Ode to albatrosses

Today, loneliness for me was standing waiting in the town centre public toilets waiting to see if a second line would appear on the do-it-yourself pregnancy test I’d bought from the local Superdrugs.

Earlier on in the day loneliness had been waking up feeling nauseous and tender at the base of my stomach. It had been looking through my diary and realising that it was the fourth day of getting this exact feeling for the few hours after I’d woken up, and it dissipating sometime around one o clock.

Loneliness was getting out of bed, padding downstairs and dragging The Family Doctor out of the bookcase and looking up “pregnancy” in the index. It was going down the list and saying “yes” to everything on it except vomiting.

Loneliness was going back upstairs and checking my calendar, looking to see when I was last due my period, and finding out that I’m just gone two months late. A lost period is no longer due too much consideration. My weight fluctuates all the time, and last month I was so stressed that when my period didn’t come I was hardly surprised. But it shouldn’t disappear for two months. Specially when I’ve spent so much time on holidays. Specially when there are so many other symptoms.


Relief was shoving the stupid white piece of plastic into my bag and walking out of the toilets. It was walking along with Stacey and finally working up the courage to drag it out and check the results. It was checking that the time had long since elapsed, and the second line being very definitively non-existent.

Relief was sitting eating potato wedges and knowing that the rest of the day was not going to be spent going over and over the pros and cons of abortion, adoption, and having a baby at university.

Relief was being able to think about my ex without following the label with “the father of my child.” Relief was not having to spend hours trying to phone him up simply to tell him those two horrors, “I’m pregnant.”

Relief was throwing the test away an hour later happy in the certainty that that second line definitely wasn’t going to suddenly appear.


Having sex with him again wasn’t a mistake. It was good, it was a relief, and casual sex isn’t a problem if no one gets hurt. The only problem is that what if I’d been wrong? What if I had got hurt? What if that second line had appeared? Then it doesn’t matter how good it had felt at the time. It doesn’t matter that we’d both consented, and were both happy with our separate outcomes. Our decision to be separate entities would have been completely irrelevant as we’d still have been joined by that stupid blue line.

Whatever my final decision, whatever happened to that life inside me, the line would still have been there. In years to come I’d look back and wonder what had happened to that line. I’d either be looking at a kid, I’d have an adoption certificate, or I’d have the mental scar of an abortion.

I’ll have casual sex again. I just can’t promise that I’ll never do it, it wouldn’t be realistic. This time I’m lucky, but next time I’ll be more careful. This time the second line didn’t appear, and now I can only hope that there won’t be a next time.

Labels: Falling, Theatrics

I came home from Germany like Santa Claus, only with slightly more… distinctive presents. Jewellery, dream catchers, fluffy sheep, and photos of lederhosen I really would have bought had I been able to afford them.

Texted David, “when do you want your present? x”

In my defence, and this is a very bad defence- it wouldn’t get me anywhere in a decent court of law, I was feeling lonely and pathetic at the time. He replied “anytime” and he came over.

I asked him over because I missed him. I can’t lie and pretend that missing him was the only reason I asked him over, and it definitely wasn’t the reason that he came. And it’s stupid. We’ve not been together… four months now.

But he came over. We sat on the bed. Stupid place to start off a conversation I know, but while there wasn’t anyone else in the house, it still feels strange trying to sit with him downstairs on the sofa. So we went to my bedroom like kids, closed the door, and talked on the bed.

It should have been awkward. It should have been something, I don’t know what. It just should have been different to what it was. It was too easy. We just talked like we used to, called each other names, and promised ourselves the world. He wanted to have enough money so he could buy a new motorbike, a train, an airplane, basically anything big, fast, and dangerous. I wanted the world to play with, to travel the universe, and to be adored by millions.

I called him… something. A numpty maybe, whatever. He tickled me, I tried to escape, kicked out, he moved to stop me kicking and so he could tickle me more. I hate being tickled. I’m the tickliest person in the world, I can’t help it. It just isn’t something you can work up a resistance to. I wasn’t kicking him hard, but he had to move because I was getting dangerously close to somewhere that he definitely wouldn’t have enjoyed being kicked. So he pinned me under him and called a truce.

A truce is all well and good, but the tickling and kicking at least distracted from the fact that I was lying underneath him and his lips were approximately an inch away from mine.

I want to tell you I don’t know why I did it. In fact, I’d love to tell you that. But, the simple truth is that in those few seconds when we were just looking into each other’s eyes, waiting to see if either was going to back out, I took a measure of myself as much as him. He waited for me, he didn’t do anything, he just stopped. Right then all I had to do was wriggle out from under him and start up another conversation. We both would have known that I’d turned him down, but it wouldn’t have hurt anyone.

I made my choice. Tell me it was a bad one, feel free, but I won’t apologise for it. He stopped me later, said that he only wanted to take what I was willing to give, put words to what we’d earlier established just from looking into each other’s eyes.

He's gone back to the navy now. It was fantastic, but made better because we both knew that it wouldn’t happen again so enjoyed each other like we had to take everything because there was no point in leaving anything behind.

He stayed for a while afterwards, but still left me lying on the bed as he had to go to work. We laughed about him loving and leaving me, we both watched the clock, and when he said goodbye we kissed but very briefly. In all honesty I have no idea who used who. But I know that I came out of it with a feeling of conclusion rather of unfolding possibilities.

I do things my own way. A lot of my friends aren’t going to talk to me for a while because of this. And maybe they’re right. Maybe it was the wrong thing for me to do, and maybe I was indulging him and hurting myself to do so. Except that it doesn’t feel like that. It just feels like I had fun, rediscovering him was at least as great as discovering him the first time. And it feels like we both got the best end of the bargain. We both got to walk away.

Labels: Falling, Pleasure

Her voice is tired, husky and dry. Her hair shows the remnants of styling, but has been mussed up and is now messy across her face. The bed she sits upon is a wreck; sheets twisted and tangled together, the pillows pushed right up against the wall.

She stands, crosses the room, walking over her own clothes as she does so. Looks in the mirror. Makeup smudged, eyes dark with mascara and eyeliner. And for a while, she doesn’t move. She just stands as if mesmerised. Trying to work out whether she’s happy or sad, trying to work out why it doesn’t hurt more. Trying to work out why all she feels is a quiet euphoria, a sleepy contentedness that creeps up from her toes and through her limbs like a dull fire.

Maybe it should hurt more. Maybe it should make her cry. Maybe she should be sitting realising how much she can’t have. But maybe it’s enough to know that she has had it for a while. Maybe it’s enough to get on with being for a while, and forget about the falling.

She drifts. It isn’t that this moment is exceptional; it isn’t that it hurts more than everything else; it’s just that it seems to sum everything else up. Standing staring at a reflection is hard when you realise that you aren’t just facing a façade, you’re facing yourself. And knowing what’s going on inside your head to give you that expression is like staring into the ocean and suddenly being able to count every fish beneath the surface.

She isn’t happy or sad. She hasn’t been hurt, and she hasn’t felt the need to cry. She’s had happiness, and just because it isn’t there anymore, that doesn’t mean that she’s suddenly going to realise that the loss is any bigger than before, it’s there, it hasn’t changed, how can it be different?

She grimly smiles at her reflection, wipes the makeup from beneath her eyes, and runs her fingers through her hair. It will happen again, and there will be the same recognition. There will be the same joy, and the same pain. Things repeat themselves, and all we can do is work out each time whether it was good it was repeated, or if we wish to avoid it again in future. And each time, we have to work this out for ourselves. Because people will think they know what’s best, people will make their own judgements, people will tell you what they think, and it will make sense.

But the girl who stares in the mirror is the one with the view of the fish. We can stand next to her and stare at the sea, but we’ll only see the breakers and seagulls, she sees what lies beneath. Only she can tell you what’s in her heart.

Labels: Falling, Mistakes, Poetic licence, Theatrics

When I think about life just for thinking’s sake, I envision a sea of sand. Endless piles of shifting sandscape, orange, and dry in the unrelenting heat of the sun. I don’t know why that’s what I think of. It seems such a contradiction when you consider how much life there actually is in a desert. A rainforest would be more logical. But I guess it’s a reflection of my life rather than just life in general. And that is somewhat worrisome.

Why do I envision my life as a desolate wasteland? Nothing grows in sand. Yeah, sure, on a beach you’ll get some marram grass and a few bugs and stuff, but that’s right next to an enormous body of water. There aren’t any oceans in my images, its just desert, and deserts are devoid of life.

Lately I’ve had the same vision when thinking about love.

I asked a question today that I hadn’t even realised was really a question. I used to be so depressed. Maybe it’s just from habit, but I’ve always thought of myself as a happy person. I’m not. Outwardly happy, yes, but I’ve spent a lot of time depressed, unhappy, or just not particularly happy.

But lately it’s been better. It hasn’t just been better, it’s been wonderful. And I guess I made that observation. I might have even phrased it as a question. Whatever I did, the response was that it was Dave’s fault because he fucked me up. And that response shocked me somewhat. It shocked me a lot really.

I don’t blame my relative happiness or unhappiness on the men in my life. I don’t blame it on my friends; I won’t even blame it on my mother. In the end, yes, they’re factors. If I change one then it will make me happy for a day possibly, but it’s like teaching a man to fish, I have to know how to be happy with myself before I can be happy with everything else.

If you’ve read this blog before then you may have heard of Dave referred to as “the ex,” “Him,” or maybe even by his name, though that’s less likely as I tend to avoid names as much as possible to retain a certain amount of anonymity. If you haven’t read it before, then he’s simply a boy I fell in love with for a while. But for those of you who know of him, and have made judgements about him based on whatever I’ve said, I want to make a few things completely clear.

For a while I was messed up about him, but that was less to do with what he did to me, and more to do with the way I am. He didn’t treat me badly; he didn’t ever give me any false illusions of who he was or what he wanted from me; and he didn’t force me into anything or take anything I wasn’t more than willing to give. I want to make this very very clear, he was a bastard, yes, but not to me. He treated me better than I deserved considering some of my antics during the relationship, and we’re still friends. I still talk to him; I still get on very well with him. It wasn’t a bad break up in the end; it was the more than logical conclusion. And it was mostly my fault. If I’ve cried or whined on here about it, ignore that, I have cried and whined on here about it. But it’s my blog, that’s what it’s here for. To take the things I’ve said as fact proves that it was a very bad idea for me to ever write them down in the first place.

I can’t go back and unsay them. I can delete them to an extent, but how many people browse through the archives anyway? All I can do is tell you now that he isn’t a bad kid. He didn’t hurt me, I hurt me. Blaming him was the easiest way for me to feel better at the time, but it isn’t an accurate representation of what really happened.

I have a very unhappy life. I’ve tried, but sometimes it’s hard for me to work out a way to be happy with who and what I am. I’m not insecure, I just dislike the way I live, the way I act, and a lot of my personality in general. For a while I was extremely depressed, and yup that was during and after my break up. That wasn’t him “fucking [me] up,” that was because I did a very intelligent thing which was best for everyone and inevitable anyway, but just happened to take away the small amount of happiness that I’d recently acquired. He fucked me up by being the one person who actually did make me happy. My fucked upness wasn’t him, it was circumstantial.

I guess what I’m trying to say is simple. Yes, in a way he fucked me up, but that was just by being what I needed to make me happy at the time. I was constantly depressed before him, even a little bit when I was with him, and again after him. He made me happy, and I loved him. Here that seems incredibly important as I try to write more about relationships than my life as a whole as that is the purpose of the blog. But my life doesn’t revolve around men, not even him. I was unhappy because my home made me claustrophobic, I argued with my family constantly, I had no job or income, I was more than stressed out with exams, and my friends were utterly sick of me being unhappy and “moping.” Yes, I moped for him sometimes, but just to come and make it better.

I’m not in love with him anymore. And I’m not miserable. My home is more of a relief than I ever thought it could be. My family argue, but I find it hard to argue with people that I’ve missed so much it hurt. I don’t have a job again, but for a while I’m solvent, and I’ve had more than enough of work for a while, I’m happy just to relax for a few weeks. The exams are over, the results are back, and I’ve done better than I should, and will be leaving for uni on the 23^rd. My friends… they’re the best people in the whole world. They care about me, they disagree with me, the call me names, and they let me be me without complaints.

But I love him. I love him in the same way as I love Stacey and Hayley because all make me happy. All stave off the parts of me that want to curl up into a ball, cocoon myself in a duvet, and wallow in my own misery. And yes, there is a much higher likelihood of me sleeping with him than Stacey or Hayley. But I’ve dreamt a dream so vivid that it took me until seven o clock in the evening the next day to work out that it wasn’t a memory; it was only a dream, in which I slept with Hayley. And I’ve pretended to be a lesbian so many times with Stacey that I wouldn’t even attempt to count them. I’m not interested in women, but if I were then I’d fall head over heels for both of them.

I won’t end up in a relationship with any of those three, as much as I love them. I can’t regret any of the things that have happened with them, and I won’t blame anyone at all for my happiness. It’s mine, you have no right to take it away and tell me that someone else gets to dictate when I am or am not allowed to have it. I told you at the time that I’d always love him. I meant it. But you’re wrong if you think that my love for him is so frivolous that I wouldn’t be more than happy to settle with simply being friends with him. I can’t change the things that brought us here; I can’t regret them or wish that they would change. I’m happy with my life for once, and it is only I who will dictate the terms on which I live it.

Labels: Being the Duck, Falling, Past tense

He said: Yeah, I get leave in two and a half weeks. When will you be back?

She said: I don't know- I haven't booked yet. Sometime around the 26th.

He said: Well we should go out sometime when you get back. I need to catch up on some serious drinking.

She said: lol me too. This trip has put a serious dent in my plans to become an alcoholic good for nothing.

He said: I know, I haven't been drunk in nearly seven weeks! If I get drunk I can be kicked out! Think I'll enjoy getting drunk with you again, it usually ended quite well : )

To which, in the end, there was simply no way for me to reply. I'm a drama queen and an outspoken idiot, but I'm not good at showing my actual feelings. I guess I'm the female equivalent of those macho fools who keep their emotions locked in a box never letting anything show. And anyway, I'm not sure how to slap someone across the face by text.

Assuming that "ended quite well," means sex rather than falling over drunk a lot and laughing at each other, I have to wonder when "going out" was equated with sex. I'm also quite curious as to whether I even agreed that I would go out sometime with him. I don't think there's a "yes" in there anywhere. Though I can't really object that much to that one considering there was definite room for improvement in the clarity of my refusal. Personally I think I just avoided answering the question directly in order to leave my options open, and avoid conflict.

But the assumption that I will sleep with him is barely veiled, if at all. And that makes me wonder. What exactly does he want? Actually, that's a stupid question. I know exactly what he wants. But what? I'm just expected to sleep with him? Like there's just no chance of me rejecting him. I can reject him! I did it once (though only once and it ended up making me much more miserable than him) and I can do it again. Definitely.

I don't know why on earth this bothers me. The casual assumption that I will sleep with him whenever he wishes is irritating, but not entirely new. In fact, it's pretty much the story of the last six months. Or so. It's slightly more irritating now because we aren't together, and until now he hasn't actually said anything so completely impossible to ignore. "Going out sometime," is so easy to take the wrong way. You can debate whether it means "date" or "friendly gathering," for hours. But I know how everything ended with us; that isn't so easy to debate.

Basically he's a twat. I'm easier than I should be, but I'm not going to sleep with someone purely on their whims. I'll admit, I'd love to on a purely... animalistic(?) level. But letting him walk all over me isn't fair trade for an orgasm.

Labels: Being the Duck, Falling, Pleasure

What was the quote? Ah yes, "Nature abhors a vacuum," by the Colonel on one of the many letters that I posted on here rather than actually posting. Therapy via unsent letter writing. If you're reading me, and think that you would prefer something less serious, more funny, and significantly less self obsessed then I would reccomend the Colonel to you. In fact, the mood that I'm in, it's probably better to read anything else other than me. But, if you're hardcore and as obsessive about my life as I am, then sit back, relax, and get ready to hear me whine.

Right. A few nights ago I put the monster to bed. I was just leaving the room and he called out, "night night, love you," sleepily then closed his eyes. A kid on the verge of dozing off. I quietly said, "Night, love you too," like my grandmother used to before she left me to sleep when I was really little. I shut the door. Took one step, and sank down with my back to the wall and cried. Quietly so I wouldn't wake either of them up, but silent tears are the same as every other type of tear, except more frustrating because you know you must stay silent, share your pain with no one.

I can't say "love you." I can feel it the same as everyone else, but I can't act it or let it show. And until that moment when I closed the door on that sweet little kid who has been driving me utterly crazy for the past two weeks, I didn't realise how much I needed to be told that. When everyone thought that I was pregnant they said stuff like, "it'll be good for you," and how a baby would bring me out of myself, etc. And kids do that. They make me cry, and they make me realise that though they aren't my kids, I still really do love them. I live with them, I feed them, I bath them, I change their icky nappies, and when they tell me they love me I say the same right back.

And I'm turning my phone off. I can't think of any other way to do it. Just for a few days. I thought that a platonic relationship in which we talked occasionally would be fine. When He initially started texting me I was irritated, and confused. Then we talked about a lot of stuff, I wasted a lot of money, and I started to remember what it was that had drawn me to him in the first place. The attraction wasn't the first thing with us. When we met I was so drunk and basically sick to the teeth of men who were after me that I really didn't give a shit about the attractiveness of any fucking male in the place. Yet somehow I still managed to leave with him. You work that one out. I told him to go away, I left him twice to go and talk to my friend who was... otherwise engaged. I didn't want a guy, I'd already vowed that I was celibate and off men for good earlier that night.

Okay, I'll admit, our relationship ended up being a lot about sex. Can you fault me? I'm at the age where while I'm not still completely an adolescent ball of hormones, I'm still youthful, etc. But that first night I wasn't drawn to him because of any chemistry between us, the next morning I had absolutely no idea what he looked like, I couldn't even remember if he'd been attractive. I was drawn to him because of the way we talked to each other, the way he treated me, and the way he was persistent while still not acting like it mattered if he got me or not.

Yes, I know. Nature abhors me right now. But I don't like myself either. I've let him talk his way back in when we both know that he isn't in it for anything other than sex. And that's fine. With anyone else male then that accomodation suits me nicely. But not him. With him I guess it's either all or nothing. And I realised that when the kid told me he loved me. I want someone to tell me they love me. But better, I want the man I love to tell me he loves me. But we both know that he can't do that. And while with anyone else I'll do the one night stand, or the meaningless affair that lasts a fortnight or so, with him I can't.

So instead of continuing to promise something that I've just realised I had no intention of ever doing, even when I thought I actually would, I'm turning my phone off. No one else is interested in phoning me since I left the country anyway, it won't make any difference. Because thats what he expects. He expects sex because it's me, and he knows that I'll do meaningless. And I expected that too. It doesn't hurt anyone, we both know how to make each other happy, and we can both wake up the next morning and get on with everything else without really thinking of it as anything more than fun. But I now know that it would hurt me. I've just realised how much it's already hurt me. So I'm stopping.

Labels: Being the Duck, Falling, Introspection, Theatrics

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

Men. You fall in love with them, get cruelly rejected after however many months, despise them, finally manage to say goodbye, and then watch them leave, you think, forever. I said goodbye! It wasn’t even a “hey, have fun, see you when you get back,” type goodbye. It was a full on, melodramatic, “This is it, au revoir.”

Then on Monday night I receive a few texts. Just letting me know, “hey, I’m good, the navy rocks” type thing. Yeah, fine, I can deal. So I said goodbye, I was in a ratty mood when I said it, and being friends with your ex really isn’t so bad. I mean, yes, “I’m bigger than everyone else so no one is going to arse-rape me,” seems slightly strange overall as something to text your ex, but he is strange. I adore crazy people; I’m so damn insane myself. So I sent back a “hi, that’s nice,” and avoided further communication.

And, as always, he was completely and utterly unperturbed. Ten thirtyish last night, thinking of possibly going in search of something to eat (yes, I know, eating late at night is a VERY bad habit, but I can’t help when I’m hungry). Check my phone, “Have to get up at quarter to five tomorrow and no sex for the next six weeks!” Great.

When I want him to talk to me all I can get out of him is one argument, and a lot of pissed of texts along the lines of “go away.” Then, when I get over it and move on, he starts texting me about the various aspects of his sex life. If there is a god, he is seriously taking the piss.

A month ago I would have gladly replied with something cheeky and verging on flirty. A month before that I would have sent back something along the lines of, “Hah! I definitely don’t have the same problem”. I was really quite bitter for a while. But now… I don’t know. Now when I look back, I’m looking back at everything. I don’t just see the good and blank out all of the shit. And I also know that there’s no point to any of it as it is highly unlikely that I’m going to see him before Christmas, if even then.

God knows how often he’s going to be on leave and back up here, but I’m leaving in a weeks time for two months in Germany, then I’m going down to London as soon as I get back into the country. When I finally get back home I’ll have about two weeks before I’ve got to leave again for Edinburgh. Whether he’s considering some sort of booty call, or simply friendship, it doesn’t really matter.

But it isn’t fair. No one from my past seems to just stay in the past. There are always echoes, repeat incidents, and I always get messed up by them. I know, I’ll probably still be getting random crap of various ex’s when I’m thirty and still not contemplating settling down. That’s how they work, and I guess that’s sort of how I work too.

I don’t know. I’m confused, and annoyed, and amused all at the same time. I want him to go away and leave me alone because all he does is cause trouble. But I missed receiving all the crazy crap that he used to send me. I’ve missed the stupid conversations, and everything else that made up the relationship.

I don’t miss him. But the texts make me miss him. So they piss me off and I want him to leave me alone. But I still don’t want that really. I know I don’t want him back, and I know that I do want his friendship. So really, they’re a blessing. Until he starts talking about sex.

I think I’ve learnt to separate love and lust a bit too much. If they were as intertwined as they are with most people, I’d be as wary of the lust as I am of getting even a little bit involved with him again. Unfortunately, I don’t love him, but there are still a few aspects that I miss.

Right. I have succeeded in not only utterly confusing myself, but also completely wasting my time thinking about him. Again. Typical.

Labels: Being the Duck, Falling, Theatrics

This is hard for me. But it’s easier than I expected. I’m not pregnant. The relief at that news was nearly overpowering. I’ll admit, the idea of living at home and dumping the baby on my best friend every morning while I went to uni was starting to sound appealing to me, especially when I found the website devoted entirely to baby names. But a baby? No. People can tell me congratulations, and other such morale boosting things, but Jesus Christ was I relieved to see blood. My history is not such that I would wish to pass on to a child. Maybe some day when I look out my window onto other oceans, and when there is someone in my life that I could actually contemplate raising a child with, but until then, I’m happy without.

Everything seems so final at the minute. I’m planning my leaving party. I know that I’m actually only going for two months, and that after that I’ll be back and in everyone’s hair as much as I am now, but it’s me. I’m not too fussed about the excuses- any reason to have a party is great. So we’re borrowing my aunt’s field and taking advantage of the astonishingly beautiful weather. It does mean that for the last weekend that I am in this country I will be either hung over or drunk due to the Leaver’s dinner for our final goodbye to full time education on the Friday, and then my goodbye party on the Saturday. But at least it starts the summer with a bang and means that I’ll have something to occupy me on the plane on the Sunday morning, even if that something happens to be a headache.

I said goodbye to him. And not just in here with a long essay on my mournful loss, but actually. Unfortunately, or fortunately depending on how you look at it, not to his face. But I wished him luck, told him to try not to come back too camp, and told him to take care. And I said goodbye. I finally managed to do what I’ve been wishing I would let myself do for months. And I changed my mind.

People told me, “It’s better to have loved and lost, than to never have loved at all.” But I despise cliché’s with a near psychopathic passion. When recently on the phone to a friend, I had to hang up on her because she could have been reciting from “100 most overused cliché’s in the English language,” and I wouldn’t have known the difference. I despise them, and they’re worse when you are having an argument. How can you argue with someone who is talking in cliché’s? They don’t mean anything! It’s like expecting to win an argument by not saying anything, and then getting confused when the other person gets frustrated.

Anyway. Lost myself on a slight tangent there. I never believed the people who said it was better to have loved and lost. It didn’t make sense. How can you celebrate losing something that important? I mean yeah, you have the memories, but the happier those memories are, the harder it is to get over them, and the more pain you feel when remembering them. But I finally got it. I loved him, I lost him, and now I’m okay. I miss him slightly, his crazy sense of humour, and the way no matter how stupid my comments were, he would always respond with something equally or more stupid. The boy had imagination, and that I respond to. But it’s made me more adult, it’s made me more independent, and it’s made me become more the person that I will be, as opposed to the person that I am now.

So while I loved and lost, what I lost was made up for by the experiences gained. The wounds aren’t still open, and I can talk to him now and only feel a faint twinge. There is still the twinge, and always will be probably. But I don’t feel wrong when I flirt with others anymore, and if I behave scandalously then I know that it is only me who will get hurt by it. I’m happier, and finally, genuinely happy to be me again.

A lot of things have gone wrong recently. For a while I truly began to hate myself. That’s one of things he gave me that I’m glad I lost. But it wasn’t just him who was to blame for it. I’m not like that anymore. I’m less needy, more self-assured, and far more confident (though considering my confidence needed little boosting before, that one isn’t necessarily so wonderful). And while it feels like the end of something. While it is the end of a lot of things really. It’s also the beginning of more. And that I could really grow to enjoy.

Anyway, enough, I have a party to organise, host, and most of all, enjoy. :D

Labels: Falling, Theatrics

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’ll cry it from the roof tops with a smile on my face and joy in my heart, then I’ll down my double vodka, turn around, and fall backwards. It’s a double edged sword, to quote, trample, and obliterate a cliché. See, the thing is, no matter how happy you are, you still hate going home to an empty bed, being able to mark in your diary when the last time you have sex was, and the realisation that it was nearly two months ago.

And of course it isn’t (and this is a direct quote from Stacey, not cliché) all about sex. But when you don’t have to go without for longer than two days at a time, then yes, you do have the luxury of saying that. She is, of course, completely and utterly correct. But then, you could also say that life isn’t all about breathing. Breathing isn’t even something you think about until you stop being able to do it. And then it sort of catches up with you a little bit, you know? You start feeling a little light headed, you get tense, and you really can’t stop thinking about all this breathing you aren’t doing. A slightly exaggerated case I’ll admit, but the results are pretty similar.

Let’s put this in language that any lame brain can understand: being single, in a word, sucks. It’s wonderful; I adore it, the freedom, the not having to worry about your boyfriend getting jealous, the not getting jealous yourself. All of that, great, isn’t it? But if it’s so fantastic, why are all these people going out there, being single, and trying to pull people? Surely if you were so fucking ecstatic with your status, you wouldn’t do anything to risk it? Yeah you can date and be single, I’m good at that. But if the date went really well, really really well, then you’d want to see that person again and enjoy their company for a second date, and then maybe a third.

And suddenly you end up realising that you’ve just spent the last however long with someone and that you’re going to get married. You loved being single so much, so you’re starting to wonder what happened to that a little bit. Not that you’d risk this utterly fantastic person for being able to sleep wherever you wanted, and eat pizza at two am with the random drunk person that you met five minutes ago who also didn’t pull this evening. Being with this person is worth more than that.

Who, more than me, has made being single into such an art that it’s practically a religion? I love my life. I adore it, and I wouldn’t give it up for anyone. But it doesn’t mean that I don’t feel slightly put off when I’m sitting on the bus alone, going home while my friend sits behind me and texts her boyfriend. You realise that the closest you’ve come to intimacy that night is a guy in the seat opposite you blatantly trying to see up your, admittedly too short, skirt.

You’ve gone to all this effort, tried to turn yourself out to look half decent, and you’ve got no one who cares. I don’t begrudge her having a boyfriend to text; I just wish that it could be as effortless for me too. I won’t give up being single right now. But that isn’t because I don’t miss the companionship. It’s for practical reasons like me having exams for the next month, and then me leaving for Germany five days after the exams finish.

I enjoy the life style, and I know that changing it is beyond stupid. I know that it isn’t all about sex, and that I’m still far too young for it to be of any consequence at all if I spend a few months dating a few people rather than in a proper relationship. Yeah, rational thought occasionally does take a detour through my brain. But I have my cracks; I can’t be vivacious, crazy or drunk all the time.

Sometimes I have to sit here and wish that I was more “plastic” so that if I did something as demanding as expected someone to buy me a drink, they wouldn’t run off after someone else as attractive, but less demanding. Call me sexist, or a gold digger, or just plain ugly, but that’s what I expect, and that you wouldn’t expect that too… I’m not sure whether to be insulted, or well, insulted. It’s actually pretty hard not to be.

So, while I keep being demanding and over confident in my appearance, I’ll also have to be sad. Sad that I’m alone, lonely, and hating coupled up people everywhere. I don’t hate you personally, I just don’t think that I want to leave the house or be subjected to your happiness for a while. It’s all very anti-social, but fuck it, if I’m going to be miserable, then I intend to do it properly.

This is me crying it from the roof tops. “I’m siiiiiinnnnnnnnnggggglllllllleeeeeee!” And it’s great. I love it, but yeah, sometimes turning around and seeing what it would be like to just fall backwards, that doesn’t seem so bad.

P.S. this is more metaphorical than real. I don’t hang out on roofs, and it isn’t in my nature to be suicidal.

Labels: Falling, Pleasure, Theatrics

She sits on the edge of the seat. Her back is as far from the cold metal as she can while still technically sitting. Her fingers are clenched around the edge, balancing her as she perches. Her feet are held of the freezing concrete, bare and boasting manicured, though now slightly chipped, nails.

She’s going home. Her blistered feet look bruised, purple, strange in the morning light, and out of the heels that are now held in her hand. The skirt and top that made up her outfit last night now look crumpled, bare minus the accessories that are now stuffed in her bag. The unmade-up face is pale, miserable with her hangover.

I’ve done it so many times. Hair scragged back in the clip I remembered to cram into my bag two minutes before leaving the night before. Feet bleeding, the soles on fire. That’s why I hate winter so much- the number of times I’ve walked barefoot through snow rather than brave my shoes again. Rain is pretty awful, but snow is the worst.

So we sit, cold, miserable, and regretting the circumstances that put us here. We have flashbacks in our delirious, hung over state. Memories of misery, embarrassment, of the men who still lie in their beds content, but refuse to lie in ours.

I never seem to make the right choices. Love is like flight. It takes a while, and sometimes it can be hard work, but if it works then you’ll go places that you’ve never even dreamed of before. Albatrosses can fly for thousands of miles; they can go for however many kilometres without even flapping their wings. I’ll never be like the albatross, love is hard for me, awkward, in the flight scenario I’m probably going to end up more like a big clumsy duck than an albatross. But at least a duck can fly. I hurt too quickly, and every time I start to think that I might be taking off, something goes wrong.

I’ve chosen the wrong men, I’ve chosen to do things too early, too late, and with some I act too much like myself, with others not enough. It’s all too hard, too painful. I don’t want to try again, the first trial hurt too much. So I’ll sit here on my bench, in the cold, and waiting for my bus to arrive with the driver that barely speaks English and doesn’t know the difference between a single and a return. This is easier, this I’m used to, and though this is utterly killing me, its physical pain rather than mental, and that I can handle.

Labels: Falling, Flying, Introspection, Past tense, Poetic licence

I used to sit waiting for my phone to ring. I haven't been doing that recently. I guess He weaned me off that. Lately I really haven't cared. I guess it's due to my own insecurity, but I needed it to vibrate, I needed to be reminded that there was someone out there in the ether who gave the tiniest amount of a fuck about me. But recently none of it has mattered.

And the irony is that now someone actually does care about me. I've always got someone who is talking to me, someone who cares that little bit. I don't have the Bastard who made everything go wrong, or Him anymore. The Bastard made me insecure, but it took Him to make me cry. With Him everything just sort of fell apart at the edges. Everyone seems to be under the impression that with us it was just sex. And I don't know, it seemed more than that at the time.

There was a LOT of chemistry. But he also made me be myself. With others I'd felt so fake, like I was trying to be this person, this outgoing, happy person, who everyone would like. With him I could be the pedantic whiney child every so often and he didn't mind. We both let each other act like kids or adults depending on our moods. And sometimes it was too good, it felt like I could lose it at any time. We were good in a sort of explosive way. We didn't fight, but we were both moody and sometimes fighting can break the ice rather than have us both boiling under the surface, but not actually saying anything to each other about it. Not that it helped when I really got annoyed and told him who he was. That pissed him off more than anything else. He suddenly became too "busy" to call me, he only paid me any attention when he wanted sex, and he couldn't be arsed to see me for periods of up to two weeks at a time.

I look back with wistfulness at the good stuff. The ways he could make me feel when he was being nice, the times that we really clicked mentally, and the times when we joked around. And I miss him, but I always said that I wasn't going to let him make me cry. When he did I knew it was over. He made a lot of apologies, and excuses, and he did all the stuff. But he didn't care anymore, it was as fake as it had been with everyone else. And I guess that's what hurt more than anything else- that someone could just stop like that. The sex was still good, better even, but falling asleep afterwards, and waking up in the morning detracted from it all. I guess that the sex was only better because I felt like I had something to lose, so I tried harder to keep him there. And the mornings were so shit because I knew that it wasn't working. It was better, it was really good, but in the end it wasn't enough.

Thinking that it could be was naive, being hurt when it wasn't was stupid. It was a losing battle, and then I'd lost. I knew I'd lost when he went to his friend's, but he didn't want to see me. It dragged for a week and a half after that, but I knew it was over. Admittedly I didn't make things that much better. I treated it like it was over, and I had a flirtation with someone else that I wouldn't have let get that far had I not decided it was over. But he didn't know about it, and as it ended four days later I don't really think it was that relevant.

I don't know what I'm doing anymore. I feel like I'm drifting through men simply so I don't have to sit back, look at myself, and realise that I'm alone. Every time I receive a text, or phone call, I'm just thinking "what's the point?" It isn't him, and he's the only person that really matters. I've got a date tomorrow and I used to be enthused. I used to have hopes, I used to care. Now I'm only thinking about it in an "it's going to cost me this much for this, and more for that" way. I haven't even thought about what I'm going to wear yet.

I can't say that I don't like him, and that I don't like the idea of spending a night with him. But he won't be the same, he won't be as good, and I'm sitting here wishing for someone else. Why am I doing this at all?

Labels: Coquetry, Falling, Mistakes

I have a large red folder marked “Poetry.” In this folder there are approximately two hundred different poems varying from crappy to relatively readable. I don’t write poetry that often as I find making up worlds and sticking them down on paper is preferable. It helps me to escape better. But poetry is better for summing things up. Over ninety per cent of them are to do with relationships, longing, lust, love. Most of them are miserable.

There’s a guy. He’s… sweet. I met him back in September, but at the time I wasn’t interested. As usual I was chasing after someone who was bad for me and generally turned into a disaster. I didn’t even start to get to know him until I was with Dave, another disaster. Now I’m changing my mind. But I’m also incredibly confused. I’ve never even considered him as potential boyfriend material simply because he’s nice, and nice isn’t exactly what I go for. It is in fact, the complete opposite. But I’ve got to the point where I’ve realised that I can’t complain about being treated like shit when I deliberately go out looking for men who are going to treat me badly. I’ve got to change the men I go after.

But he’s too nice. Waaaaaaay too nice. And I couldn’t just have a fling with him. I don’t think I’m ready for anything more than a fling. I hate looking through that big red folder and getting flash backs. I hate being tied to one man when what I really want to do is act completely scandalously. But I prefer to have certain things on tap, and I miss the companionship.

I’m being horrifically selfish. If I didn’t think that I could leave it for a few weeks and still come back to him then I wouldn’t be taking so much time deciding. I’d have already made a final decision: yes or no. I guess what puts me off is that I’d have to chase him. Generally I like to be chased to a certain extent. But again, look at the men that I’ve been with before. They chased me, but in the end…

I’m thinking things through too much when what I should really be doing is just seeing what happens. I’m breaking all of my own rules by agonising over this, and I’m not really acting anything like myself. But the poems have worried me. I’ve put everything into them; every stupid piece of imagery. Every bloody sentence shows how hurt I’ve been, how much in love, how fucking stupid. I don’t know if I can do that all over again. This time it isn’t the rejection I’m scared of. It’s the fact that if I let him in then I’m giving him permission to hurt me. Permission to cause me the same pain all over again. And I just don’t know if I want to give anyone permission to do that ever again.

Labels: Coquetry, Falling, Theatrics

She sits in the middle of the room, tears run in mascara-black rivulets across her skin. On the cold, white, tiled floor she looks small, maybe some kind of porcelain doll, maybe just a little girl. Her hair hangs in a cascade around her face, the pretty face that is screwed up in agony as she sobs. A bottle lies broken on the floor across from her, and her phone lies next to it ignored. She doesn't care what's around her, she only cares about her own grief which comes in heart-wrenching pain from inside her until she's crying like a child. That impossible type of pain- where you can't do anything to stop it and you just feel inconsequential, out of control, and small.

I don't know why she's crying yet. I just know that she will. Her head will be aching from over indulgence in alcohol, and her brain will be scattered like the contents of her handbag. Which, incidentally, is probably left on the floor, open and upside down somewhere where it's going to be stood on, or forgotten about entirely. Who knows what the hell has gone wrong this time? With her it could be anything from a one night stand gone bad, to realising that she's pregnant. Maybe her father has died, maybe she's just done something so stupid she feels like she's lost control of her life.

It's probably got something to do with alcoholism. And with her, I'd guess that a man had treated her badly in some way too. She's superficial, she's flighty, and she's too easily obsessed by things that cause her too much pain.

And she's damaged. She's been damaged for a long time. Once she was even told that she was damaged property. It was flung in her face by a boy, a boy who didn't like rejection. But the knowledge that it was only said for the revenge of his bruised ego didn't cause the insult to hurt her any less. It still stung right down to her very core. The worst insults are the ones we secretly whisper to ourselves in the darkness, the ones we never admit to and fling out at people around us in the hopes that calling it out in others will somehow make it alright to be that too. He was lucky, he chose the right insult, never realising how much he had it right, never realising that he'd engraved himself into her memory forever over such a small thing.

I think she's scared. How can you be so messed up if you aren't scared? It isn't possible. You drown yourself in alcohol and throw yourself at men because you're scared. You're scared that if you don't get the men you'll die alone. You think that being beautiful and always having someone somehow makes you better. It means that no matter how many men you go through, how many recognise you for who you are and drop you, you still have someone. There is still some idiot out there who will fall into the trap. And one day you'll meet someone who will understand you, who won't run away at the first sign of the underlying madness. But you're scared because you know that its entirely possible that that person doesn't exist. So you'll live a lonely life with only inconstant companions, men who will satisfy you for a day, but forget you in a week.

The alcohol doesn't stop you from being scared. But occasionally it numbs the pain a little. You learnt long ago that it won't make you forget, none of the important things anyway, but for a while it means that you don't care. You can get on with simply being without the hassle of remembering too.

But you can't run away forever. When you realise who you are, or you do something so outrageous that even you are disgusted with yourself. When you realise that you've turned into that most horrifying concept- your own mother. That's when you cry. You cry because you feel cheap, used, dumb, pointless. You cry because you haven't done anything worthwhile. You cry because you look in the mirror, and are forced to acknowledge yourself.

Labels: Demons, Falling, Poetic licence

Labels: Courting, Falling, Mistakes, Past tense

I said that I’d never cry for you. I’ve been fucked over too many times for that. I don’t know if I’ve even told you how fucked up things really are. I guess it’s too early to tell you all the baggage I come with. Though to be honest, with us, if it isn’t too early then it’s too late. We can’t get to know each other enough to delve into the weird psychological problems that I have, and I know that you must have, because everyone does to some extent. We just don’t have time for that. I can’t let you see it all, I can’t let anyone see it all, the abyss is just too steep, too dark, there isn’t any going back after that.

I’m not crying over you. I’m crying over everything else. My patheticness, the way we all pretend that we’re people we aren’t. You can’t lie to people unless you fully believe the lies yourself. And I believe my lies, if only for the time that I’m saying them. But sometimes I believe them for longer than that. I believe them until someone suddenly wakes me up, confronts me with the truth. And then I’m standing on the abyss again, knowing that it’s going to be there forever and there isn’t anything I, or anyone, can do about it.

I don’t want you to tell me I’m a psycho. I don’t want you to scream at me in frustration, I don’t want you to see what’s under my mask. I know what happens to people who see beneath the mask, they retain a little bit of the madness. I don’t mean my mask, anyone’s mask. You just physically cannot see into someone’s soul that far. The key to making a relationship work is to bare your soul to someone, but to still be able to keep your secrets, the big ones. If someone knew all the secrets it wouldn’t work, there would be too much to come back from.

But I won’t let you lie to me either. Don’t tell me that everything is okay, or that I’m over reacting. Don’t expect me to listen to you if you tell me one thing, then tell me another five minutes later. Don’t ignore me in the hope that when you next see me I’ll have calmed down. I don’t work like that, I get angrier, and then I get livid, and finally, when all my energy has gone, I don’t care. But if I don’t care then you’ll never find a way to make me care again. Or maybe you will, who knows? I forgave my mother after eight years, I can always learn to forgive you. But she’s my mom, I don’t know if the situations are similar enough. And eight years is a while.

I won’t ask for commitment. I won’t tell you that I’m too pissed off to have sex. I won’t listen when people tell me that you’re not good enough for me, or that you’re an arrogant bastard. I won’t cheat, and I won’t lie to you about anything that matters. But I can’t tell you all my secrets, and I can’t wait forever for you to explain. And if you make me cry over you, then I’m sorry, there’s nothing you can do to fix it.

Labels: Demons, Falling, Introspection

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

A small smile comes to my face as a low buzz fills the room. Verification that I'm loved- I've received a text. I don't use my phone in emergencies, most the time I actually need it I've completely forgotten where I last put it. I guess the sole reason I have a phone is to prove to myself that people do love me, I have friends. I'm pathetic, I know, but I can't help it. I don't particularly care what the texts say, mostly I don't reply due to lack of money or forgetting where I last put my top up card. But I do love receiving them, I love the knowledge that someone, somewhere, remembers that I exist and have spared a thought to send me a message, find out how I am.

I don't know if I'll ever manage to have children. The idea of someone I adore screaming that they hate me, that they can't stand me and that I'm the worst mother in the world... I need to be loved more than anything else in the world. I can't stand the feeling when you're sitting there in an empty room and there is no one, no one that knows you're there, no one that cares. If someone I loved as much as my child rejected me, someone that had come from inside me not just been inside me (though rejection from them is bad enough). I'm not good at that kind of rejection, if I don't feel loved I don't feel anything.

I'm not sure if that makes me weak, it is definitely a weakness. I don't want to be weak, but I do want to be honest, and if that proves that I'm not strong then so be it. I don't believe that I'm not strong, just someone who's been hurt and who needs a little more love because of it.

It's chris telling me she's changed her number. That's good, she's been getting a stupid amount of hassle from T-mobile and needed to change her sim. It isn't an important text, but for a moment it reminds me that there are people out there who still care for me. That's all I need, all I want. Just someone to care.

Labels: Falling