• Someone who can put up with my mind games. And better, someone who can play them with me, and win. I’m going to try to put you under my thumb, I want someone who’ll sneakily put me under theirs when I think that I’m managing it.

I will settle for less than is on the list. Although the height thing is compulsory actually, and the intelligence, creativity, and ironic sense of humour. Actually, most of them are pretty important. I can't help it, I know what I want, and I'll actually put up with quite a lot as long as my requirements are met. At least I'm not a gold digger.

Labels: Courting, Flying

I don't want to be alone right now. I guess I don't want to be alone a lot of the time. But right now somehow feels different, worse. This is when my resolve is slipping. I'm starting to think of calling someone in my phonebook, starting to think maybe that being with anyone would be better than sitting here on my own. I'm starting to think less like myself, and more like the scared, lonely, little girl.

The thing that I most hate about books is that nine times out of ten there's a happy ending. Everyone falls in love, lives happily ever after. But we don't. It isn't real. Not just that it's fictional, but in real life we break up, Prince Charming can't keep his eyes from wandering and Cinderella keeps on going way over on his credit card because of her love of Jimmy Choos. And in the end there is a nasty break up, they miss each other, but fuck if they're going through all that heart break again.

And there are so many men out there. So many untried, like a huge buffet and you've only started to taste the apetizers. But we can't go through every man, and if you get a stomach ache after your first bite, do you really want to come back for more? With people of course it's different. We have to come back whether we got food poisoning and couldn't get out of bed for three weeks solid. There's always celibacy in the name of religion, but most people don't truly want to give up on love, we just want to hate the person who made us doubt it for a while.

I don't doubt love. I guess I did before I met him, but now I know that I can fall in love. So if I've done it once, then I can do it again. Theoretically. We have a debate. Jenny is with a friend of mine, and they say that they're in love. But they've only been together for a month now, and only see each other once a week. The debate is whether or not they can actually be in love. I won't say who's doing the debating. And maybe it is love. Who knows but them? It took me a long time to work out that I was in love, but I wasn't feeling anything different to what I felt in the first three weeks, I just didn't want to admit to myself that I loved him. Honestly, it scared the hell out of me, and I didn't want to love someone who didn't love me back.

I can't judge whether they're in love. I can tell you that what I had initially was mutual lust, and it turned into love for me, and disinterest for him. But I can't judge others because when I see them together they're with other people, they aren't alone, and I don't know the dynamics of the relationship at all. I can say that in my opinion it probably isn't, but who am I to judge that? I couldn't say that to her, and I'm more than willing to reconsider.

I've spent a very long time believing love to be a myth. Obviously a nice myth. I guess I've just treated it in the same way that I've treated religion. Both seem nice theoretically, but are they real? And finding out that it was, that hurt more than my cynicism. My cynicism protected me, and when it left it was like being stripped naked, but not in a good way. Needless to say it was a very bad relationship. Another thing that I learnt was that even though love is nice in theory, it isn't always nice, sometimes it's a complete bitch. You don't want it, and when you really really don't want it, that's when it decides to come and fuck with you.

Love is supposed to be everything. It's supposed to make you wake up one day and think everything is beautiful. It's supposed to enrich your life. And from what I see of other people, I guess it does that for them. My cynicism had an unexpected side effect. It meant that when I did fall in love, I was completely and utterly unprepared. Next time I won't be so much.

I've been naive and stupid. And for a a long time I really stopped acting like myself. But this isn't better. I'm out, I'm free, but I'm not happy. I don't understand why it's so impossible to be happily single anymore. I hate that I envy those who are happy. And I despise that I've become bitter and lonely. I'll have many relationships, I'll be fine, and I won't be lonely. The lonliness is temporary, and not something I worry about, I just don't enjoy coping with it at the moment. But trust in love is something I've lost. I believe that it exists now, and as far as I'm concerned it can fuck off. I don't want it, I'm happier without it, and I act like an idiot when I'm in it. I'm not doing it again. It's been two months and I'm still totally fucked up about it. I've had enough. I'm going to go back to being the ice queen, at least then it was me who was in control.

Labels: Courting, Falling

"I wouldn't like to think that this had been one of those dates where you knew within the first ten minutes that it wasn't going to work out, and then spent the rest of the date looking at your watch and feeling really uncomfortable."

I immediately shifted my arm so that it didn't look like I'd been about to check the time, and flashed him a nervous grin. "Of course it wasn't like that! I've had fun."

He smiles, "Good, I didn't think, I was just checking, you seem happy enough."

Well, he was at least good at summing up the date in one sentence. Though horribly wrong at both body language and having even a bit of a clue about me.

It dragged. He was lovely, Confetti was hilarious, though marginally inappropriate as a first date film really, and the atmosphere was good. The only thing lacking was any chemistry whatsoever. Evidently he didn't feel the same. His parting comment: "All good things must come to an end... unfortunately." To which I hastily kissed him on the cheek and then ran down the bus with as much poise as I could on a moving bus and approximately two minutes before I would normally even contemplate getting up and wandering down the aisle. Generally I just press the button and make the driver wait for me, this time we had a nice chat about driving in the dark before he pulled in.

I was ready to go home at nine. I was tired, we'd seen the film, and I knew that it wasn't exactly a Romeo and Juliet match. And we would of, we were within metres of the bus station and freedom when he decided, "I feel like going for a drink." It was blurted, quick, he didn't want to go. So I let him drag me in for two hours. Two hours so that we could just catch the last bus, two hours of awkward silences and me inwardly berating myself for flirting with other men over his shoulder. And that was the worst thing about it all. Every other man in there could tell that I was bored stiff and cold for his company, except him. People were laughing. And when he started leaning in closer and steering the conversation towards sex, normally I'm in my element. Even my dad thinks I'm queen of the innuendo. But all I could do was nod, look uncomfortably about me for some sign of relief, and then decide it was time to take a toilet break. And come on, when someone starts talking about how they're really quite dirty...

So I sent Stacey a text saying that I wasn't going to earn my double points on this one, and then went out, downed my drink, and said that we'd better go catch the bus. Which meant another hour of awkward silences and me edging away from him in the seat, but at least we were in the home stretch. I did, admittedly, contemplate getting off the bus on the A1 somewhere and walking it when he brought up further dates, but I contained my urges to run, and not-so-subtly dropped hints that I had too much going on with the exams, and that my break up with the numpty was still fresh in my mind. Bullshit really, but even that was over his head. "You'll be able to get at least one night off sometime, you can't work all the time. And you need someone who will treat you better than he did." All true, so awkward to argue with.

And now I have to think of some way to let him down nicely. I can't just ignore his texts and phone calls because he's Stacey's boyfriend's best friend. Or one of them. And I see him in the pubs all the time. A lot of the time he's in the group that I'm going out with. He's going to be impossible to avoid, and he'll be crushed that I'm not interested. Damn.

Labels: Courting, Mistakes

Woke up and the phone was ringing. Looked at the clock, ten thirty. On a Saturday morning. Caller ID: Ryan. Huh??? Do I know someone called Ryan?

"Hi, do you remember me from last night?" deep male voice. Ah.

It was eleven o clock. Katy had phoned her mum and we had half an hour before we had to go home. Why do I suddenly have a flashback to when I was fifteen? Katy had had too much to drink, and wasn't really up to standing up without leaning on something, and dancing was out of the question. I was still sober.

He was shorter than I usually go for. By five inches. Actually, that isn't fair. I have a history of adoring men who are stupidly tall. The last three were 6'5'', 6'4'' and 6'3''. He was the acceptably average height of approximately 5'11''. The same height as me in heels basically. Dark hair, maybe a seven out of ten. An extra few inches and we could up that to an eight and a half. Though I usually make a point of avoiding men who have piercings, especially two. But they were on his ear (one ear, not a piercing per ear). I'm not sure how acceptable that is. His defining feature was that he was watching me like cats watch ducklings with broken wings.

He'd walked past me a few times with solid eye contact, but we'd been there for about forty five minutes and it looked like it'd take him at least that again before he got the nerve to come and talk to me. I hate men like that. Though apparently not enough to stop myself from turning to Katy, "I'll be back in a minute."

Edged myself in between his friends, "Hi, I'm Harriet. You got a girlfriend?"
Large smile, "I'm Ryan, and no I don't. You got a boyfriend?"
"No. I..." changed my mind about admitting how recent that particular change in social status was. The last thing I want people to think is that I'm on the rebound.
He looked shocked and puts his arm around me, "Really? I can't believe that. Are you sure a girl like you doesn't have a boyfriend? I've been watching you for the last two hours."

He obviously wasn't much of one for accuracy as I hadn't been there for two hours, but I gave him my number anyway and left with a falling over Katy. He's going back to work on Tuesday. I don't know where work is for him, but I'm assuming that it means that I won't see him for a while. The information I got was sketchy due to him having absolutely no reception wherever he was calling from, and also the fact that he was horrifically hung over. He wants to see me before Tuesday.

There's a house across the way from me. The guy who lives in it pulled last night. I know this because we're directly opposite and there is a girl standing in the window in a top that she quite obviously was wearing last night, applying make up. I miss that guy laughing at me when I said goodbye on the doorstep to Dave on a Saturday morning. The privacy isn't spectacular for anyone around here. But I miss having reason to wish that it was better. Later I'll laugh at him.

A relationship is the last thing that I'm going to allow myself to get into at the minute. But celibacy is pretty high on the list of things that I don't wish to be at the minute as well. So maybe I'll see Ryan before Tuesday. He's nice, and he phoned me at half ten in the morning. The morning after I met him. He's either insane or extremely interested.

I need some kind of distraction, and if he takes the form of a distraction for me then, for a while, that might be alright.

Labels: Courting

Labels: Courting, Falling, Mistakes, Past tense

My feet hurt and all I wanted to do was curl into a ball, or maybe go around poking happy people with a big stick. But still I was forced to trawl the shops for the perfect valentines day card. Happy couples suck because they walk around with a big grin on their faces making everyone else feel crap because they haven't had sex for (insert period of however long here) days/ months. I've spent a lot of time single and have learnt to seriously hate coupled up people. Especially my friends. If one friend is in a couple then all of them should be paired up. Otherwise it just isn't fair. They get that smug look on their face and all they want to do is tell you about the different positions that caused them pleasure the night before. And, christ, you're interested in a slightly massachistic way because you aren't getting any yourself. It's all incredibly sad.

It gets worse around valentines day though. You get dragged round the shops to look for that perfect valentines day card that manages to say that you really care for them, but not necessarily that you love them because it's too early in the relationship to say that yet. But you can't choose a card that is too obviously saying "I don't love you" in case they get you a card that says "I love you" and you feel bad for not saying it back, and really stupid for caring so much about what a dumb valentines card says.

Last year I suffered valentines day blues. This year I've managed to avoid that particular hell. For once, shock horror, I'm not going to be single on valentines day. But, to be honest, being in a relationship isn't much better. I still completely despise the whole holiday for its materialistic reasons, and also because love sucks so much, why would anyone want to celebrate it? If you're completely smitten with someone then, okay, its not a bad holiday. But I'm not smitten, I just really really like him. And I do NOT need a holiday to confirm that. If I was married and bored then I wouldn't like valentines day, it'll still just be a pointless holiday to make card companies a shitload of money for no particular reason.

It isn't fair. If you're in love then you don't need a day to reinforce that. If you aren't in love then it just depresses you as its a reminder of that. It's stressful and pointless. Romance doesn't happen to me, it happens to other people. So why should I be forced to endure valentines day?

Labels: Courting, Flying

When I was little I was a huge fan of Disney films. That hasn’t changed; I still love Disney. My favourite film was Cinderella. It isn’t just a classic, it’s The classic. It has all the elements: downtrodden but still amazing girl, fairy godmother who miraculously makes everything wonderful, and a prince charming. Not to mention the whole kingdom, riches and dreams-coming-true element to it all. It’s the perfect film for a kid whose sole goal in life is to get married to an incredibly rich, but unfortunately dying, man. No, that’s a slight exaggeration, I don’t mind really if he’s got a few years left in him.

When I was a kid I could sit there and watch it repeatedly. I know it’s sad. It’s just what I did. And I had a recurring dream. I dreamt that I was Cinderella and I went to the ball. I didn’t have glass slippers, I had gorgeous black satin stillettos with real stars in them making them all sparkly. My dress wasn’t blue, but it may have been red or some other colour. Blue doesn’t really suit me the same way it suited Cinderella. I mean, she was blonde. I was Cinderella though, I was just a less blonde version. I was probably also pretty crap at the household chores thing.

Of course I got my prince Charming. He was perfect as dream guys are wont to be. Tall, dark, gorgeous, and raking it in. My ideal man, except better. And that’s pretty much what I’ve always wanted.

But right now I’m happy. I’m not talking love, and I’m not talking infatuation either. I think he’s great and I think that the imperfections are what make it better. I’m not normal; I’m a complete nightmare and act like a lunatic most of the time. And he isn’t for forever. He’s for now. No, he’s for a while. He is definitely not the perfect man. He never gives me compliments and we spend 99% of the time bickering over complete crap. The other one percent is spent coming up with random crap. It’s easy.

And I realised that what I do NOT want is that perfect man. He’s taught me that I don’t want the truly imperfect man either. I gave up on dreaming about prince charming and moved on to the wild child bad boy who would treat me badly and would have more problems than the guy standing on the street corner selling The Big Issue. He’s taught me that I really don’t have a clue what I want. You never really know what it is, or who it is, that will come along. I’m not going to go out and search for Mr Right because I know that eventually, someone will come along and they won’t be him. And that’ll work for me.

It’s amazing what the people who aren’t right can teach you while you’re looking for that person who is right, but will teach you nothing.

Labels: Courting, Flying

I've never known what I want. I've always had a vague idea that I'd like to do something great- be remembered in some completely unique way. But I've never actually known what it was I wanted. Maybe to be recognised as a brilliant writer, but even with my hazy view of reality I've always known that that isn't ever going to happen. Even if I did manage to get published, the likelihood of me actually gaining a decent wage from it is negligible. So I write for the hell of it about whatever else is happening in my life.

I thought that I wanted to fall in lust with someone. But I've fallen for someone who I don't exactly lust over. I just totally adore him for his personality. Believe me, that is not how I ever envisioned myself falling for someone. I used to be good at being with them then leaving them. But this one, somehow I can't get rid of him. I know, I was messed up enough to try. When I first met him I got off with him because I was bored and I wanted to annoy one of my exes who was in the club and giving me evil looks. Tom, the ex, kept on looking over and when we were left alone together he literally ran away. I have an ego and that bruised it. I didn't want to get back together with him- he was a complete bastard to me. But I prefer it when people don't run away from me like I've got the plague.

So when I was left alone and depressed, and not just a little rejected, it was a relief to be hit on by someone relatively friendly, and most importantly, not running away. He was sweet and he took the piss out of me rather than hitting on me with the usual cheesy chat up lines and leering looks. I guess I was just surprised by something that I wasn't particularly used to. I gave him my number because Tom's best friend was watching. I kept texting him because it was absolutely impossible to blow him off. Every time I tried, he did something that made me rethink my choice and put it off. It isn't exactly fairytale, the whole thing just makes me sound like a bitch.

After an unconventional start to the whole thing, we ended up spending New Year's eve together. It was a house party. As soon as we arrived he pissed off in the opposite direction and didn't come back for an hour. I was ushered off by a sadistic woman who decided that my friend and I looked "helpful" enough to carry a huge crate of diet coke to the kids who were unfortunately under age. The whole thing was patronising and the house was threateningly large. We eventually found the scary old man who stereotypically had rosy cheeks and a large bottle of champagne. Handing us glasses we made our way back towards the corridor in which people were starting to congregate. When he came back I wasn't happy. He did try to apologise but as soon as he'd finished he was off again.

I spent most the night angry with him. He didn't care when I was hit on by someone else and took the piss out of me because of it until I threatened to leave with the other guy. Basically he treated me pretty crappily. I've always known that I needed someone who treated me badly. Every time I've been with guys who've been all doting and in love with me I've dumped them out of pure annoyance. To this day my favourite ex is a guy who never committed to me at all and played so many mind games it felt less like a relationship and more like a competition for who could piss the other off more. That's the way I function. If I'm not kept on my toes I feel like I'm the one pulling the strings. And that I am just makes it more impossible. Some girls need to feel like they're loved, I need to feel like there's a pretty good chance I'll be dumped.

But I do like him. And I don't really know whether that's good or bad. It's nice to feel like I'm not after someone for looks only. God, I'm probably only after him for his sense of humour. And maybe the fact that he's six foot four. That helps.

Labels: Being the Duck, Courting, Falling, Flying

Well, I survived christmas. Somehow. A lot has happened really, since I last wrote in this anyway. The best word to describe me and blogging right now has to be "neglectful". Well, I shall endeavour to become less negligent and write more in future. New Year's is coming up, maybe I can make a suitable reseolution in reference to me writing more. Or maybe I'll just regurgitate a few of the usual: learn to speak japanese, practice standing on head and other pointless yoga positions, etc. I guess it all depends on whether or not I'm drunk when I make my resolutions. And also probably on whether I'm single or not at the time I write them.

I have a problem. There are two men, one who is brilliant and we share a sense of humour. Thats pretty rare for me, I have too much of a sarcastic slightly nasty sense of humour, most people either don't get it or just think that I'm slightly crazy. But he understands it and comes out with stuff that makes me just want to grin. He just makes me happy and when things first started with him I tried to drop him. I really did, I already had things with two other men and thought my life was complicated enough. But I couldn't seem to dump him, every time I tried he did something that made me laugh more than anything else. I literally told him, look it isn't going to work, don't bother. But somehow he managed to turn it round on me. I like persistence, so I guess maybe thats why I changed my mind.

The other one shouldn't even be counted. Except for the fact that I can't seem to get him out of my head. Which sucks because it makes me feel like I'm sixteen again. I always wanted to feel that specific type of lust again. The infatuation mixed with lust and innocence. Then the weirdest thing happened, I met someone who made me feel like a kid. And not in a bad way, or maybe it is in a bad day. Somehow he just makes me nervous and I want him so much. But I don't want to keep him around. He doesn't make me laugh, and to be honest his personality is kind of irritating.

I don't know. I can't choose, but I don't think I'll ever be given the chance to. It's all so stupid.

Labels: Alcoholism, Being the Duck, Courting, Theatrics

“So what’s he like anyway?”
“Small.”

It doesn’t take a genius to know what she was talking about. It doesn’t take much really, just a certain susceptibility to innuendos. Just the idea was enough to make me think, am I sure that I want things to continue with this man. The implication that he might not be good in the sack and suddenly I’m backing off. Now, that either makes me a complete slut, or it means that there is something really wrong with our society. Is it so important to be well endowed? Women seem divided in opinion. Some are of the opinion that it isn’t the size or shape, it’s what he does with it that counts. Others say its the thickness that’s important, and then there are some that say that a huge dick equals great sex.

I’m not sure what men think, I’m sure their opinions probably vary as their sizes vary, a man who is less endowed would probably maintain that it isn’t important while a well endowed man would say that it was. A lot of men seem to be under the impression that they are considerably larger than they are. Wishful thinking really. They’ll ask you whether you think they’re big and you can’t exactly say, “actually, I’ve seen bigger.” And you aren’t going to if you’re about to shag him, unless of course you are very drunk and in a particularly vidictive mood.

Romans (or some other people approximately around then) found it vulgar to see large phallus’s so in all their statues made small ones. And they had a lot of statues. But then going back waaaaay before then you get absolutely ginormous ones expressed in art. Like that chalk person, can’t remember the name now, the one carved on a hill. Anyway.

Everyone seems to have an obsession with size. Actually, everyone seems to have an obsession with cocks in general. I can understand it, but the size just seems over rated. If I hear that a guy is small I shouldn’t suddenly start to worry, it shouldn’t be important. Admittedly I don’t want anything more than a fling so whether he is a good shag is pretty important as its going to be practically the only part of the relationship. But size doesn’t really matter, the performance can be just as good whatever.

Right?

Labels: Courting, Pleasure

He didn’t say goodbye, he just kissed me once at the base of my neck. That was the last time I saw him. He was useless at hello’s, but his goodbye’s had style. I know that now if anyone mentions his name, it will sortly be followed by them laughing. I’ll wince too, because I just can’t help wondering what the hell I was thinking. The boy was a walking disaster area. An annoying, drunken disaster area who played more games with me than I played with him.

I’m nostalgic. A dumb female who, surprisingly, knows when she’s got it good. Which, I suppose, makes it much worse that I’m not happy. And I’ve gotta be dumb to be nostalgic for him. He wasn’t even a fling, just someone who repeatedly hit on me. Though I suppose that those of more cynical natures could point out that he also repeatedly pulled me.

It’s nearly christmas. You’ve got to look back over the year’s mistakes and feel a certain amount of nostalgia. If you don’t then you simply aren’t human. I’m going to have to write a new set of new year’s resolutions that I probably won’t fulfil. Worse, I’ll have to go back and find last year’s resolutions. Then I’ll be both shocked and horrified at the progress I haven’t made. Sometimes it feels like I’m going backwards.

I’m tired. I’ve always been cynical and lonely, but now I’m tired too. Being single is a way of life, it’s so hard just to give up for someone, no matter how fucking fabulous their car is. Maybe I’m just being stupid. I know I’m being stupid about Bench- disaster areas are not attractive. But Mark is perfect in every possible way and I’m acting like a spoilt brat.

The gold digger in me is screaming that I should throw myself at his feet and beg him to shag me. But I’ve obviously not got the heart of a gold digger because I’m acting more hot and cold than a very confused water boiler. I do like him. But I don’t really have the time or energy for a relationship, or even the pursuit of one. With men I’m pretty low maintenance. I don’t need to be taken out all the time and I don’t get jealous if they flirt with other girls. But I’m tactile, I guess I just need to be thrown on my back and told what’s gonna happen next. Men are the hunters and believe me, sometimes I need to be hunted. But other times I need to be the hunter, and with him I sort of felt like I was. Then I got him. And the joy just seems to have disappeared. To make it interesting he has to go after me now.

That’s why I’m nostalgic. I get bored easily and need to be messed around a little, if you don’t play games with me I’m going to play games with you. And if you don’t prolong it then I’ll win, and when that happens my interest disappears.

Labels: Coquetry, Courting, Past tense

When I walked out the house it was raining. I ran back in and got my umbrella and tripped up as I ran up the stairs. I was late. This isn’t exactly unusual, lateness and me are things that quite commonly spend time together, especially when it’s important that I’m on time. It was a sign, the torrential rain, the lateness, the tripping up. Seperately they’re pretty much mundane stuff, but together they were a bad sign. I can’t help it, I’m cynical of anything religious, political, or even vaguely related to the way people react to things. But I’m superstitious, I’m not sure whether it’s a contradiction, but I can’t help it. I won’t put an umbrella up in the house, and I read tarot cards. Worse, I listen to people who claim to be psychic, whatever they say. Even when they say the world is going to end, though I’ve gotta say that I do take those people with a pinch of salt and will look out for any other signs of madness that they might be exhibiting.

So if I see something that appears to be a sign… I worry. But it was ok, I didn’t need to worry. I had fun, and he was so nice. He treated me well, he had a nice smile, he was sooo nice!!!!!!!!!!! And I hate nice. I’ll take dangerous, or wild any day, cocky, even a total shit head. So I know I’m screwed up. And I’m wasting my time thinking about signs.

I’ve been wasting so much time lately. With the tarot cards that tell me stuff that I already know, or tell me that I’ll eventually manage to lose the unlucky-in-love thing I’ve got going on. But I don’t know… Before I left I checked my tarot cards and they told me absolutely nothing. Then I went out and I had fun. It was good, he was nice, we did the ritual and yeah, I didn’t hate it. But that isn’t what I want.

Labels: Being the Duck, Courting, Superstition

Following the breakup of one of my best friends, we all got together to write a list of why men are bastards. Please don’t be insulted or send me hate mail.

• They only reply to you if you put a question in the text.
• They’re sexist and egocentric.
• I still haven’t met one who knows where my clitoris is.
• They have no conscience.
• They mess you around and don’t have a clue what they’re doing wrong.
• They’re so STUPID.
• They see women as something to collect rather than love.
• ‘Cos they are!
• They all just assume that they have the biggest dick you’ve ever come accross.
• They get off with your sister then move straight onto you.
• They lie about everything.
• They’re really selfish.
• They’re dumb dumb dumb dumb dumb.
• They think with their dicks.
• They dump you by text because they’re too scared to say it to your face.
• They still expect you to shag them after they’ve broken up with you.
• They get off with you then don’t ever call or get in contact with you.
• They’re useless.
• I don’t like them.
• They think poking you in the belly button turns you on when it really really doesn’t.
• They continue to have sex in a weird position even when you’ve told them it does nothing for you.
• They like women in sweaty clothes.
• They go for private lap dances behind their girlfriend’s backs like the horny pervy dickish scummy cunts they are.
• They are either sexually or socially inept.
• They don’t give a toss when they don’t see their girlfriend for 2 weeks and make NO effort to see you.
• They’re REALLY REALLY REALLY nice to you and flirt lots and make you feel bad about fancying them because they aren’t your boyfriend.
• They think they can pull you by putting their hand up your skirt.
• They think that because you are wearing a short skirt it is okay if they randomly stick their hand up it as they walk past you in the street- it isn’t!
• They assume that if you don’t fancy them you are a lesbian.
• They only ever look at tall skinny or blonde women and never look at ugly little stumpy women (not true, she isn’t ugly and what’s so great about blondes?).
• They love their dicks so much they build statues of them only enlarged cos they don’t have the size themselves.
• They have HUUUUUUUUUGE egos.
• They put their cars before their women.
• They think that your whole life revolves around them.
• They make stupid remarks like “there are two types of women- those that take it up the arse and those that don’t”.
• They’re only capable of loving one person- themselves.
• Creepy old men look in your hand bag.
• They want you to sell your body.
• It’s always the ugly ones that like you.
• They all turn into pervy old men as soon as they hit forty.
• They expect you to give them head but have no intention of returning the favour.
• They mess you around and then just when you’re getting over them, they come back and mess you around all over again.
• They ignore you for days and then expect sex just like that, like they can get it on tap.
• They use you as a contingency plan for if they might feel horny later, completely ignoring the fact that you have feelings and don’t like being treated like a piece of furniture.
• They think that a short skirt means that any random ugly, annoying, or old man can come up and get it off you, life doesn’t work like that, if you don’t turn me on then I don’t give a fuck how much I turn you on.
• They still give you puppy dog looks and make you feel bad months after they’ve decided they aren’t interested.
• There really are sweet ones, but most of them are just all chauvenistic bastards who talk too much about themselves then get confused when they realise you actually have something to say.
• They’ll happily tell all their friends about how great you are, but they never actually tell you so you only find out about it months later from some complete random.
• They never reassure you- all women are insecure, if you don’t reassure us we just move on to someone who does.

Labels: Courting, Lists, Pleasure