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

London has the very best of clubs, and the very worst. My most recent London experience was, unfortunately, the latter.

It started at the apartment in Aldgate. Tired and highly strung from spending four days living in extremely close proximity with my sister (the same bed) was turning into a joke. I love her from a distance, but sleeping, eating, and drinking with her is not exactly my idea of heaven. I layered on the scarlet nail varnish and forced myself to endure the few hours of her prancing around the room in a black mini dress, straightening her naturally poker straight hair, and telling me that my eye brows don’t match, I’m too dressed up, I’m under-dressed, my heels don’t exactly match my belt, and do I think her bum looks big in this?

I downed the Pimms and lemonade and forced myself to carry on quietly without forcing the tweezers down her throat. A painful tube ride later (strip lighting flashing cheerfully), and a rather awful experience involving eight lemons and two bottles of rum in Tesco’s later, we arrived at Hammersmith and went in search of taxis. The first taxi driver was extremely helpful in telling us he didn’t know the area, and couldn’t help us. The second was marginally better, but took us to the wrong street, dropping us down some dark alley and leaving us to negotiate our own way. After walking for ten minutes in six inch heels the five of us arrived at a strip club where the bouncer helpfully ordered us another taxi.

This taxi did, eventually, take us to our destination. Unfortunately he also took fifteen pounds off us to get completely lost, and then make us find the right street in his pocket A to Z. Personally I felt that this was taking the piss, but our relief at arriving quelled a few of my objections.

Meeting up with the rest of the party meant standing in the doorway of a smallish house just outside Hammersmith and enthusing over the birthday girl’s dresses, property developments, interior design, and the fact that my sister really doesn’t look so young. This, coupled with more pimms and lemonade, and possible the worst Mojito I have ever had the misfortune of drinking, was a headache in the making. But it didn’t stop there. From there the party moved via three cabs across zone two and ended up fuck knows where.

This cab was much better. It only cost us twelve pounds and the driver was flirty, complimentary, but never sleazy, so earning my London cabby thumbs up prize. He was the only one in my entire visit who earned this so he was special. The club was the kind of club where you spend a shit load to get in, then find that the place is half empty and really you’d rather stay at home with a DVD than go to all this trouble and then contemplate staying here for another three hours minimum. In a word, it sucked.

While enduring classics such as the Baywatch theme tune and a disco version of Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On,” I downed Sambuca shots, got off with the birthday girl’s younger brother, and sat on the bathroom floor phoning everyone I could think of who might, just possibly (say in an alternate universe) also be awake.

I then ditched the guy (my brother nicknamed him “The Oompaloompa,” and he sang along to Baywatch) lost one shoe (later found), and completely failed to listen to anything that anyone started to try to tell me. I also got asked if I was on coke, and if so, could I get him and his girlfriend some. Surely I wasn’t that bad?

When finally we arrived home, there were only a few hours before I woke up with a screaming hangover, the taste of truly disgusting curry still in my mouth, and the knowledge that I was leaving in two hours, hadn’t packed, and had a seven and a half hour bus journey before home. Wonderful.

Labels: Alcoholism, Mistakes, Theatrics

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

I feel... flat. I'm not sure whether I'm relieved, or miserable, or ecstatic. Somewhere verging on all of them, if that's at all possible.

So yesterday I woke up. Looked at the clock, six thirty am. Hmmmm. So that's... what? Five thirty English time, and results come out at eight thirty GMT, nine thirty here... So three hours. Well, three and a half by the time my dad gets in, gets the results, then finds a phone. Bugger.

Nine o clock (GMT) finds me on the edge of my seat, small bowl of cocoa pops (or whatever they've changed their name to now) in front of me untouched, and another bowl beside that which I am using to feed the baby some sort of cream coloured mush. Cue phone ringing. Drop spoon, push bowl out of reach of grabbing hands of baby, sprint towards phone on counter, pick up.

"Hallo?"

"Hi Harriet, I've got your results here, I don't know what they mean!" Panicked voice of father comes through the receiver. "I can't make head or tail of them! Advanced GCSE grade B? What does it mean??"

"Dad! I'm not taking GCSE's! Are you sure you've got the right sheet there?"

Angry as well as panicked now, "I don't know! It must be this other one. Erm... Biology U, D. Chemistry- D, C. Which one is it??"

"U???? I got an Ungraded in Biology??? Aaaaaaaaaagh! Find a teacher, find someone, anyone, get them to translate! A UUUUUUUUUUUU!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

"Okay, I'm going, Bye."

Ungraded. Shit. Thats pretty awful even for me. I expected to just miss the grades, not fail so badly I didn't even get a passing grade.

Phone rings five minutes later. "Okay, Harriet. You've got... a D in physics, a C in Biology, and a C in Chemistry."

Tense, "a C in Chemistry, its definitely a C in Chemistry??"

"Well, according to this anyway. Three hundred and sixty points is a C. Whatever that means."

"Dad! I got iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiin!!!!!!!!!!!! I needed the C! I got iiiiiiiiiiiin!!!!!!!!!!!"

So, as of the twenty ninth of september, I am a uni student. I did crap, but I got into uni! With practically no work whatsoever. Maybe I should develop some kind of work ethic soon. Yup. Definitely. Very soon. But who cares right now, cos I got iiiiiiiiiiiiin!

Now all I need to do is not die at university. Oh, and maybe not drop out either. Thats pretty important too. But, at least it gives me another month of free time where I can sit back, relax, and smugly know that for a while at least, I don't really have to do that much. Thats what I call happiness.

Labels: Academia, Theatrics

Tomorrow I get my A level results.

I've never been so terrified.

I hope I don't fail.

If I fail then I'm stuck in Northumberland for another year. At least. The idea is so depressing I feel phsically sick. I love home. Adore it. But I only feel this way when I've got a sea and a few countries separating me from it. When I'm there I feel claustrophobic, irritable, and depressed. Permanently. I can't go back and do it all again.

But what else is there? The real world? I don't feel ready for it. I don't feel mature enough. I don't feel like I belong in it. I belong in bed with a nice big bottle of sparkling white wine and some Jack Daniels on the table beside me. I belong ten years in the future, or one year in the past, when I've got myself worked out, and have happiness on tap. I can't promise that in ten years time I'll have that, but anything has to be better than this suspended lifestyle I have now. It's been wonderful, but its just been rent-free. A holiday from reality if you like. Waiting for the big stuff, the important stuff, the stuff that changes everything.

Tomorrow is pivotal. It may not be so important that it'll kill me if I don't get the desired results. It isn't neccessairily negative or positive whatever happens, but it's all got to change from now on. Now I have to decide what comes next. Tomorrow I get my results, and from next wednesday I am effectively jobless. Again. If I don't get into uni I don't have any comfort zones. I can't just work full time in the pub for a while cos I gave that up. Its a new start whatever, and I don't know where to go. Tomorrow decides that. And its too much.

I'm scared.

Labels: Academia, Theatrics

I told him I was going to be a nun.

I just couldn’t think of what else to do. For him it’ll just be a very transparent excuse so that I could get round to the important bit- you’ll have to make do with a postcard sweetie cos I’m not going to sleep with you. I can’t sleep with him. I want to, it was great, but fuck am I going there again. I’m fine. Right? I don’t want to do all that again.

I need to understand the situation better. Apparently he’s been telling everyone that I propositioned him. I just don’t know who he told, and the person I thought he’d told said he hadn’t. Confused? Yup, very. I’m not in the right country to sort this mess out. And to be honest, I’m not that bothered if he has said that. I mean, I know that its not exactly making me look great, but I did it, and I am not so naïve that I expected him to not boast about how he was gonna get his leg over. Men are children, and I’m working with children right now, they like to show off.

When I first heard about it I wasn’t exactly thrilled. Propositioning men is fine, especially if they’re more than willing to take you up on it, but propositioning an ex? We’re getting onto slightly uneven ground here. I have a fantastic defense- I was lonely, home sick, in need of comfort, etc. Truth is, I wanted to, so I did. Story of my life. I’m hardly the first girl to want to sleep with her ex; it definitely wouldn’t be out of the ordinary if I did sleep with him. But for me it wouldn’t be a good idea.

It doesn’t matter anymore. I’m not in love with him, I still love him in a way, but not like I did. And I don’t want casual sex right now. God knows why, its great. But for some reason I want to fall in love. Again. And be hurt all over again, its just this time I won’t be as terrified therefore withdrawn.

I love that he can cheer me up when I’m in the deepest depression, even now, by simply talking crap. I love that skip I felt for a second before complete rage when I was told he missed me. I love that he made me so happy for longer than I thought it possible for me to be happy with five men never mind one. And I love that I was with him even though everyone else was unsure, because it meant that I was with him simply for me and because I felt he was right for me.

But I’ve grown up. Not a lot I’ll admit if I’m resorting to telling people I’m becoming a nun rather than facing them off like I should. But the nun thing is just filler. I’m in Germany, I’ve got results to look forward to, and I’ve got a book on a deadline and I haven’t written it yet. I will face him off, but not until I arrive home, unpack, see all my friends and family, and get very very drunk. And THEN I will see him. When sober of course.

Now all I need to do is work out how to stop spending money. I bought four pairs of sunglasses today. Four! Who knew how addictive it could be to shop?

Labels: Introspection, Theatrics

I’m being a very bad blogger at the minute.

It’s just, what with uploading the hundreds of photos I’ve got, and emailing people, and being miserable, and NOT starting smoking… Well, you know, I’ve got a lot on my plate.

But, I’ll endeavor to be my usual free-loading self and tell you all whassup in my life at the minute. Take a seat, this may take a while.

The first, and probably least, of my problems (though the one I am experiencing most right now) is the fact that a few moments ago, I came to the conclusion that I strongly resemble a guinea pig. It’s the teeth. For some reason they just stick out that little too much over my lower lip in a few (okay, one) of the photos I’ve been uploading for relatives/ friends to see how I’m doing in picturesque Deutschland at the moment. I find this greatly disturbing. What if as I get older, they stick out more and more in an exponential growth that finally ends with me looking buck-toothed and ugly? I’ll look like a rabbit.

Slightly more stressful is the fact that on Thursday it is Results Day. Very worrying. I’ve been getting nightmares and flashbacks to the exams. Remembered answers I KNOW I got wrong, etc. And also glimpses of myself asleep before the exam, revision guide pasted to my face, clock sitting beside me saying things like one pm, eleven am, six in the evening, times I should be revising. Or worse, sitting in front of the computer playing with blog templates, or hours on the phone fighting with friends (and friend’s mothers) about bitch fights and well, rumors that while unfair, I can sort of derive some pleasure from considering subsequent events.

I hate exams. Truly. But these I really fucked up in. Call it laziness, call it alcoholism, call it depression, all were factors. And on Thursday I receive a lovely phone call at nine thirty in the morning telling me the exact fruits of my labour. I won’t be reaping a huge harvest this year I can tell you.

Lastly, though not least, is the fact that I return home in a few weeks, and have made a decision that while not bad, is going to cause me problems. You remember a while ago I made reference to a conversation with the ex? If you don’t, you can find it here.

Actually, you know. I don’t even want to talk about what I make of it all. Let’s just get down the facts:

• He misses me. Apparently.
• I miss him. But you already knew that.
• We’re talking a reasonable amount, though a lot less so at the minute as I was trying to be mature and finish whatever might have been or might still be before I go home.
• He wants to see me.
• I feel like I have to see him just to get things sorted out in my own head.

It’s stupid. I know it is. He’s not allowed to miss me. That doesn’t fit with my views of our relationship, or his reasons for wanting to see me again. I just don’t have room for it in my head or something, it isn’t right. It can’t be. But then, what’s going on??

And ignoring that, assuming that he really does miss me, and that I’m not being lied to and having mind games played with me. What do I want? Do I want him to miss me? Do I want him back? How would that even work? I mean, Christ, it just wouldn’t.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. This isn’t allowed to be right. I don’t have enough brain cells anymore. I don’t want to get hurt again. And I don’t even want revenge. I don’t want to see him so I can tramp on him, I don’t know what I want. And what does it matter? I’m well and truly fucked.

Why am I still doing this??

Labels: Theatrics

At approximately five o clock this evening (four pm GMT), I broke the nail on the thumb of my left hand. To my general irritation and displeasure, it conspired that the nail had not broken off entirely; it had merely broken half way and given up. This gave me the ever fickle gift of hope. Those who know me will probably not think about my nails at all. They're there on the end of my fingers, so what? Well, I don't take great care of my nails in the French manicure and endless stress over the state of my cuticles sense of the word, but I do keep them a pleasant length (approximately five millimeters, but who's counting?) and take some pride in the fact that for minimum care I have pretty good, even, and reasonably clean nails. Thus, the breakage of said nail was pretty catastrophic.

Now, normally I'm a "cut off and cease the problem" kind of girl. But lately I've been taking a little more care over my appearance. I've spent a fair amount of cash and time to get this look (hours spent sunbathing, trips to hairdressers with the pram and praying to god that the kid doesn't wake up while I'm in there, bin bags full of cash on a new wardrobe, jewellery, and the most gorgeous pile of shoes I will ever come across) and I don't intend to fuck up my "actually gives a shit" look simply because of a hang nail. That’s right kids, I've become my sister.

So we started the operation for recovery. First to be tested was the nail bandage. A sweet and easy combination of a piece of weird white stuff that normally can be found under the hems in practically every piece of clothing, and nail glue. I was dubious. The bandage was cut to size, shape, and placed over the nail, but the glue was dried out and so the nail bandage solution was abandoned.

Secondly we went for professional nail acrylics. You take the acrylic on a paint brush then dip it into this tub of white powder until it forms a pearl, then apply to the nail. You paint it on until it forms a pearly film over the nail, and leave to dry. Once dried it must be filed and buffered to the right shine and distribution. Needless to say, it took me three attempts and most of it ended up on the table.

Finally, after filing and buffing the bloody thing until it looked like my nail had weird cross hatchings across it and was about as smooth as sandpaper, I gave up and painted all of my nails in pale pink varnish to hide the damage. Voila, one slightly lumpy thumb nail, but the nail was attached to my finger, and the acrylic was as solid as promised.

Or, at least, that’s what I thought. That’s what I thought right until I turned the computer on using my thumb and half the acrylic and nail varnish cracked right off, leaving a lumpy mess and a still very much broken nail. The moral of the story: cut your losses while you’re behind because nail kits are utter shite and no matter how much you care about something, unless you’re a professional it will all go wrong anyway.

Today on msn’s news was the following:
 Lebanese flee during battle pause
 WP: U.S. risks backlash in Mideast
 Olmert says no cease-fire
 U.N. warns Iran over nukes
 Oil spill on Russian export pipeline

Sort of makes me feel bad that I spent the entire evening worrying about a hang nail.

Labels: Theatrics

I never used to remember my dreams. Generally I told people that I simply didn't dream. Of course, I am pretty close to certain that that is physically impossible, but I never had anything to look back on when I woke up every morning. There wasn't even the remnants of a vaguely remembered piece of imagery, or the echo of something that somehow my waking brain just couldn't seem to grasp.

Recently, in the past three months or so, I have started to dream. More recently, my dreams have been so vivid that I've woken up and been convinced that the things that happened in my dreams actually occurred. Some of them are completely outrageous and I've known that of course they didn't really happen. For example, when I woke up after my dream that I was both Pierce Brosnan, and a boy I fell in love with in first school's mistresses (at the same time, it got quite complex for a while and was highly amusing), I was pretty sure that it hadn't happened. It sort of felt like it had, but only in the same way that you remember something as if it's your memory but is actually something you saw in a film or on TV. It can be a bit blurry and though you can visualise it, it sort of feels like you experienced it while wearing rubber gloves.

But some other dreams have been so vivid, so... I don't even know what the word is... real, that I've woken up and actually thought it had happened. I dreamt that I slept with one of my best friends (female) last week and my ex boyfriend walked in (eurgh, Freud would have fun with my dreams). It took me until lunch time to realise that it wasn't a real memory- it hadn't happened! It wasn't until I was putting the kids to sleep later that evening that the guilt of being a lesbian and being found out by him started to ease off. I'm not a lesbian, and have never until that dream had any sort of tendencies in that direction, but it was weird. It was also extremely disturbing. Don't get me wrong, she's a lovely girl and I do love her, but I just like men that little bit too much and women... well, erm... not so much.

And every single one of the dreams I remember has been completely fucked up. Last night I dreamt I joined the navy and had to shave all my hair off and I cried. The uniforms were awful too, and they made me eat porridge. I like porridge generally, as long as its made in a specific way and is served with molasses, but this stuff was the icky gruel from Oliver, not the way my grandma used to make it when I was a sprog. This fat girl that Stacey and I have hated since food lessons in year eleven was there, and so was the ex boyfriend (from above, featured in the lesbian nightmare too). It was all extremely wrong and I didn't enjoy it at all. Judging by the twenty minutes it took me to just work out how to untangle my duvet this morning (I'm not kidding, I'm not the best at making beds in general, but this morning I was really having problems) I really had a rough night. I must have been thrashing about in my sleep to get pillows down by my ankles and half of the sheet pushed right under the bed.

I don't know what it is. How could I go from no dreams to a horrifying number that I don't just vaguely remember, but still remember vividly (and somewhat disturbedly) weeks later? I don't have a clue how to stop them, where they're coming from, or how I even know how to be a lesbian. But I don't like it.

Labels: Introspection, Theatrics

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

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

The idea of me being pregnant is preposterous. Firstly because my recent celibacy means that of course I can’t be. And secondly because the idea of me being a mother is simply laughable. I wouldn’t trust me with a potted plant, never mind a developing child.

Of course, if it turns out that due to some weird biological fluke that I am, then I’ll just have to deal with it somehow. I’ll truly consider all the pros and cons of both abortion, and adoption. I’ll do some research, talk to a doctor, consult a psychiatrist. I’ll phone up and find out the privacy laws for adoptions these days, and I’ll talk to someone about benefits for single, unemployed mothers.

I’ll do everything I need to for me to make a logical, considered, decision. Then I’ll phone up UCAS and tell them I’m deferring entry to university for a year, then find out about day care for babies in Edinburgh. I already know that I would neither kill it nor give it away. If I have to have it then I’ll change Northumbria to my first choice of university, and live at home. It’s a lot to ask, but I have a hugely extended family and yes, they’d be put out, but no one is going to want to send one of ours off into some random person’s arms just because I’m an inept mother. I’ll go to uni, get a degree, get a job, and be a working single mother. I’m not exactly the first.

I’ll tell you now; this is frightening. But I work best under pressure. It’s the only time I work. But I already know it’s nearly impossible for me to be pregnant, so this is entirely hypothetical anyway. It’s barely worthy of consideration at all except that planning for every eventuality means that I won’t be unprepared.

And the father. Would I tell him? I don’t know. I guess that I would have to. It’s too small a community for me not to. But that’s only if I stick around here. Would I seriously consider just not telling him? Yes. Definitely. I’m not going to ask him for anything. What could he really give? He has many good points, and eventually he’ll make a wonderful father. But tying him to me in that way would cause him to hate me.

I disagree with the type of men who say a woman “got herself” pregnant. In 99% of cases that isn’t true. I can’t say all because occasionally a broody woman will stop taking birth control in order to become pregnant. I didn’t “get myself” pregnant, but I take responsibility for the child if it exists. As a partner I miss him, but neither of us are mature enough to look after a child, and I don’t wish to force him to try. With the right woman he’ll do great, but not with me. It doesn’t matter that I expect nothing; there will be a certain responsibility if I tell him. Whether he accepts it or not, it will still be there.

What’s the point? He’s as broke as me, he’s leaving, and I know I can cope. I have the means to survive, I have my family, and I know that whatever happens, we’ll both be fine. I may not have the future I planned for myself, and I’ll have to make a few sacrifices. But happiness is subjective. A child is worth more than whether or not I sell a novel or get into university. I’m already lucky and happy enough without that.

I don’t want to stop him from seeing his child. But I don’t want him to have regrets about us either. I think I just want to do what I always do: adapt, cope, and get on by myself.

Is that wrong?

Labels: Mistakes, Theatrics

I'm not pregnant. I know that it is physically impossible for me to be pregnant. I mean, I've put on a lot of weight, but that's normal for someone my age. If I was pregnant then I would have missed my period last month as well. I have absolutely nothing to worry about. It's just that I haven't looked at my calendar for a while, and when I looked at it today, well, I'm actually pretty late. Like really quite late. It was due on the twenty second. And normally my predictions are a day off. At most.

Normally I would say that it was probably me stressing that had caused it to be weird. But I haven't stressed. I forgot about it entirely. And I'm not really that stressed with anything else either. I'm scairily unstressed considering that I'm going to Germany in a month and have my exams in three days time. The last few weeks I've been really relaxed. Though very hungry. I'm always hungry. Could that cause me to miss it? Putting on weight? That would make sense. Probably.

I'd make a terrible mother. I can't be pregnant. I'd kill it. Or forget about it and leave it somewhere. Look at me! I'm referring to the kid as an "it". Though now that I try to stop calling it an it, I can't actually think of another name for it. Jesus, names. I'd have to name it, and feed it, and... well whatever else you do with kids other than yell at them and break your back carrying them around. I'm good with children, yeah, but I can't have one of my own! I'd get drunk and stand on it or something. In stillettos. That would really really hurt. This is not good.

What if I am pregnant? Beccy was six months gone before she realised because she kept getting her periods. She only found out about two weeks ago when she went to talk to the doctor about methods of contraception, they did a pregnancy test, and suddenly, "did you know you were pregnant?" It's possible. My period was pretty soon after we had sex, and it was actually really strange. And it lasted about two days, that's unusual even for me.

Right. I am not going to stress about this. If I am pregnant then I shall deal with it, but otherwise there is no point. I don't need to worry. It will all be because I have put on weight recently. The weight gain is not because there is an embryo developing inside me.

Aaaaaaaaagh! Horrible thought. Me and Dave as parents. Christ. A few months ago we actually made a list of all the resons why we should never have children together. We're immature. We don't agree about anything. We're both crazy alcoholic idiots. We didn't add that in sixteen days he's going off to the Navy, but then, at the time it wasn't sixteen days away. Not that it really matters. If we have a kid then it won't be "us" having it. It'll be me. I mean great, if he wants to have anything to do with it then fine, I'm not gonna keep the kid from seing it's daddy, (this is all under the assumption that the kid exists and is not just a figment of my hypochondria) but I'm not going to expect that either. We had a scare before. I wasn't this late last time actually, but whatever, I have never seen anyone go so white. He was freaked.

I haven't even talked to him since the start of last month. And then we were just fighting. What do I do? Randomly phone him out of the blue, "Hey, good luck with the Navy, try not to come back too camp, and by the way, you're going to be a father"? Nope. Not stressing remember? I've really got to get round to learning meditation or something. I'm sure I've made some kind of resolution to learn either yoga or meditation. That would really come in handy right now.

Okay. Breathing deeply. I need a mantra. "I am not pregnant, but if I am it will not ruin my life. It will be an asset and a gift." Are mantra's allowed to be longer than one sentence? And should I be repeating this while sitting cross-legged, or is it okay to be in a chair? Do I need to face the east and say a prayer too? Christ. Now I'm starting to worry about whether or not I'm highly strung. It would seem so from this, but is it really something I should be worrying about when potentially there is a mini-me growing in my womb? I don't think so. I've really got to get a grip.

I could always get an abortion. Though killing my first-born before it's even born seems slightly too Old Testament, and the reason I'm a vegetarian is because I'm against killing. I can't kill my own kid! I may already be convinced it's going to turn into a whiny brat that will probably get taken away by the social services, but even a crappy life with me as a mother has to be better than simply not existing. I don't think my parenting skills will be that bad. I hope.

I don't want to be pregnant. I want to be eighteen, about to go to uni, and single. I don't want to be stuck with a blood tie to the ex that made me cry, and I really don't want to have to look after a munchkin on top of trying not to be kicked out of uni. I'd never be able to go out. I can't afford a baby never mind a baby sitter.

Damn. I'm going to go and either cry, or find a book on meditation. Maybe both.

Labels: Theatrics

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

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

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

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

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

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

Labels: Alcoholism, Being the Duck, Courting, Theatrics