anglo-centric

my worldview is very narrow.



create your own visited country map

for fucks sake. you fucking mother fucking cunt. i hate you and hope you die a bloody horrible death. involving rabies and lacerations.

i have officially lost everything i have ever written on diary-x. 5 years of every honest confession and tiny dream and things i would never say outloud but needed to vent. its all my memories stored up since i couldnt hold them in my head. it is my first scotland. it was my seetha. it was my parent-proof daydreams and first dirty lesbian confessions. it was me.

i feel amputated.

i miss my sister more now because i cant hear her in monochromatic pinks at the click of a button anymore.

i miss my first forays into html.

i miss my most raw voice.

i miss me.

the cosmic horn

so i have a new favourite book. seriously. i know teen girl chick lit should be below mention, but jesus these are probably the funniest books i have ever read.

it's all bridget jones diary-esque, but a million times better and funnier because it's all the madness and cruel humour of first time confusion on all the subjects dear to romcom novels. seriously. the wisdomosity of the snog-o-meter has found its way into my daily texts.

i bring this up, as i will probably drop into Georgia dialect and you, my dear readers, won't have a clue what merde i am looning on about. (see? exactamente.)

so, the important things to know:

the specific horn - when your eyes and hormones are for your one and only Sex God
the general horn - when you have various and multiple horn inducers
the cosmic horn - when anything that moves seems like fair game.

also, red-bottomosity. as in female baboons get all ruddy in the nuddy-pants department when they are ready and willing and although more metaphorical, still a dilema of highest proportions in my mad mad world.

so my point is i totally have the cosmic horn and my redbottomosity has reached mass proportions.



i went home with a guy i used to work with last night.

a guy i have always found a bit of a laugh, who's twinkly blue eyes and irish lilt i decided ought to be mine for the night. i expressed this by grabbing his lapels and pulling him to me for a massive snog at the taxi rank.

in the morning we had a bit of a chat, a cup of tea, and absolutely no funny business. i like it clear cut, though in my hang over i did wish for a bit more of a cuddle.

i am beginning to worry about my levels of redbottomosity though. i was so full of the horn i gave little care to the fact that
1 - i was on my period
2 - i hadn't shaved in a week
3 - i had already had sex with a stranger this week.
4 - we ended up out in the end just he, me, and a co-worker i had already made out with previously

as to #1, i neglected to mention it until it was quite crucial. quite rude of me actually. i sort of feel bad. so no, we didn't have sex. i guess i have to amend the snog-o-meter. I'll say it was a 9.75 - lower body fondling in bed and somebody came.

#2 is only slightly embarassing, but is eclipsed by the fact i am sure i woke the whole bloody flat without thinking.

#3 speaks for itself and

#4 i made no effort to hide my intentions for the sake of propriety. i am the office whore.

my cup of hormones overfloweth. i am steeped in horn. it's kind of fantastic.

o henry

and no, i don't mean the great american aesop.

or my perfect hoover:







long story short, hot scot randomly showed last night. what was a book launch became a pub crowd, a late night crew, and him staying at my flat (no, i didn't sleep with him).

i completely cold shouldered him early on and true to form, he spent all night showering me with compliments and private conversation.

granted, the man makes love to whole rooms of people in one go - but it's still nice to hear how amazing you are, even from a cad. i continued to be sarcastic without malice and my own brand of geeky-sexy which certainly amused. made for a fabulous evening.

i've written this about 4 times now - denying myself gushing girly bullshit i only half mean but want to wallow in.

i think it can be summed up in two exchanges:

1 - i let him stay over. on the sofa in my room, not the one in the living room. he watched me get undressed. i didn't mind.

2 - he turned to me at the bar and said "you are so fun to be with". i replied "one is not fun alone".

a vague reference only the most pathetic austenite will catch - an exchange mimicking fanny and henry crawford at the mansfield ball in the film, but dont get me started on that.

but still, i find my dearest rake a most apt comparison. a cad, a player, a violent flirt, but when all is said and done, there is still a softness that will never induce to matrimony but denies any definitive rejection. we may yet be great dancing partners and card players, so long as neither fancies themselves in love.

birthday

perhaps in recompense, or maybe to balance the debauchery of the celebrations so far, i have had a perfectly tame, G-rated day (lest you be afeared of declarations like those below dear reader).

well, unless you count a fahion faux pas as equally taboo and risque. kitted out in white lace skirt months after labor day, with an ashes of roses cardigan - that name probably being the only thing I got out of the Thornbirds - it has rhinstone flower buttons (eat your heart out jennie) with pink tweed heels to match, i set off to Glasgow, with teal handbag to hold the shoe-induced cab fare.

an hour on the train in the moorish lowlands dropped me in the depths of urban glasgow. a jaunt through a shopping haven and I was off to the Winter Gardens - the conservatory attached to the Peoples Palace on the Glasgow Green (yes they actually name shit like that).

A trio of violin, harp and flute serenaded my tropical cafe lunch, and then continued peeping though the palm trees as i read a book on Austen Mandy gave me for my birthday, perched on a bench hidden among the flora.

A wander through the palace, then a tour guide cabbie, and now I am home. Tranquil, rested, and inspired to begin Persuasion for the third time in my life. Perhaps I am old enough now to not be bored by quietude and lost love.




Or perhaps I still dream of romance, even if i'll 69 a stranger.

observations amidst the aftermath

it's a (relatively) sunny morning and i'm taking this opportunity to go over the last twelve hours - as always, in list form

a, carmen sandiego is fucking sexy. best present ever.

b, a birthday party in your mid-twenties is two things - amazingly fun as you are old enough to enjoy it without worry, and offensively depressing. i cannot count the number of vague male aquaintences and friends of friends who showed, obviously keen, thinking a birthday girl is desperate to get laid. although assuming post-party sex is by no means a bad idea, deigning the sad lonely single girl a one nighter just because she is easy is sad, rude, and cruel. i won't deny the attention was flattering and the amount of choice intriguing, but come on lads - i'm not laying it out there just because i feel old.

c, that said, i didn't even ask his name and said i was meeting someone for brunch to get him out the door this morning. i did however give him my number after his convoluted attempts. it was the least i could do.

d, can you accidentally have anal sex?

e, never do birthday shots of whiskey after a whole pitcher of margaritas (i love my new blender). well, go ahead, but dont be surprised to find bloody mary mix in the carpet, buffy in the dvd player, and a cigarette stubbed out on your copy of cunt after - could my friends be any weirder?.

f, always wait until the guests have left to initiate party sex - or at least remove their coats from your room so they stop interrupting.

g, birthday cards are best when they have superhero cartoons blazened with "atomic babe" on them. especially when signed with enigmatic (which is really just poncy british boy - i kid myself) "happy birthday my love!" from ugly sexy.

h, having popped my rectal cherry, i am having gaseous troubles today. or maybe that's the "lamb and mint" flavoured crisps talking.

i, sonja made me a mobile. it's lovely.

j, corsets should be everyday apparell

k, i am so glad homemade soup is in my future, i have on my favourite cardy, and i still have a whole day of birthday ahead of me.

i am le tired.

no, not just regular type. french apocalyptic type.






i love that in my world (namely that which my brother has forced upon me until i consider it normal) internet-cartoon references are a legitimate mode of dialog.

"a pox on that shit"

it's official ladies and gentlemen (actually, are there any out there who read this? a world of no.).

spring fever is upon us.

i am getting the sexy red fedora as my pressie from leslie tomorrow and will totally be curling my hair, which i dont think i have done since sadie hawkins senior year. it is going to kick so much ass.

and i am not even all that bothered ugly sexy can't come (though he seemed quite disappointed) as i have found out he is a serial monogomist. nix. a pox on that shit.

i digress. through a promotional scotland tourism thing, i have been sent this. I am partial to the buffalo farmer i think only because that is ridculous.

the manhunt has begun in the wilds of scotland. may i be debauched in the bracken as soon as it thaws.

itemization

a. i miss d-x. where else can i whinge about damp tights and rave about croci and know my mom will write me a sweet note about it later? wow that's pathetic.

b. two days in a row now i have been caught in the blistering sheets of icy death known as spring showers. if i am sick for my party so help me god, someone will die. probably me. from mixing pnemonia and gin.

c. my party requires every guest wear a hat, crown or headress of their choosing. today i went shopping for my hat. it's down to a lace-veiled wide brimmed sunhat ala scarlett o'hara (though i won't be adding the killer 50s prom dress i found with it at the vintage place) or red fedora with tipped brim. it is like Else on the runway meets Carmen Sandiego. Sounds like I am leaning towards the fedora. Sexy is always better. And when satin corsets can be a legitimate addition, this party is going to rock.

d. i made homemade chicken pot pie. but made the crust too thin and it sank into the filling. now its more like dumplings. yummy ugly dumplings.

e. i am wearing my sweet 16 pearls. the year of social death. the year of my first kiss and RB (thank god not together) and the infamous Molly. the year between Purv and Olstad. the year of HOBY. the year i realized what i was wearing and cried. the year i left Okemos behind. birthdays are fucking weird man.

f. for once in all my remembered past, i don't want sex for my birthday. well, not first and only sex. is it ironic it is the first birthday i am not a virgin?

oh hosting or, the bain of my virtual literary existance

although full blown panic is unnecessary, i am slightly worried about d-x.

a massive server failure has introduced the possiblity all of ranting, raving, amusing asides, and tragic confessions i've done in various places, but always off the same system, may be unrecoverable.

we are talking almost 5 years of my life, and if you hadn't yet assumed as such, they have been, shall we say, prolific. (and full of egregious grammatical faux pas like the above)

i would most certainly survive. but i would be sad.

if for no other reason the tentative book deal would be a moot point without the files. i really should be better about these things.

things about this morning:

1. i think i am sick. i was interrupted from a johnny-depp-seducing-me-through-dance dream to blow my nose. utter humiliation and disappointment. the last thing i want on the sexgod while 6-ing (oh the Georgia snog-o-meter is brilliant) is snot. this fear must have been pretty hard core, as upon returning to sleep he was a terrible kisser. my subconcious has vile retribution.

2. last night i stayed in to finish a post-bath book, curled up in front of the fire with candles lit. it was of course an oscar-winner of young adult fiction. i was curled on the floor weeping most of the night and went through a whole box of kleenex. my eyes are still puffy.

3. in an effort to feel better both physically and mentally, i am wearing a slip with an embroidered hem and ribbon belt with ballet slippers about the house. it's helping more than you would think

it's 2am on a friday night. i crawl in from a long week of work, completely stoned.

as a considerate and not completely devoid of sense flatmate, is now the time to ask me about our council tax bill, bewail your non-boyfriend "i just want to be mates" bullshit, and whinge about your twentysomething ennui?

do i care that we need toilet paper or if you talked to your mother on the phone?

fuck no.

i just ate a whole lavender cake and am trying to get to grips with my bobypins and the stench of grass in my hair before rising before dawn for work tomorrow.

leave me the fuck alone.

i hate women.

never say i didn't warn you

the fail safe romantic comedy i watch every few months in order to rectify the wrongs of the day, remember life is good, and restore my faith in humanity is secretary.

hypocrite

so perhaps no one ever pointed this out, or perhaps no one had the gaul to tell me. it is indeed even likely no one really cared enough to bother. - but i am an utter hypocrite.

here i am, months into a blog (god i hate that word. maddox was right.), started solely to comment on rutledge's because she had obnoxious alienating settings, and i've gone and done the same.

someone should really handle these kinds of things.

it is times like these i wish i had an assistant. or at least an attentive wife.

five furies of hatred and rage

top five things i hate right now:

1 - the groady hair in my bathtub so i cant take a bath. if leslie says she'll handle cleaning the fucking bathroom, i shouldnt have to worry about leg hair on my ass. stupid cunt.

2 - my method of dating. i have recently discovered i completely suck at this. my pinoeered method seemed so perfect, so brilliant, so novel.

i insisted from now on i would get to know them before shedding our clothes, thus negating my tendancy to run when intimate, since i will have built up trust caches in advance. i would be an adult about these things. i would not fuck strangers (anymore) or blow off those who are deserving (once i figure out who they are).

but no, this only lets me get to know amazing men who then so easily slide from safe lunch date to fabulous fallback plan while i am busy blinking. while my jury is still out, holding back put me in the "friends" camp too early. my rolex is fucking fantastic, but my bed is still empty. fucking hell, who knew trying to have a normal social life would be so ridiculously hard?

3 - how my joints always crack in the cold. and not that cathardic, tension relieving way, but that horrible old lady "oh god i need a wheelchair" way.

4 - i still dont have a visa.

5 - sometimes my job is utter bullshit and sometimes it is the most amazing thing i think i have ever done. i thought i was manic-depressive before, but it's giving me a complex.

6 - i know, i know. but if the girls upstairs insist of blasting "push it" on a sunday evening they fucking deserve to be on this list.


i feel much better. not.

and now i feel dirty for having used an outdated sarcasm catch phrase.