Ode to albatrosses

For our two year anniversary we decided to go somewhere different, somewhere completely new. We decided to go to a loch in the centre of Scotland, a few miles away from Loch Lomond, and a train, bus and taxi ride away from civilisation. My sweetheart’s initial idea was to go camping; however this did not fit in the least with my ideas of cleanliness or comfort. So, instead, we stayed ensuite bed and breakfast in a village that consisted solely of hotels, bed and breakfasts, and was approximately fifteen houses big. It did not however have any mobile network reception with five miles of it which unfortunately meant that I could not use my laptop or phone as planned. It also didn’t have any TV other than channels one two three and four, or a DVD player. What it did have was amazing scenery, ridiculously loud deer, and a shop that mostly sold wellie warmers and was so used to customers that we had to wait five minutes for the owner to realize he had customers and unlock the door.

It was beautiful if isolated and cold. We walked fifteen miles, failed to find a tea shop anywhere regardless of promises that the scenery was inundated with them, and drank the local bitter in a pub that had only three other people in it on a Saturday night. And, more than anything else, it was strange. To a girl who believed that she had been brought up in the middle of nowhere, I found myself having to readjust my idea of what exactly constitutes nowhere. There wasn’t even a bus service, there was little other than a couple of fishermen and some deer. While I was completely enamored of it, and loving having the complete and unwavering attention of my sweetheart for a weekend, it was a little too different to be completely comfortable with.

I learnt something. I love the outdoors, I love being where there isn’t anything else. I never thought I could appreciate those things since I rarely appreciate life without a starbucks in my hand and a place where I genuinely can’t get away with wearing any of my enormous shoe collection seems a waste somehow to me. I love four inch heels, I love takeaway food, I adore regular bus and taxi services, I can’t live without Saturday afternoon clothes shopping, and I wouldn’t be able to live without a Sainsburys, Asda, Tesco and Morrisons all within fifteen minutes of my flat. But, regardless of the lack of every single one of those things, I enjoyed myself, and almost saw a life without those things, and with a couple of replacements. It’d be a good place to raise small children.

But that’s not for a good ten years yet. I may not have been single for a long time, and I may live with my (I assume) life partner already, but it’s too early to decide what will happen next. So, a little regretfully, we returned to the city, put the walking boots in the back of my shoe closet where they belong, and cuddled up in our centrally heated flat in front of digital television- the least number of channels I believed anyone could survive on until this weekend.

Labels: Flying

An albatross can fly for thousands of miles without getting tired. I've always thought that love is similar to flying; therefore we should aspire to be like the albatross.

I’m not an albatross. I can’t fly, I’ll never have wings, and I just don’t have that sort of determination. I’ve been told that some people have dreams that they’re flying, I’ve never had those. I’d love to dream that I’m flying, instead I have crappy dreams where I’m riding a bike along a motorway and that I never get anywhere, or that a giant disco ball falls on top of me, completely flattening me, and just as I’m dying Matt tops it all by breaking up with me using the excuse, “I’m breaking up with you before you break up completely.” Apparently my subconscious has a really bad sense of humour.

So anyway, according to me, one day I’ll meet someone, test my wings and I’ll be able to fly. Thing is, I don’t actually really believe in The One. I hear people talk about it, this ideal we’re all looking for, one person who will complete us, our perfect other halves, the one person who will allow me at last to fly. But, while my belief of The One is limited, if not incredulous, I do believe at least in happiness. I believe that you can find someone who you can spend every night with, and still want to see more of. I believe in someone who can make you that little bit better, that little bit happier.

I never believed in him, I wanted to, I craved to. I’ve always found myself to be lonelier than other people alone are, at the time I didn’t know exactly why, I just sort of thought it was me. I’m clearer headed now, less guarded, less troubled by demons; I know what it is that makes me worse. And I don’t need it confirmed and questioned by other people.

Now I believe in that person because I found him. I found someone who I can spend hours with, and still wish to see more. I found someone who finds it endearing that I’m completely insane. I found someone who loves me regardless of my insecurities, and who I love regardless of his flaws. Its that perfect ideal that I always so hated, the people who are happy, the people who don’t need others recognition or acceptance because they have one person who matters, and essentially everyone else who does not.

I am the albatross; I can fly better than any other I’ve ever met. I don’t have the problems of my egocentric schizophrenic mother, nor my jinxed and perpetually lonely downtrodden father. I no longer have fears of both commitment or rejection, I don’t get depressed, and I’ve kicked my alcoholism to the extent where I rarely drink, and when I do, I do so carefully. From a nineteen year old this all sounds a little to middle aged, but from the shit that I’ve put myself through, it’s finally just an acceptance of life, and happiness.

I have my problems, but they aren’t with myself anymore, they’re the small things that hurt me the external factors. Inside myself, I’m always going to get through them, because inside, after all these years, I’m whole. The battle was fought, the war was won, and whatever happens with my sweetheart, even if we end, it won’t matter because he made me better, he made me happy, and it’ll hurt to lose him, but I’ll never lose the gifts he gave me, or the changes I endured. I can’t go back to the ground once I’ve learnt how to fly.

Labels: Flying

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 want what every girl wants. I want to be Cinderella. I want to fall deeply in love with prince Charming, and I want him to want me so bad it hurts. It’s the fairytale isn’t it? Charming, attractive, rich, popular, and the idea that he could love you back… it’s so unbelievably seductive.

But why do we want that? Cinderella, yeah brilliant, you get the guy, you get the castle, and you get the happily ever after. Hey, you might even get a nice warm fuzzy feeling that the guy chose you. Like, wow, you’re so special.

The hardcore among you will already know all about my Cinderella complex. Favourite Disney film, fairytale, and all round heroin. When I was eight. When I got older I started to think that I wasn’t quite going to fulfil my goal. I still wanted to so badly, but reality has this way of sort of letting you know when things aren’t quite going to happen.

Thing is, when I look at it now, it seems silly. Why wait for a guy who’s so wonderful to pick you? Did feminism never happen? Why did the suffragettes bother with their hunger strikes? Women may as well have kept their bras and just got on with burning the turkey they were cooking for their husbands and oodles of children. We’re stuck in the dark ages. We go out, have jobs, act like we’re big and hard and totally together, then hit thirty, nab a guy, and wing it as a housewife for the rest of our lives.

And that’s wonderful. We don’t work; we just do what Mother Nature intended: become walking vagina’s that cook, clean, and have the dinner sharp at six o clock when you come in from work. Yeah, there are exceptions. A lot of people can’t afford to do that, and it’s far less expected than before the suffragettes and feminists had their say. But there’s still this overwhelming thing going on with gold diggers and men who expect women to just be machines to do their laundry and look after the kids.

Gold diggers. God. Don’t get me wrong, I’m looking for a rich husband. I don’t want one who does fuck all and lives off the dole. People who work and still don’t earn that much are fine too, I just don’t want someone who doesn’t pull their weight. If they’re rich and do fuck all then hey, they’re out too. Leeches aren’t my thing; whether it’s emotional or financial, I don’t care.

I just don’t want to be Cinderella any more. Falling in love with the most perfect guy is great, but he’s gotta work for me too. I won’t be walked over, and I won’t be downtrodden; it isn’t my thing. I’ve had enough of pining after men, and I’ve more than had enough of finding that whatever I do, I’m just not enough. How can you be more than they need, and so much more than they ask, and still not be enough? It’s simple, you aren’t what they want.

And I need to be wanted. It’s the one part of the fairytale I’ll keep. I need to be wanted more than I want them. I need to be chased, and I need it to not be one of those things where the man chases and once he’s got, sort of thinks, well, hey, this was nice but where’s the chase gone? I need to be chased, and when they get me they need to feel that I’m more than I ever expected.

I guess right now I need too much. But that’s okay too. A while ago the idea of being single was an idea I did not wish to court. Why would I? I was in love with a boy who made me happy on so many different levels, and I was comfortable in the first relationship I’d ever had with anyone that hadn’t been fucked up in some way. And we’re still good. But the relationship part of it faded.

Being single isn’t so hard. It hurt at first; I guess at first it sort of killed me. But after adjusting it’s kind of fun. Even the oompa loompas. Right now it isn’t time for happily ever after; somehow I doubt that even exists for most people. And needing too much isn’t too bad when I’ll settle for less as long as I still enjoy myself and it doesn’t hurt me. But my forever guy won’t be prince Charming; he’ll be more than that. He’ll be a modern, better adjusted, and all round more fantastic prince, and he’ll not only want me, he’ll fight to get me. So needing too much won’t be a problem, because he’ll give that. And then, though it won’t be happily ever after, it’ll be happy.

Labels: A field of poppies, Flying

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

Packing is like getting dressed before a funeral. They’re both so painful, yet also mechanic. My suitcase is huge, it could fit both children in easily, and it’s still just under the twenty kilos required. Though this is only due to severe abuse of the hand luggage rules. I’m allowed eight kilos hand luggage, I’m not sure if that’s enough.

Whenever you pack you have to say goodbye just a little bit. Whether you say it to a home, a place, or a lifestyle, it still has to be said. I hate saying goodbye. I’ve said it so often in my life that it kills me, it doesn’t get easier, it just goes on hurting.

This one hurts me. I don’t want to say goodbye. I want to go home, I’ve been away too long, I’m too far, and it’s too alien. But I’m saying goodbye to a version of a home. I’m saying goodbye to the only home that hasn’t been completely dysfunctional that I’ve lived in. I’m saying goodbye to a version of normalcy, a routine, a haven. And that’s hard.

I’m going to miss the cries of “Harr-ri-riitttttt” every morning from Robin. I’m going to miss putting Finn to sleep at night, his head resting on my arm as he looks with heavily lidded eyes at the bottle of milk I’m holding in his mouth. I’m going to miss chasing them around the house trying to retrieve the broom that they’ve decided is a great toy. I’m going to miss putting an end to their respective suicide attempts as they jump in the deep end of the swimming pool, dive down staircases, and hit themselves over the head with rocks.

I have a place here. I have a purpose, and I have unconditional acceptance if not love from two toddlers. I go home to a screaming household, crazy friends, and invoices for one thousand seven hundred pounds from the University. And that’s good too, that’s how it should be, and I’ve missed it. There’s an ex boyfriend for me to have tantrums about, a lot of old flings to be avoided like the plague, and a substantial amount of wine, spirits, and beer to be consumed in my own suicide attempt. I haven’t managed the arguments properly this summer with my father; for some reason it just isn’t the same over the phone. And tomorrow I have to go through my sister’s room, retrieving all the things she has “borrowed” from my room while I was away. I might leave that till Thursday, it will take far too long and I’m fully booked tomorrow.

So I have a place there too. As I’ll have a place at uni, and a place in New York when I make the first ever visit next year. That’s what I call progress, who thought I’d ever contemplate setting foot in the place? Never mind actually plan logically, and notify my mother (never a good thing to do, her hopes are so easily raised). God, three months with her… What am I thinking??? But never mind, cross that bridge when its there in front of me, refusing to budge out my way.

Over the years there will be many different niches for me to fill. There’ll be other people who’ll rely on me, and other times in which I’ll be forced to regret saying goodbye. But it won’t hurt less each time I do it; it’ll just be a different sort of hurt, each one unique to the situation.

So tomorrow, when I get on that plane, I’ll be saying goodbye. And it will hurt. But that’s life.

Labels: Flying, Introspection

I dreamt of love like it was this wonderful ideal- the way things would be if life were perfect and I were more appealing. I dreamt of travel, leaving home, because home has never been where my heart is, it's always been claustrophobic, and the scene of far too many emotional crimes. I dreamt of marriage as this perfect thing that I, as a cynical, unromantic, unlovable, useless child, could never achieve. This myth, fairytale, that only the strongest can make work. I know happily married couples, and I adore them, I knew that they were doing something I could never even hope for myself, and I was awed.

But love isn't like that. Love is awkward, stupid, and blind. Love is where you act like a retard, and let your heart guide your head. Love isn't perfect, it isn't wonderful, and being in it only causes more pain when it ends. Love will work, if not for me, then at least for someone. But it can't always work, and the fact that you are in it has absolutely no relation at all to your happiness or well being.

Leaving home. Well, that worked. I'm calmer, less stressed, and a thousand times more tired. Its a different type of tired too. At home I was mentally exhausted, here it's completely physical. But my dream wasn't so accurate either. What dreams are? Yes, I feel wonderful and have had a chance to improve myself in a few ways. For example, now I can cook, get by in German, and can change a nappy without dying. But I'm lonely. This place is heaven for couples with children, but the kind of place that as soon as the children are old enough, they leave for places more exciting. If I could drive, and had the time, then I could go out a few places myself, maybe go clubbing, or whatever the equivalent is over here, on my own and make some friends. But I have to rely on lifts everywhere, and have no knowledge of local taxi services/ buses. I'm naturally more sociable than this and it's starting to grate.

Marriage. You don't have to tell me. I know that it isn't anything like how poets, novelists, or optimistic film writers convey. But I've always known that. To me it will be as love: perfect and beautiful in the same unattainable way as tall latino men and real italian ice creams. The men are gorgeous, have accents that basically make you orgasm on "buonasera". But behind practically every attractive guy is the mentality of a little boy, and the longevity of a three legged dachshund. And the ice cream will taste wonderful, it'll look gorgeous, and it'll make you feel like you're in paradise. But you'll never be able to finish it because its just far too rich and sweet. But marriage is unattainable. For me, marriage is the beautiful man on the seat opposite you on the train that you can look at but never touch. You can fantasise and try to work up the courage to say "hi," but in the end you know theres just no point because it will never be yours.

But it isn't that. The perfect couples have all the imperfections you think are only true of you. They made me realise that my dreams are false, true only in the brief time I am asleep. All the other times, they're hazy memories that have absolutely no basis in truth, and are unrelated to reality.

Labels: Flying, Introspection

Yesterday I took a trip down memory lane. We went to North Shields, and while there decided to take a trip past our old fortune cookie factory. I remember the place being dark, cold, and metallic, but now it’s simply dilapidated. I couldn’t believe it. There was actually a big sign on it that said “Warning Fragile Roof”.

It’s been nearly fifteen years since I was there. The last memory I have is of being perched on a cold metal surface by my mom and watching as her, my dad and a whole load of workers bustled around in white jackets and those horrible catering hats where you have hair nets attached. The whole concept intrigued me. You started off with some flour and whatever else, and fed it all through a whole load of mixers and other scary machines, and then you came out with cookies.

But I had my job. I looked after my sister as she slept in her portable plastic cot. She was an adorable kid, and they really did need someone to look after her. I remember the time when I’d been sleeping in the car and woke up to find dad frantically searching the factory while my mom stood by the door to the office saying, “I just don’t know where I put her. I was so sure that she was on the desk here.”

The factory was the reason I was sent to live with my Gran. It wasn’t a good place to bring up a child, and my mom and dad ran it together, my mom would have made a pretty crap housewife anyway. So my Gran took me. She couldn’t take my brother on top of that, he was six years older than me, and it would have been too much for a seventy year old woman to cope with.

My gran had a stroke just before my sister was born. She still looked after me, but couldn’t take my sister as well. I went home at weekends, and started to notice the difference between being at home and being with my gran. I adored living with Gran. You should have heard my bawl every Friday afternoon when my dad came to pick me up and take me home. But I also felt incredibly left out. My brother and sister were so close, and though home wasn’t a happy or calm place to be, I still felt like they couldn’t love me if they sent me away every Sunday night. The logical reasoning behind it was lost on my three year old ears.

I got to move back home again when things started to go wrong. My gran had a heart attack, the company van pretty much exploded, and due to a series of unfortunate events the once thriving business ended up bankrupt. Mom became a housewife just long enough to decide she didn’t enjoy it, and divorced my father.

I remember that conversation vividly. Dad sat down with me, my sister, and my brother in the kitchen. I was rocking on the back of the wooden chair, and he told me to stop, we had to talk. It all sounded so serious when he told us that mum was moving to New York without us, and that the four of us were going to move house, move somewhere else, start over.

If you were to ask me when I was happiest, I’ll tell you with certainty that it was the year after my sixth birthday. My mom had just left, we’d moved to the best house in the world, it had a huge garden and the back gate opened up to a gorgeous hillside, a stream, and basically a huge public woods that as kids we explored and made our own. It was a new school, and everything seemed to be working out.

My dad went back to art. He’d become disillusioned with the field nearly twenty years before when exposed to the politics and the “if you rub my back” attitude behind the scenes. He gave up what was published to be a “promising talent” and went to seek his fortunes in the states. Where he met my mom. And finally moving back home when my brother was three.

In the new house we were living as a family finally. My mom wasn’t there, but she made home a battle field whenever she was around. When she was there it wasn’t home, it was just painful.

A few years later things fell apart a bit again. I don’t know if it’s just that I stopped being such a child, and started to realise what was going on around me. Or maybe things started to get old, my dad started to get tired, and the house with its many wonderful mysteries and oddities, became mundane. Whatever it was, I started to realise that my dad was unhappy, my brother is scarred, and my sister is who she is. She’s superficial, and completely insecure.

And now we’re where we are now. My dad’s even more disillusioned with art, and pretty much despises the fact that he relies on it for an income. I now understand why my scars are there. I know the reason for my cynicism, and I understand why I find it so hard to trust love. It’s all so far from the fuzzy memories of being chased round the factory by my brother. It’s a long way from standing in the garden with mum and waving our van goodbye. And its far from Floppsie the Bunny and playing hide and seek in the grave yard while dad painted the church.

I grew up a little; I learnt that life wasn’t like those cut out moments. And I learnt that grown ups are sometimes less adult than their children. Going to the factory brought back many memories I’d forgotten, and it was sad to see the place I only remember as full of life, to be so dead and decrepit. But they’re just memories. And they’re long gone.

I’m scared. I’ve got to go out there and be an adult. I’ve got to forget someone I love, and I’ve got to give up a comfortable home and life style, to have cooking disasters, wake myself up in the mornings, and stop relying on other people. And it’s made me retrospective. I’m spending my hours thinking of the past with a certain amount of nostalgia, and even though a lot of it isn’t that great, writing it all down frees me to look forward to the future, while still having something that is a firm reminder of how I got here.

Labels: dynasty, Flying, Past tense, Poetic licence

On War – “A contention by force; or the art of paralysing the forces of an enemy.”

Most of the time my life feels like a battlefield. There is always some form of contention. My family, my friendships, the pressure to do well in whatever field, and the constant quest to find both love and enlightenment. But they’re just the external battles. The internal ones are harder because the enemy is not someone you can see, it isn’t something you can hack with an axe, or humiliate with words. The enemy is simply those aspects of yourself that you dislike. The ones you fight to keep control of. The basic instincts, and the emotional scars.

But there is another end of the spectrum. All of those things are what make my life worthwhile too. So my friends and family drive me crazy; they only do so because I care about them so much. Pressure is hard when you feel like you’re trying to meet some illusive idea of perfection, but the few times you come close are the times when you feel the most satisfied, the most victorious. And love. Loving anyone is hard because when you open yourself up to another person you give them the power to hurt you. To truly let someone in is to lie upon the sacrificial alter and hand the priest the knife. With love you will hurt. It’s a simple fact. But to avoid the pain is to avoid losing so much more.

I cannot vanquish my demons, but they remind me of all the things that are important to me. And if you were to take my mother as an example, she scarred me, she hurt me, and the pain isn’t something I can grow out of. But when you question me as to whether I still love her for it, I cannot but tell you I do. She could have beaten me senseless, she could have made the scars physical instead of just mental, and I’d still love her. It’s simply impossible not to.

So my life is a constant equilibrium between conflict, and love. I’m at war with myself, but still find that I completely adore my life. Sometimes I shift closer to one end of the spectrum, but I spend just as much time at the other end too.

I was asked if I had regrets. And I do, of course, have many. But could I go back and change them, go back and right all the wrongs. Could I avoid things, and simply delete significant parts of my life? No. Could anyone? Our lives are a serious of causes and effects. Either the cause or effect can be unpleasant, but then, so much in life always is.

Life is a constant struggle. We struggle to find true love, happiness, ourselves. And eventually we find those things, we’re happy. Some people will never find them. I know so many people who have simply never met the aspirations they set for themselves years ago. But everyone, for even a short period of time, has found happiness, no matter how small. And that’s what we live for; those short periods of joy.

Labels: dynasty, Flying

Apparently Blog Reviews have rated my blog "top of all blogs". I have to admit, when I received the random stars in my comments on my Dating Requirements, I was slightly at a loss as to what they meant. Oh well, as I am never one to dwell upon the reasons for praise, and am more the type to grab the compliment and run off in the opposite direction in case they change their mind, I shall move on.

I’m getting rid of the disorder. It’s hard, but to leave I’ve got to leave properly. I refuse to leave unfinished thoughts behind. I guess I will have to include Him in this. To move past him I’ve got to give him up properly. When we broke up it wasn’t final, when I last saw him it wasn’t final, and right now it’s just an unwanted headache.

But he isn’t the only thing to go. My words, precious stanzas depicting heart break, love, joy, and misery all met the open jaws of my rubbish bin last night. I watched them go. Falling, disconsolately, into the open abyss that is the bin which never seems to overflow. And I could not help but shed a few tears.

Writing is the lover that never leaves me lonely and cold in the night. The pages upon pages of my words are the comfort blanket that no one can tell me I’m too old to have anymore. And, as I watch them fall away, finally leaving me, I catch snatches of conversations, memories, my own thoughts lifted from their place in my brain, and etched onto paper.

I come across a simple stanza:
“I’ll go wherever you want to take me,
I’ll do whatever you want to do,
I’ll smile and tell you I’m happy,
I’m happiest when I’m with you.”

And then the tears really fall. They somersault through the air, tumbling onto and smudging the words I have condemned to silence. These words are the key to my soul. They give expression to a girl whose heart is locked in stone. And they remind her of all she has lost.

They are not the prose I save onto my computer. These are not those that I wish to whore out to publishers in the hope of a more comfortable home, and a more pleasant bank statement. These are the words that I don’t dare let others read. The ones that whisper secrets, feelings, lost memories of childhood. These are the ones that cause the most pain.

I watch them go with regret. It is the same regret I feel whenever I watch someone walk out of my life knowing it will be too long before they return. But at their demise there is also a feeling of hope. Hope that new words will come to replace them. Hope that leaving them behind will allow me to painlessly get on with the future.

Labels: Flying, Poetic licence

The music fills my ears, my brain, as a smile comes to my face, my eyes, as I spin. I spin with the breeze, my arms open wide, head thrown back, looking up to the heavens. The sun streams in through the window bathing my in a warm honey glow. I feel like an angel, a goddess, I feel like I could fly.

My bangles clatter round my wrists. Only my toes touch the floor as I pirouette, my long skirt spinning with me. My scarf whips in the breeze as my hair flies back from my face, curly tendrils falling everywhere.

When I was little we used to play a game. If the sky was pretty and the grass was dry, we’d go outside. We'd dance in the garden, climb the trees, and then when we were done we’d spin. We’d spin to celebrate the beauty of the day and the joy in our dancing. We’d spin until our heads spun with us, till our skirts tangled at out knees, and until we fell down and could spin no more.

It’s the same child-like joy that I derive from making snow angels. Throwing myself back into the snow with abandon. It’s the joy only a combination of a beautiful mood and gorgeous weather can bring. It’s a pure, unadulterated love of life. An acceptance that what is to come, will, and what is past can no longer hurt me.

And so I dance with the windows open wide and the smell of summer saturating my thoughts. The sun, the heat, and the breeze filling me with a feeling of content that neither love nor alcohol will ever bring.

Eventually I’ll fall. My head will pound, and I’ll spin no more. But that will not happen today. And when it finally does happen, I’ll be fine because I know that one day, somewhere, I’ll dance again.

Labels: Flying, Poetic licence

Everything is about him. My hair colour, my lucky charm necklace, the way I still check myself whenever I walk past the pub. He’s in my thoughts, my dreams, and the way I refuse to delete him from my phone book. He’s in my memories, and the perfume I wear. He’s in the eyes of other’s, and he’s the reason I have to grow my hair.

I know that I don’t love him; the intensity isn’t there. But he will forever be my Peter Pan; the boy who can’t grow up. He is my first love, my biggest obsession, and the one I gave the most to. He was a good lover, just not such a great love. He fit my requirements perfectly, he fit me perfectly, but sometimes things just don’t work.

I’ve survived. It killed me to, and I think the last time I cried that hard was at my grandma’s funeral, and that was seven years ago. I can’t pretend that it didn’t hurt me, and it took me longer than I’d admit for me to move on. I still missed him when I was dating others, and no man measured up when I was in bars. And not just because of his height.

When I was given a week to make my decision about Germany, there were many things that I thought about. One of them was him. I found the idea of sticking around here, where there are so many memories, frankly horrifying. I’ll admit that were it not for him I would not have been as anxious to leave the country. My family, my friends, my own stagnation, and the increased opportunities were I to go were taken into account too. I made my decision not because of him, but I won’t lie and say he wasn’t a factor.

Were I given the choice now, I would have made the same decision, but for different reasons. He wouldn’t have been a factor. In my mind I’ve said goodbye to him. In my dreams I’ve talked everything out with him rationally, and we both moved on. I don’t need to actually go through it anymore; that would cause more harm than good.

And the pregnancy thing helps. It’s made me realise that the idea of being tied to him in such an absolute way, even if we were not in a relationship, scares the hell out of me. I love him because he’s my Peter Pan, I won’t love the adult, and I don’t want to have my children with him. Yeah, I know that if it turns out that I am, and we haven’t yet established that, then he’ll know. I don't want him to, I don't want him there, and for him alone maybe I wouldn't tell him, but I guess for his family, for everyone, for everything, I'll have to. Though I still don't believe that I can be, and he really won't want to know.

After that I realised how pointless it would be were I to get my wish and we got back together. If we drew it out longer I’d grow to hate him. Better to keep it short and keep only the nice memories. I can never regret a minute of it, even the times when either of us made drunken idiots out of ourselves. But I don’t need to keep reliving every painful second. I don’t need to keep him in my heart; he’ll last longer in my memory.

So I say goodbye my love. You are no longer held in the confines of my heart; I set you free. When my memories fade, and my pulse grows slow, another shall be at my side. My heart will belong to someone else, but I will always have room in my memories for you. It would be impossible to forget the crazy boy who always dreamed of flying.

You’ll fly, that I promise. You’ll get the beauty who wishes to carry your slippers. And you think that you’re immortal. You’re right; to me you are. Even if emphysema and alcoholism claim you as I always promised they would, your memory will be immortal, and it’s something I shall cherish.

Labels: Being the Duck, Flying

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

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

Some people live forever, some you forget the instant you turn your back after meeting them, others you will never even meet nor hear of so are, effectively, not even real to you. I'll always remember my first boyfriend. We were six, maybe seven, it lasted a day and we had to break up when I went home because we were both on holiday and didn't feel we could manage a long distance relationship. Plus, he tried to steal my ice cream and two timed me with my sister so I wasn't really that happy with him anyway. I can't tell you his name, nor what he looked like. I can tell you that we had a blanket in the car that day and that my mum and dad fought the whole way there and back. I can nearly visualise his face, but my memory isn't that spectacular so I only have a vague Peter Pan-type image of a boy with a pretty face and a penchant for mischief.

I'm in that relationship now, all over again. He isn't pretty nor seven years old, but he has the same appeal. You're more likely to find him near some mischief than anything else, and I definitely wouldn't put it past him to try to steal my ice cream before I had given him permission. He'll never really get old for me, no matter how long I know him. If I know him in fifty years he'll still have that special place in my heart for the Peter Pan type figure of mischief; the boy who has made me stupidly happy, but also permanently pissed off. I have two levels, the girl who needs that idiot child to make her happy, and the maternal, slightly more mature, woman who wants to make him act with more responsibility, like a bigger, better, person.

He's so separate from everything else; he has absolutely nothing to do with anything that was in my life before. I guess it's the same as being a super hero at night, but having a mild mannered alter ego during the day. Except a lot less dramatic. I see him late at night; I can only count a few instances when I've seen him before eleven o clock. And I think that was the best bit about us; it makes things easier not having to cope with all the everyday stuff. He doesn't come into contact with my family, and he isn't anything to do with school. He fits; it sounds really strange, but his personality fits into mine. We can have stupid conversations about buying a farm, about the Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. And we can talk about artichokes. I love that, but I don't need that. I need someone who I see on a regular basis, who reassures me when I feel sad, and whose there when I simply need to sit quietly with someone's arm around me.

What I need doesn't matter, not right now. For now, what I want is much more important. So I see him when I can, and I mope in between, wishing I had a more constant stream of happiness. We'll last forever. That cut-out moment at about three in the morning where we're lying there wrapped round each other in the dark, talking about stupid things; that's us, and that's what lasts. But the relationship is already dying. I've grown up a little; we need different things, yada yada yada. But we'll be okay for a while. For a while we'll go on as we have done, I'll probably let it last till June when he goes; there isn't much time left anyway. He makes me happy, but any illusions of love, or anything else even slightly meaningful, are gone.

Labels: Flying, Past tense

He kissed me slowly, like he wanted to stay there forever. Like he didn't have to turn around and walk away. But I can't ask that of him. It's too early, he doesn't love me enough, there are more important things. I won't ask him to put his life on hold for me. How can I do that when I know that I couldn't do it for him?

So he lies beside me now, breathing deeply, his breath warm on my ear and his arm heavy accross my stomach. I won't move or make a sound for fear of waking him up, of making all this somehow not real. And this is perfect, for once everything is good. But I know that he's going to get up one day and not come back. There's a time limit before he has to leave, and I can't change it, can't change his mind. He told me from the start that he was going to have to go away, go and be a hero somewhere, do what he had to do. And I understood, I understand, I just don't want him to leave.

I know I'm being selfish. How can I truly care about someone yet not wish them to do what will make them happy? So he turns away from me, unclasps his large hands from mine, and walks away shutting the door behind him. I can't cry about it because he hasn't gone yet. I still have him here beside me, I still have him inside me, making me feel happy just for once. But I can't keep having the perfect moments, I can't let him into my heart because if he comes in then it'll make the leaving all the harder. I have to kiss him on the doorstep and push him down the path.

And he has to do the same for me. He'll let me into his bed, but he'll still turn his back on me at the door. And he doesn't look back. I don't look back. We both know that we're on a count down and that every day it gets just that little bit closer.

Every time he turns his back though, every time I turn mine, it hurts. I know that I can't let him in, but somehow I keep reliving those perfect moments, allowing him into my heart. I can't help it, my first instinct is to let him in and deal with the consequences later. I want to feel his hair under my fingertips, to have his arms wrapped around me. I want him to know how much I care for him, and for him to feel the same way about me. But neither of us can do it, I've let him in too much and I know I should stop. But he isn't going to allow me any further, and so I stop, hold back. And the feeling, me holding back, feels like I'm being suffocated, restrained. I feel constricted and there isn't anything I can do to stop it.

I can't leave him, there's so little time there is no point. And it's us splitting up thats the problem. But staying with him is so hard, so claustrophobic. I just want the freedom of knowing that we're happy as we are, and that he isn't going anywhere any time soon. But I'm not selfish enough to ask that.

Labels: Flying

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

Sometimes you can walk through a field of poppys and feel like they're on fire. They're so red it hurts your eyes. They're beautiful. Other times they look so pale. The light is all wrong and though you know that they're beautiful, that they are flawless, they just don't look so arresting as they did earlier. The beauty is wasted and over looked.

Sometimes there's beauty and you don't notice it at all. Sometimes you know that you're happy, and that everything is so good, but you take it for granted because it won't go away. It can't go away. But nothing lasts forever. You can have one perfect night. One moment that you know will stay with you forever. And though it was perfect, who knows what can happen the next day, week?

The poppy dies. The light fades. These things are inevitable. But the memory stays. It lasts for as long as you do, and you don't need it to last longer. For you, specifically, this is forever. And a memory that lasts forever is as perfect as the moment. You may know that you woke up the next day and walked away, that afterwards life continued to go on. But the memory got up and walked away with you. And if it was that perfect then it'll last for as long as you need it to.

I can still feel his hair, spiky beneath my finger tips. I can remember every taste, every smell. I can remember the sound of my laugh in the silence. And yes, in the morning I woke up and I walked away. Like this will all go away. There's a time limit to this, I can tell you the exact date. And that date was a bit of a shock to be honest, like a punch to the stomach when you aren't looking and don't expect it at all. And I'll be upset, but I'll cope because no matter how much I fall in love with him, I always do.

And if we finish it before then at least it'll be a lot easier in the end. Saying goodbye always hurts. Every time I stand at the airport and see another person leave it causes a little more pain. Because it isn't that you can't see them, it's just that you don't. It's that you know that more than anything else you want them to stay where they are. You want them to stay with you even though you know that it's a bad idea and selfish and everything else. I can say goodbye though. I've got good at it. I sometimes don't cry anymore. But at least the memory, if nothing else, will last.

Labels: A field of poppies, Flying, Poetic licence

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