i haven't written because mostly i haven't anything to say.

work is utter hell, but then i am actually actively applying for others, so it seems silly to moan on about it.

festival season is gearing up but i am too tired, poor, and hormonal to book any tickets.

and the general nebulous discontent with this deadend life seems to really just be a gap year gone on too long and no plan for a legitimage future.

not to mention i am so incredibly horny it's hard to see straight.

so yeah, i am walking around in a distracted daze hoping by some miracle to wake up with a better knee (so i can wear cute shoes again), a better job (so i can afford them) and a better (or arguably any) man (so i can have wild raucous sex very very often).

yeah i know. it's not like we are together. not really. not when it counts. he may bring me flowers, ask me to meet his mother and pet my head, but when the chips are down, i'm still not getting laid.

but i am so starved (and we are so weird) a goodnight kiss turned into a sleepless frustrated night and scratches he still bore the next day. i am equal parts embarassed, unsatisfied, and pure lust.

it's sick. it makes no sense (jesus ask jennie. what am i doing?). and part of me really has to ask, what the fuck is he waiting for? he must seriously be asexual if the vixen in heat still gets nothing. i give up. and worst, i just don't get why he wouldn't want me. he is obviously retarded. and i can't take it.

i want sex. now. and for the forseeable future. at my beck and call. until it hurts to move. is that so much to ask?

looks like i need to get a move on.

death of a dream

so, i am not ashamed to admit i love shitty blockbuster heist flicks. anytime, anywhere, i'll watch slick bastards damn the man and possibly wield naughty weapons.

so in a day of nostalgia and joy, i slipped in Mission Impossible for the first time in years. A mainstay of my video collection, and an early member of my adoration of all things espionagy.

fair enough the make-up is dated, the technology looks archaic, and the soundtrack gimicky. these are the small things one must forgive - like with Sneakers or Charade.

but i cannot get over what the last year or two has done to tom cruise.

i used to see that wild enthusiastic look in his eye and think "gosh, it's so crazy it just might work! you clever bastard." (and want to name my sons ethan hunt) and now i see it and think "that man possibly ate placenta and believes aliens came to earth. you psycho fucker." (and want to never see that manic look again).

it is truly scarring.

invalid

i am not a necessarily active person. in fact i often am the human embodiment of lethargy and sloth (my second favourite sin).

i can do a pride and prejudice marathon without batting an eye, and often without even switching positions. a day off, more often than not, is pretty much 8 solid hours of silent sitting and reading. one of my best talents is forming nests (not unlike the home of the mad sleeping demon) from any available textiles and nestling for days on end.

but enforced rest is climbing the charts of tortures i cannot endure.

the second i am required to sit, unable to move, restricted from action, i seriously freak out. i feel caged. panic sets in. i am restless and lonely and regularly crave active hobbies i wouldnt dream of attempting when at my full capacity.

it is claustrophobic, this lack of mobility. i have never wanted to run or scream more.

i am trapped. teathered. arrested.

i remember when i was on swim team, we would have a taper in training before league meet. everyday would be easier until i swear to god we floated around for half an hour and then got sent home. my body was used to swimming at least 5 miles a day. That friday, at my grandmas house, I went for a walk on her treadmill to stretch my restless joints while she sat on the adjecent bed and we chatted. Before I realized it, I had run 3 and a half miles and had barely lost my breath.

I just needed to get it out of my system. I never ran that far again.



tuesday i could limp. wednesday i could walk short distances with only a slight wimper. so by friday i thought i could have an easy day at work. by lunch i was sent home for hobbling.

i think i am the first person to ever go to work out of boredom - and fail.

so now i am back on my sofa, determined to have a full day of recovery so i can get the hell out of here tomorrow.

it's slowly killing me, but i am determined to try. i have gathered comforts around me and take yoga breaths everytime i think about the fact i cant even get to my backyard (megan, the fear of paralysis is becoming all too real).

and part of me wonders if i could keep this active energy when not propped up by pillows and antinflamatories, would i? i think a world of yes. from the retrospect view of the sofa, it's a shame i waste so much time lolling about. i cant afford to waste my good(ish) health only to feel like this in my decrepit rag of a body for years to follow.

it's sickening. the only time i am halfway inspired to contemplate excersize is when i am physically incapable of doing it. that's irony for you. welcome to my life.

stories

my new friends (aka the ones who met me in a professional capacity and have not yet (or at least rarely) been exposed to my drunken lunacy, vixenish mania, or general idiotic frivolity outside the office) have begun remarking with regular frequency how all my stories are weird, ridiculous, and sometimes frightening.

fair enough, the hole in the picture of my brain i don't remember getting because my sister hit me on the head with a hammer is weird.

or the dog running away from the boy in the bodycast and the lady with no memory not knowing how to pick him up, so calling her high school best friend's mom (the only phone number she remembers) can be uncomfortable (but very funny).

the time andy got drunk and complained how drew got laid more than him is a good one too, but only when one explains the entire andy-andy height comedy value.

or when bridget and i smuggled greasy mozzerella sticks in to see the hours under my shirt and i burned my stomach. that's classy.

soon Cruella (her heavy make up runs when her eyes water. a lot.), the psycho flatmate who hates me for kicking her out (she took it kind of personally), and slept with all my friends, will be in regular rotation too, but not til she actually leaves.

even small everyday occurances like how the special ed kid proposed to me in the lunch line everyday for a year or i broke my arm playing gym class soccer and my teacher didnt believe me or even just the fact i used to be a butterfly swimmer gets a chuckle. these are now hilarious anecdotes well and truly out of the scope of these tame british people. i am like a sitcom without the studio audience.

i was mostly amused at my novelty act, that any awkward pub conversation or bad encounter can be salvaged by a sara-story is a handy weapon when one knows mostly tools.

i was getting used to idea that i was just a better storyteller than i used to be, and the fact that i laugh through most of the horrific and sometimes gory memories of my childhood and beyond i thought was a step forward from the cowering and crying that occupied my early years.

julie once said (i think i was in the midst of the broke-the-arm-falling-off-the-vaccuum-cleaner story) "don't you have any normal stories?".

i don't think i do, and i am totally okay with that. at first i thought maybe this was just my schtick, but turns out i was wrong.

jennie came last weekend. and she told the bat story and mentioned both the time i passed out and threw up jungle juice in our dorm and the time she puked on our kitchen floor. in fact we did a lot of reminiscing and at our picnic i missed my lady death strike nails a lot.

and it could have been julie again, but i don't remember, anyway someone said "god, don't your friends have any normal stories about you either?".

and then i got a letter from my brother. a real hand written ledgible letter (i know. i got all weepy happy) and the whole first page was a story about how mom was excited to see the strangers with candy movie and the only interview with amy sedaris was in playboy, so she bought it. not only bought it, bought it from the 7-11 at jolly and okemos so now the kid behind the counter (who tom went to school with) gives him the shifty eye all the time because he knows our mom buys porn.

and although this is a very funny story, especially if you know mom, it made me realize the storytelling isn't just my thing. it's how we all are. it's how everyone at home i know is and is possibly one of the things i miss most.

maybe it's my secret password, this ability to have ridiculous embarassing things happen and then laugh about it later. lord knows no one would survive with me very long if they couldn't laugh at kate's double broken feet or being cast as the lover of your arch-nemesis in the school play. (especially that time my skirt fell down in the school talent show). i break, ruin, or screw up a lot. and it's funny.

lordy, if jennie hadn't been amused or at least tolerant of my destroying the car, being convinced we were going to be raped in a cornfield, and positive obsession with fazolis within the first 24hours of our roadtrip, i don't think we'd be friends. but she did. and we are. and i am glad.

anyway, you may wonder (if you are still reading) why i am ranting on and on about stories and screw ups and silliness.

because, yet again, i have done it.

i am bedridden.

last night i helped liam move - from one 5th floor flat to another - and all the stairs and heavy boxes were too much for my knee. my patella tendon is so seized up i can't move my leg without grating pain not unlike the staples that used to hold it together. and i had to call into work because i could not stand up this morning. seriously. no good deed goes unpunished indeed.

so here i am, stuck in bed, writing an email to my boss since i cant reach the phone, and all i can think is, she will so not appreciate the hilarity here within.

ready for something

i didn't know you could be overwhelmed by nothing.

nothing has changed here. same job, same glorious weather, same stupid boy making stupid mess i don't want or need. same missing my sister, same joy at having had visitors, same flatmate drama (well not exactly the same. she's taken it to a whole new level of 7th grade passive aggressive. but its the same story with the same ending.) same humous picnic lunches and freckles on my nose.

and somehow, every flicker of movement, every glance, every everything seems heavy and burdensome. and my brain, already overactive to the point of dangerous (have you seen the brainscan?), is in overdrive. i am pretty sure cartoon steam is about to come out my ears. my spidey-senses are tingling at the slightest twinge of anything and it's highly distracting.

perhaps what i need is a little distraction. today's line-up: superman-stormbreaker double bill, and a manuscript copy of the new artemis fowl. nothing feels better than a little comicbook action and teen fantasy to lighten the load.

hatched

lauren has inspired me. of course i shamefully eat up any likeness to celebrity hoping it'll shed light on what i look like as no two cameras, mirrors or pairs of eyes seem to agree. and my unending fascination with celebrity whoredom always helps.

so, in the lazy summer sunlight i started recalling all the past ingenues and vixens i've resembled or replayed.

1 - Anna Chulmsky (in My Girl). I think perhaps the neurotic conotrolling pre-teen image may have had something to do with it as much as a nose i've still barely grown into, as this was from the nanny who insists i almost killed her baby.

2 - Claire Danes. I'm pretty sure we're talking My So-Called Life here which is also fittingly neurotic and angsty with the uber-nose. One thing I am sure of, it was before her Mod Squad makeover when she lost all that weight. I am still the proud owner of that round Iowa face and the tits she forsook for Hollywood.

3 - Kate Winslet. Again, I am pretty sure the curvy women of Hollywood (in this case with both the nose and shocking eyebrows of my high school years) are called into play mostly because i am not nor ever will be waifish. that said, this was back when she was famous for empire waisted dresses and swooning.

4 - Kathy Ireland. My bunk buddy at camp likened me to a super model junior year. I was new to mascara and the perfected 90s side part of messy sexy glory (well, as much so as any 16 year old had the right to have. too bad I was almost a decade behind). I still wonder if she was hitting on me as no one looks that good in the blue lake polo.

5 - young Brooke Shields (no I don't believe in island incest). A brunch-friend who I barely know mentioned the other day, but as she was fucking hot (and this was before the disaster of a sitcom, the baby drama, or the cocaine), I'll take it. Though, I was just off a holiday tan and glowing from retail therapy, brownie kebabs and gossip. A good mood makes anyone more attractive. Unless of course you are one of those broody sexy men i find myself messily attracted to who are usually a disappointment when they finally smile.

6 - and now Kathleen Turner. And I'll take Joan Wilder with her 80s hair and Michael Douglas in white pants so long as no one mentions The Graduate or Baby Geniuses and I get Jessica Rabbit's legs. Christ, in the white dress from BodyHeat, I'd do her.

So I think we can all say I have grown here. In everything but sense (and especially vanity).

But all in all, I think we are headed in the right direction (and yes jennie, that is away from cable knits and plaid, too tight cut up tshirts, paisley velvet pants, and various other disasters of my previous incarnations. i shudder at the thought and blame all of you for not talking me out of these things but waiting for me to realize and relive the embarassment for years to come.).

but hallelujah. the duckling has sprouted. or at least stopped molting.

persephones poison (and other trivial bits)

there are many things to be said. but i seem to constantly be out of words and lost for breath. too little time.

but one, i am wishing all the best for my sister
two, i am in a calm(ish) place. the panic has left and i am ready to try now. i get so seized up with doubt and worry i forget to be me. and there is no point in beating myself up over it, just let it go. try again. i am worth more than this.
three, jennie will be here in roughly 10 hours. i must sleep and prepare myself for mania and fun (i just hope she isnt shocked i havent cleaned.). life is on hold for a reunion - and my secret patented daquiris (hint: there are pomogranates involved)

i am entirely zen. or as close as anyone in a week long stretch of insomniatic bleeding can be i guess.

there is a clarity in the incredibly ludicrous. when you have to distance yourself from the decent into madness for lack of other options. when suddenly you breathe in, blink or otherwise change nothing at all and in that moment see how superfulous its all been. and just laugh.

its a good feeling, this free fall.

and it allows me a minute of quiet - a moment of absolute thoughtlessness.

when you dive in a freezing cold pool and the shock of it overwhelms. when nothing exists but the cold, that's one thing. but when you resurface to the balmy air and suddenly your skin feels alive again, you feel connected. when there is nothing but the whisper of life over every inch of you and there is nothing else but that warmth.

i ain't no fucking dolly parton

i have officially become a working girl. no, i don't mean a lady of the night, though at this rate it has it's appeal. more the melanie griffith type - except less hairspray and harrison ford.

i come home from work, put on sweats, crack a beer and look forward to nothing more than emotional masturbation and the possibility of a bath if i can be bothered, which is unlikely. it's the opening of a pathetic girl movie in technicolor glory. cue carol king or kate bush or some shit.

to be fair though, i drink hoegaarden and have sexy hair today, which is better than girls like this usually do.

let us hope that is a sign this a temporary phase. that someday soon i will look back and laugh at my 9 to 5 heel wearing grin and bear it life. that someday i will do better than this. be better than this.

night of the living hedgehog (an ode to gameshows gone by)

so once upon a time, i lived with lauren. when she didn't hate me for filling the kitchen with ants or forgetting to pay the phone bill, it was really really great. especially when she could get drunk off 2 sminrnoff ices or indulge ourselves in flavo-ice and temptation island 2. or that time she needed help to band-aid over her nipples because her dress was too low for a bra and lord knows she wasn't going to nip out.

but all good things have a price, and hers was the random medical scares. (though, this is not the time for the insulin scare story where we went to the hosiptal in the middle of the night and i watched "aliens in the wild wild west" on disney only to run into a friend who got a broken beer bottle in the face while watching a child throw up in the waiting room. that's a different time.)

but once, when the pump was still newish lauren had to stay awake until her bloodsugar chilled the fuck out.

i don't remember what happened or why. what time of year it was. or what inspired us to watch TBS, back when it had just nixed it's "superstation" logo. But curled in our basement hell hole cubby; lauren, bridget and i wiled away the hours with old school Family Feud.

oh yes, it was the night of crazy grandma.

Now, I am not a huge family feud fan. But years of gameshow network with the girl had taught me to find Richard funny rather than pathetic and the retro-ness (sidenote: can you have a word that is only prefix-suffix without any actual content? is this postmodern lingusitics now?) of it all had it's charm. I still of course refused to watch the ones with Al from Home Improvement (except that time there was the Stars on Ice face-off. that was amazing.) and if anyone thinks Louie Anderson should still be alive, stop reading now.

Anyway, it was 3am. And it was old school family feud with the "ooh cheek or mouth Richard?" suspense and this tiny mad woman became my hero.

I wish I remembered more of it (It is times like these I miss diary-x for having lost all such carefully recorded memories I wrote down expressly so I wouldn't have to store them in my brain any longer), but her best two were:

question: Name a favourite pet
answer: hedgehog

question: Name someone you would leave your keys with
answer: mailbox
Richard notes this is not a person and gives her a rare, possibly unprecedented, do-over while trying not to fall over in gin-soaked, coconut-oiled laughter
new answer: mailman
she may have hastened to change this to "stranger" or I may have added that in later for effect. I have a tendency to do that.

Anyway, I wish I remembered more of that night. For all the drama of lauren's brushes with sugar-less death, it did make for some good times.

And I thought of it today because I found this. A pale comparison, but a fresh reminder of those classic gameshow days gone by.

worthy

i had always believed, or rather, hoped, adulthood would come with some degree of self awarness and possession.

i find i was yet again desperately wrong.

of course i also used to believe i would only have one overpowering feeling at a time.

today i find i am entirely tranquil, pleasant even, after a morning at the van gogh premiere at the dean and a lazy afternoon nap.

but neither of these glorious things has negated or even balanced my thick black anger-disappointment double header. It is unreasonable I can care so much when the last thing in the world I want is this unbridled attachment. It is unfair. It is bullshit. I want out.

I want to believe me.

death of the bookseller?

it is 18:18.

i am still at work.

it is my first day back.

i need a new job.

that said, i am killing time until a book dinner where i am contemplating getting ridiculously drunk on free wine and possibly making enough of a fool of myself to bar me from the publishing world forever.

if that isn't passive aggressive masochism i don't know what is.

addendum:

so after the ranting (and a furious email to my mother), i calmly cleaned my room, made my bed, and proceeded to get directly back in it for a do over. i read a little, napped a little, thought a little, and got up a few hours later ready to begin again.

and it ended up okay. i ran my errands, visited my favourite graveyard, did the ironing, and now have taken a nice long bath.

and things are okay.

perhaps jean grey wasn't a total cunt

didn't you ever wonder if the phoenix was really jean grey just snapped? she was sick of the fake and the wimpy and the dictation and the lame sweetness and just fucking flipped and went on a rampage? that the whole suspended animation thing was just a flimsy cover up?

because scott wouldnt put out and the professor wouldnt let her use cerebro and the team shunted her to recon and research. that she fainted at every breath and constantly had to fend off logan. that 20 years in that school and she was still just an assistant. that she had to wear nude colored cargo pants. i'd have done more than a poorly executed apocalypse, that's for sure.

today it feels like that.

like the well of frustration is running over and this tub of me has no overflow drain.

i feel in a rage. or rather, like in the very near future i soon will be.

granted, part of this will be it is the morning of my last day of vacation and i have done absolutely nothing. and part of me is still a whinging toddler who hates the end of things.

but it is seriously more than that.

i bit liam saturday. hard. he was mad at me for something i hadnt done and stormed out of a party. i left soon after in a drunken rage of disappointment and libido. i ran into him on the street, my mind too fuzzy to know if it was on purpose. i didnt have words. i had what equates to pg angry sex. standing on a street corner. hot and fast and rushing and a little bit violent. i felt caged. and it felt great. and if fucking scares me.

sometimes he is so terribly frustrating. harsh. cruel. cold. and most the time i am yoga-goddess weatherer of storms. but every once in a while he gets in and tears me apart and i flood like the hoover dam. and it makes me hate both of us. and i dont know which frightens me more; that we got ourselves here or that when the chips are down and i've lost control, i hurt him.

it also doesnt help i was in a mood that whole night because it was phils goodbye party.

and for all our mess and his silliness and everything we have ever screwed up between us, he was so easy. to be with and not be judged or used or feel compelled to talk. he was a guy in the very best of ways and i will miss him.

plus, he gave me his return of the jedi pillowcase. i have no words for how much this means to me. he has had it since 1983. it was always the one i used. on drunk nights when i crashed on the sofa. on the infamous walk of shame morning i was too hungover to go home and lay around his all day, grateful he didnt ask. as a seat cushion for arrested development marathons. my arm rest for blue jays games. my pillow that one night we "napped". and he gave it to me. he was always a sentimental guy. and now it sits on my chair, and i dont have the heart to use it.

and of course there should have been a party to see him off. he always complained he had no friends but me and jack. and truth be told it was sarah's friends and my co-workers and random neighbors. girls he'd slept with and pub aquaintences. the party went on for hours after i waved goodbye to the taxi. but a little piece of me wanted to say goodbye to my boys - for jack took him to the airport - on my own. not with strangers passing a fag an armsbreath away and my own drama waiting for me upstairs. it felt rushed. cramped. amputated. and he was worth more than that. i hope he knows it.

sorry, i am just full on whinging now.

last night having to talk on the phone right before bed was horrible. which dont get me wrong, it can be lovely. but it can be so full of heavy silences and pregnant phrasology i rarely have the energy for much less sleepy hung over and lonely. plus, it is infinately worse when it is all just flippant chatter and errands i dont want to address from bed on a sunday. sometimes it only reminds me how far away you are. i know i am a freak about the phone, but it put me in a mood straight away today.

anyway, i should stop. cut myself off before i say something really horrid i dont even mean. just to feel it in my mouth. let me watch the dominoes fall. pick at the scabs and watch them bleed.

i am going to have breakfast and pay my council tax and play my violin and then i think take a bath. and hopefully this tar, this thick creeping bile, will be seeped away. gently excreeted from my every pore until my insides are clear again. i am clear again. i am clean.

moorish moods and lowland libido

this morning, i got up and went to the beach.

something i regularly contemplate as a bumpkin who craves wild space, but never actually do because in reality i am a lazy son of a bitch.

but, as i had the last 3 days off to work up the energy, today i went.

and it rained. sticky hot incesant drizzle.

the vaguely gothic and dead romantic scottish summer of a desolate beach in the fog will always leave my speechless. (and it didnt hurt the humidity was so high i came home with amazing and freakishly natural farrah fawcett hair.)

brilliant really. too fucking bad i am now all wet, hot, and bothered and completely alone. sigh. seriously. i need a dial-a-fuck-buddy for these type of emergencies.

i feel like holly hunter but with all my fingers.

sara the obscure fanatacist

it has recently come to my attention my love of fiction in all it's manifestations, is possibly nothing more than egomania.

every book, every film, television or website is about me.

is a painting of my life as it is, was, or could have been. how i would be or may become given the right inscentive and opportunity.

in hopeful, ironic, or desolate ways, i consume in an ongoing search for someone who gets it.

and when one aspect of my life seems bent on overwhelming my every sense, it is the only thing i see no matter where i look. everywhere voices are echoing my current tempestuous heart.

am i jude? am i sue? arabella? her bitch ass husband i cant even be bothered to remember the name of? is it temptation, fate, or lust? does it matter? what is true?

a 200 year old book about fucking wessex farmpeople and here i am feeling pinned. my selfishness knows no bounds.

whatever way the wind blows in my current headcase, sue is just now on par with amy march.

this is me meditating:

- i just want someone to spoon
- i cannot fucking believe jennie will be here soon. let the party begin!
- phil is leaving. i have known for months but it feels raw and harshly true now.
- i miss my sister
- i want to know i wont cave and be something i'm not for someone elses sake
- i dont want to worry about maggie in the war torn congo.
- i am scared i am not capable of being myself if we do this.
- i feel guilty for not seeing more of mr. detjen this week
- i wish i wasnt so crap at ironing. how can you be bad at it?
- i cannot believe i just joined myspace. jesus fucking christ.

marvels and wonders

today, maggie came.

my heart leapt when i saw her. and suddenly everything was okay. maybe just tabled, but i was okay. she can do that you know. she is like a breath of fresh air and a hand to hold and so incredibly perfect in everyway i wish i could be her. i wish i could marry her. i wish i could have her around forever. i wish i could give her to everyone and share what she means. anne didn't know the half of it when she called diana a kindred spirit. she is truly the best woman i know and i am proud and glad and overwhelming thankful to have her. even just for the weekend.

the only other person i feel i know like this is my sister. she is like that. the sororial link. one look and the world could spin backward for all i know. it makes me miss kate. but more so it makes me grateful women like this exist.

whether lolled on the couch watching football or walking home arm in arm, i glow when she is around. just a reflection of her wonder i am sure, but i feel like i could fly.

the salisbury steak of life

i am tired a lot.

but only just recently have a hit a level of fatigue that negates all other life.

i am tired of pretend. of everyday taxing. of anticipated monotony.

i don't want this pseudo-life. with will-they-wont-they relationships, and mediocre careers. cute work outfits and wild work nights-out. the routine of disappointment, distraction, and denial.

ready made life packets now available in your grocers fridge. it's so easy, so mouthwatering and tempting. so cheap and lo-carb. promising you can be sated in minutes, the e-numbers veiling the lifelong regrets that will follow.


i have a week off starting tomorrow.

a week on my own. no holiday. no flatmates. just an empty canvas. and i want to come out the other end sure of something.

it might take a spirit guide in the woods goddammit, but i am not going back to that.

i am unwilling to settle.

week of weird

such a random week. out three nights in a row like it's college and i need to get laid - only half of which is still true. also, freckles galore from lunch hour picnics in the graveyard and other anomalies of scottish life.

monday
- dinner at author friends. we had mexican and coronas, i apparently am now a reviewer for his new magazine, and his cockatiel thing is adorable. and named bellamy. sigh.

tuesday
- cam home from work feigning illness because the tsunami of cramps crashed into my abdomen rendering me entirely useless
-slept for ages
- practiced - and by practiced i mean screeching wails that made cats cry - my violin

wednesday
- wore the polka dot dress in all it's glory
- made killer moroccan zucchini couscous
- watched my beloved bruce campbell

thursday
- had dinner at liams
- went to weirdo pubquiz and was hailed the master since all the questions were things like who's on mount rushmore (and i didn't even have to specify which roosevelt) and the theme tune from gummy bears.
- hooked up again. for once not feeling rejected, denied, broken, or drunk. but i am undecided and horny. seriously. i kind of love it and i kind wish i'd grow up already.

friday
- tried not to be awkward at work after the fact. and kind of just wanted to have sex in the stationary cupboard all day.
- watched the football with jules
- went to massively weird leaving-do/ continental house party with amazing daquiris, enforced casualness with liam, and the guys from work including ugly sexy (whose new hair cut makes him look like a rugged tintin). maybe we should have left early nad just had sex, but instead just completely tabled it (probably because i was the worse for rum) and went home totally PG.

saturday
- work blows. i hate my job. i so had been looking forward to locking ourselves in an office to do grade 2 paperwork (and not anything more nefarious. probably.) but had to serve stupid school kids all day.
- went to fancy-pants debut authors party in the rehersal dinner dress. had fabulous gin martinis. hobnobbed a bit and then got bored of small talk and went to the movies.

and now i am home for what feels like the first time in days, glad to have slept and wondering what my next move is.

culture clash

since when did office casual "i'm not trying but damn sexy anyway" ever involve
a, me
b, blue pinstripes
c, paisley?

and yet, in the land of uk fashion, i am so going to get away with it.

either i am going blind or have finally assimilated the anti-matching genetic code of the british.

but so help me god, if i wear leggings all bets are off.

should any of you actually watch the world cup, you should all be cheering for holland.

not only because they have the most complex ethnicity etymology - oh the dutch from holland who are the netherlands - or because their football kits refer to a political event hundreds years old. seriously. william of orange is old news boys.

but because the are my team in the office pool. and not only do i want to kick fuck-heads ass, but i could win money. and money is a good reason to like sports.



well, that and one of theif forwards is hot.

vie melodien

in the dappled sunlight of my gold coifed room (perhaps we have finally out run the porn dungeon title), i was moved to music this afternoon, and picked up my violin.

an instrument (and object) with which i have had one of the most tumultuous relationships of my entire life, leading to our five year estrangement. a separation i felt compelled to reconcile these last few weeks.

as i opened the ridiculous case, still tattered from tiny locker jams, the complete familiarity and yet entire foreignness of it was overwhelming. it was all there - the massive sponge stain, the fancy import rosin that'd been a christmas gift, the spare Dominant strings in their hideously retro packaging, the suzuki books covered with garish stickers.

i won't pretend i was ever a prodigy. by the beginning of high school i'd given up practicing all together and within two years was relegated to the back of the orchestra with the stoners and dropouts (where a whole different piece of my education began). but even in the later years, in fleeting moments, it was perfect.

the right tune, the right note even, and i could just soar. it was a voice opening in me. an unanswered truth.

sometimes, just for a minute, when playing something breathtaking, i felt whole.

and perhaps it was the fleetness of these moments that pushed me away. my lessons were chunks of prescribed classics chosen for their modal shifts. our orchestral pieces were heavy on cello melody because everyone knew they were the only halfway decent section, and mostly 40 minutes too long for anyone with ears.

and i was uninspired. the one thing it promised seemed to be forever beyond my ability and not even a concern for my teachers.

so i left it. a nostalgic relic, a closed possibility. a dream.

and as i lifted it to my shoulder today, i thought perhaps i should have left it there. to rot in my parents closet.

i am absolutely rubbish. clunky. out of tune. slow. airy. childish.

the hickey on my neck of which i was so secretly proud is long gone, the grooves in my bowfingers filled back in. we no longer fit, my violin and i.

we are like reunited lovers, trying to find where we were. how we were. limbs akimbo. bodies out of joint.

and of course we can't. i am not the same size or shape or player i once was. we'll have to begin again, finding our voice, seeking the sweet spots. retuning ourselves.

it hurts a little the songs i scrape through now are dated in mr. dewey's sharp masculine scrawl '02/25/94'. that i can hear the strength behind notes that come out as whispers makes me wince.

but oh, the promise of that power. that expression is what brought me back. that it's still there, this voiceless singing and challenging flight. the possibility of momentary transcendence.

if i am patient, we can, once again make music.

Stephen Slays

i know i am less than politically active in my daily life.

i live in a bubble of my own making consisting mostly of castle ruins, fictional romances, and very hot shoes quite content to ignore the "hell in a handbasket" scenario towards which i would be otherwise inclined.

this completely voluntary ignorance, coupled with my living abroad (i keep wondering if i'll ever get to refer to myself as an ex-pat) lead my information to be sorely outdated if not entirely made up.

that said, today sonja pointed me to Stephen Colbert's White House Corrospondents Address. holy mother fucking hell. That man has balls the size of Montana and as Chris says, we all know one man who is going to get audited this year. Damn he is clever. Though I must say, it's a shame the biggest laughs came at the safest jokes. Where is Gilbert Godfried when you need him?

I've always had a thing for Stephens (well, the few of that moniker that are straight...). But give me a well informed wise ass Stephen (especially with bowtie) and i am equal parts awe, lust, and fear - a stunning combonation.

summer love

it's fucking sweltering.

the dense humid air, ripe and full. the teasing promise of rain and agonisingly long days of lethargy.

in this heaviness and sticky weight, all i can think of is sex.

the moist air of sleepy breath. the damp pockets of skin between shoulders or below collars. the hot weight of a limb thrown carelessly across my body.

fuck me.

on my mind

- there is a mouse in my room. and most disturbingly, it looks kind of cute scurrying from shadow to shadow.
- it is both a relief and a burden i decided to drop the teen-years drama i skipped the first time around smack in the middle of my otherwise incredibly okay 20s. a relief they have come and i am not some anomolous android and a massive waste of my fucking time.
- even i can only survive on left over pizza for so long
- i lied. there are two mice.
- i cried today. in front of someone. and he held me and pet my head. thank god the weirdness factor didnt surface until after. i would be even more bothered if he thought my weepy face was sexy.
- i know. we were doing so good. i am disappointed in myself.
- actually i am most disappointed that he's gone and got all hot on me. sneaky libido. i don't need this shit.
- also, this is my "artie strongest man in the world visits a stone circle" re-enactment:





i adore my newly rediscovered stupidity

i've still got sand in my shoes

i have not written because i don't know what to say.

the last week and a half have been overwhelming. three vacations in a row will do that to you, even if they aren't as loaded as mine. they've been amazing. but hard.

first i had 3 days completely alone in the highlands. a freeing solitude which rekindled my love for scotland and even brushed with "finding myself in the wilderness" cliches. it was amazing and good for me. and i found a new favourite place at cawdor castle.

then i had a weeks road trip through gorgeous country with one of my favourite people. beautiful and fun. i was relaxed and at home being silly in the mountains and basking on waterfalls. i liked being together every minute of everyday and not needing the guards and shields the city and other people inspire in me. being alone together.

so much so coming back was a bit of a shock. and disappointment. i told us we could stay that simple and content here, but i know the pressures of town and life wont let us. i am trying not to miss him though we see each other everyday. (ps, no it was completely platonic despite our past transgressions. and it was really good for us to be normal again)

but it was a short lived doubt as the next morning i picked up dad for a whirlwind weekend of touring and adventure and entertainment. he is so easy and yet so taxing. so wonderfully there for me and knows me and wants me it was incredibly perfect, and yet the second he left now i miss him and everyone else i have that closeness with even more. its like he reminded me what i am missing and it hurts.

it was great. i did love it. i am so glad he came. but now i miss him.

and so for a week now almost i have been back. and feel tainted. outside. disallusioned and alone. it is still the same silly job and the same pretty flowers and the same cute shoes. and it doesnt feel like it is enough anymore.

i am not enough. i am not who i was free in the mountains. and i dont like it.

perhaps it will pass. the romance of a holiday will wear thin. real life will regain meaning.

but i think more than anything i am sick of the hollowness. i want to be inspired.

my heart's in the highlands

i am leaving for the highlands in a minute.

high on my list are visting culloden (of blood and gore mel gibson in skirt fame) and the castle from highlander.

scotland kicks ass. especially when i have a car.

have i finally converted to british?

i just got home from the pub (well, "tavern") where i stood around rubbing shoulders with a bunch of broguish musky men watching the champions league match; arsenal v. barcelona.

now i have always thought barcelona was an exceedingly sexy city, indeed, one of those exotic type places too cool even for tourists. but if their slackjawed nancy-boy forward is anything to go by, may i never set foot in spain.

but still. i swore, drank miller, and all in all almost felt like it was a november saturday but for the weird offside rule. its a shame football is so lame, but i've still signed up for the world cup pool at work. it may kill me, but i'l try goddamnit.



that said, i had a most excellent day.

speeddater visited me at work (to lend me equilibrium. yum.) where he was drooled over by co-workers (i love a good tease).

then got a text from hot scot, who has now finished novel three and is ready to party.

and rounded out the evening with a few sexy footballers and some chips and cheese with brown sauce.

i need a break from holidays

i hate planning vacations.

i love reading up and thinking of my endless options and imagining life without the daily mundane. but the whole choosing and handling is so bloody boring.

granted, i learned my lesson with the VWbug-in-a-corn-field-due-to-jet-ski-show-cost-me-$1000-in-damages-fucking-black-ice scenario in college, reservations are worth the pain. carpe diem isn't for everything. but still.

i'm trying to cram three seperate trips into under a week and the logistics are making all dreams of road trip journals and seascapes flee my sore head.


so, maybe i didn't tell you - my dad is coming...but on a golf tour with all his middle aged dentist friends (he is nothing if not stereotypical).

so, i am taking this weekend to meet up with them at their fancy hotel in the highlands for a weekend of wandering days followed by pampered nights where people with six digit salaries foot the bill.

but, since i was up there anyway, and dad said he'd rent a car for me, i figured i'd strike out into the wilderness for a few days on my own. which has now turned into me and liam on a yet to be determined holiday. i am glad we'll have some time and space but slightly anxious at what if any questions will be answered along the way. it should be fabulous. and another brilliant chapter in my memoirs of ridiculous impossible things i let happen to me.

but then, i really want to see dad. so after his friends leave the following weekend he and i are going to the isle of arran. which means i need to be back, ditch the car, get down south again, find him, and get us to an island with a population of 1100 (i hear there are more bottles of whisky than people there), then get us back here in under two days so he can fly home all tuckered out.

i know it will be good. i am dying to get away.

but i am just now realizing exactly how much i took on with this. (now being 3 hours into reservations, phone calls, and general madness with my nose in a lonely planet)

i know my tendency to plan, mother, and over analyze gets me into trouble. i can deal with that. but just once i'd like it to not interfere with my social life.
there should so be an off button for that kind of thing.

sometimes part-time is best

i believe i may have prefected the random friend.

we only see each other every three months but we fall in like we bantered just yesterday, speed-dater and i.

it's like having a penpal, but in person.

someone you have a fleeting moment with, where anything is game from pop culture whims to confessional type memoirs. where it can all be true, since it'll have no bearing on your tomorrow.

today's menu was my adoption story to his paedophile teacher, but only after we agreed futurama is better television, but family guy is still funny.

and three hours later (full of haggis stuffed chicken and banoffee pie), knowing it'll be august before we do it again, we part ways in the sunshine.

patty duke on line 1

yes dear, i am fine.

just bemused and constantly surprised at my middle school mentality. he said, she said, what did that mean?

you would think, for all my modern views, my one night stands, my harmless flirtations, my masculine mannerisms and perfected girlish laugh i'd be beyond these simple urges. i know the game, i know i don't want to play by them, and i still get sucked in every round.

we have always known i have low to no self control, but i find it shocking i get thrown back into archaic expectations and down right silly conventions when i let myself actually feel something.

it's not important, i won't get into the whole sordid affair (a turn of phrase more than a literal act), either it'll sort itself out and i'll gush or it won't and i'll become flippant and move on.

suffice to say, i've found a new one to obsess over. and not in a nickname and casual flirt, but kind of actually care (and more importantly want him. for keeps maybe even.) and it fucking freaks me out (and pisses me off just a little). and i keep saying i don't. that i won't fall for this. won't be one of those girls who waits. who worries. who doubts and denies and follows.

but for all my dithering in the end i still want him to call.

well, and then throw me on the bed and fuck me senseless.


is that so much to ask?

does not compute

i have often, though not in these pages perhaps as regularly as elsewhere, referred to my silent scream. the unheard voice and ignored plea of my deepest darkest self. wordlessly raw and often violent.

but it is not her that plagues me today.

it is, if anything, more of a screaming silence. no, that doesn't fit. a deafening blinding quiet. a heavy Nothing.

an aching weight whose only relief is expression, and i am at a loss for words.

i don't want to talk about it or write about it or even really think in traditional terms, but i know of no other way to cope than words.

and i find they are insufficient.

his thoughts kept him from feeling. winterson may have been writing about atlas, but she got it right.

i don't know how to process this.

epiphany of the day: the lucky shirt

while standing in the shower this afternoon, i realized a very important thing about myself.

fact:
with 50% (1) of the men (2) i have hooked up with (3) in the last year (4) i was wearing the same shirt.

where:
(1) 50% as in 5 out of 10
(2) i use the term loosely though their equipment defines them as masculine anatomically
(3) as in anything beyond second base (i know. but you come up with a better system then)
(4) 16 months but poetic licence is never more applicable when considering past partners

conclusion:
either the low neck navy polo was built for my tits or i desperately need a new wardrobe.

May Day mayday.

so beltane is amazing. and retarded. and possibly unhealthy. and yet, i'll always go and always kind of love it. contemporary pagan fertility rites are worth it.

not only is there traditional king stag-may queen orgytastic fun, there are giant penes (yes, like theses is the plural of thesis) and burning effigies and lots of naked pagans (who are really just bongo-hippies with less clothes and more fire) in red body paint who harass Neds.

best of all, in my version there is a flask of whiskey and pyromania. it was brilliant.

well, the part i remember. of course, after the bonfire and cigarettes i kind of have no recollection - especially the precarious climb down calton hill in the dark - and am hoping had i partaken (partook? partakEd?) in the orgiastic revelry it'd be more memorable.

but sadly, we can't all have pagan hippies with flaming swords.

the best kinds of days are one ones where you wake up the morning after refreshed with grass in your hair and plenty to think about.

liam called it a roller coaster, but then i suppose anyone would after 10 hours in my company. i do a lot of gear changing.

i scare me sometimes and it's really really nice to just be with someone who doesn't mind.

pr stands for prostitutional retail

so i totally wrote like two entries this week which are so not there.

but that is neither here nor there. my real worry is the inordinant amount of valley-speak in that sentence.

linguistic snobbery aside, i am on the verge of mental collapse.

although my add/ocd tendencies are erratic at best, i find myself compelled to put forth every effort in this mediocre retil job.

most of the time this is an utter waste which leads to me sitting up all night worried about that simon and schuster returns note and if i need to hotline in the new young bond title for monday.

but sometimes it so completely pays off. a themed-month gimick yields massive publisher support and author visit. author visit becomes tour - and i am now in full on business card schmoozing mode with lunch meetings and a launch party tonight ...

today was 200 tweeners in a massive auditorium with gift bags and autographs.

best of all, i am the golden child of said publisher and have landed the premiere (and a limited edition pre-release copy) of next fall's best newcomer. Seriously, I will be the only person with a copy outside the company and will be hosting the press release party london houses are vying for.

a lame thing to be excited over, i know. but somehow it makes such a difference that somebody gets that i am good at this. that wasting my time on little thing like projection dvds and negotiating better margins turns out for the best.

give me a year - if i am not out of retail i promise to bite the bullet and get a phd at bryn mar and finally make that leap to full time academic lesbian.

why isn't there a british equivalent to americana?

so perhaps it was a subconcious effort to be contrary, but i have had a remarkably simple britishness in the last couple days.

lunch at the mosque - the best curry kitchen under a tent you will ever see - followed by the hippie tea rooms where no one spoke english, and a rounded out night at the pub quiz. sadly it was not dave the pub master, as he was at a fencing tournament, but his ultra scottish sub who is almost impossible to understand as microphones seems to enhance his brogue.

then this morning, picked up some herb baguette from the french baker and went to doze under a stone angel in the ancient graveyard up the road with a turn of the century copy of Jude the Obscure from St. Columba's Hospice.

v nice. lets only hope the tranquility i am storing up sees me through a week of teenagers and overly-enthusiastic book launches.

faux americana

my weekend has inadvertently become a celebration of american stereotype:

friday; dinner at the buffallo grill
- there were photographs of native americans covering the walls like a themed bennigans
- my co-workers asked if we actually learn about the native peoples at school
- and one even said " chief joseph - that cant be his indian name can it?"
- i had corn on the cob. they scoffed at my indelicacy. i reveled in the buttery goodness
- most of the menu was steak. i had the peppercorn and lemon.
- i had to explain jambalya

friday; community theatre guys and dolls
- they all sounded like bobby deniro in the untouchables
- on crack
- and with tampons shoved up their noses
- adelaide was a watered down lina lamont
- there were paper stars and stripes on the newstand
- it was positively adorable
- and atrocious

saturday; lupe pintos
- a mexican deli
- ... is really and import grocer with stove top, betty crocker and their ilk
- i bought a whatchamacalit. hersheys is unheard of (did i tell you the time i brought back hershey kisses and everyone was thrilled because they had never seen a real one and wondered if they really all had the little flags? yeah. arthur giving them to francine would have been lost. no wonder aardvark picture books are in a slump here.)
- and pace salsa

saturday; junebug
- totally one of those indie family pastiches
- absoultely hilarious
- and depressing
- americana on film makes me sad for home. even if its appalachia baptists, it's closer to hicksville midwest catholics compared to here. i miss my boppa.
- worth seeing even if alessandro nivola couldn't pass for a southern boy in a million years, he is fucking adorable

saturday; home
- call mom
- call sister
- wear flannel shirt
- hum showtunes

and although kitch and wrong and oh so very very bad in places (yes i know oversized flannel died with cobain), it still has a little piece of me aching for home. because, as the fairy tales tell us, no matter what kind of hell-hole farm you are from, there is no place like home.

office politics can always be resolved with spirits

at work i am barely third tier.

i make very little, i have only the amount of clout i can earn through my american smile and charisma (read: only with geek boys and the clinically insane), and i am by no means cool enough to believe in yoga boxes or drum and bass.

so it was no surprise i was not included on the 4 seat guest list for a publishing party/whiskey tasting.

but low and behold, miracle of miracles, multiple drop outs later i am the last minute pinch hitter for the shop.


and i must say it gave me no small pleasure to turn up fashionably late from having impromtu cocktails with friends and ended up knowing more people there than any of the managers who insisted on coming. plus, i revealed my snazzy (read: entirely lame publisher produced) business cards - but at least i have them. fuck head office denying me, if i am ever going to make it out i need contacts and i need them fast.

all pettiness and balding thirty-something co-workers aside, i love the publishing association and spanish port cask single malts (110+% proof).


ps - i am drunk.

easter is apparantly time for reflection and enlightenment. sadly, this is the best i have come up with:

i. the charm of my town is unfathomable. there was maypole dancing in the gardens below the castle. and a petting zoo. with a guinea pig. and a chicken.

ii. alice bands kick ass. i always thought ribbon/headbands should have a name. it's a damn good one.

iii. even if you never visit your favourite painting at the gallery, it should still be there when you go back.

iv. despite the protests of any irate thirteen year old, there is nothing better than hand-me-downs.

v. part of me will always want to go to church (this year was the 5th anniversary of my last attempt - a convuluded holiday with the putvins at my aunt's hippie church with pink-hair katie), but most of me will think it's comparable to having my nails ripped out and being bled by leeches. but i'll still miss the singing.

vi. it is my mission in life to incorporate 'ghetto' into the everyday discourse of the incredulous british population. so far so good.

vii. it sucks my sister is unwell.

change of pace

in an effort for a breath or fresh air and a new start to spring, here is what i did today:


- returned my library books before they were due
- sat barefoot in a beautiful cemetery and sketched a stone angel then lay in the sun watching the clouds go by (sometimes i think i should have been a most excellent goth girl)
- bought the screwtape letters
- walked along the canal smiling at swimming labradors and sleeping swans
- ate a vanilla ice cream cone walking home in the rain

it was a good day. more importantly, it was a different day.

point for nature

when i went on the pill i was still (mostly) un-sexually active, but let's not split hairs.

i mostly needed to curb my wonder woman size hormones and avoid the two days of excruciating pain a month where i had to call into work saying "i cant see straight because my woman parts are being turned inside out" which made my boss uncomfortable. and the regularity was a major bonus.


i have three little pink pills left. three days (give or take, i always hope for give) of safety and normalcy to prepare myself for the plecebo pandemonium. i specifically even picked tuesdays for least screwing up of my daily life and weekend plans.

and yet here i am, sore, bleeding, and crabby at 9am on a saturday.

what the fuck.

why oh why? how can it be possible even modern medicine cannot outwit my internal chaos? i can only conclude my hormones are stronger than whatever is in those things.

in the arm wrestle for my vaginal timetable, it seems biology has triumphed.

friendom

i'm doing it again. and i am going to stop it this time. i have to.

my whole life i follow a pattern. a curse. a lie. i vividly remember the first time it happened. i was 5.

i meet man/boy. i am amused/charmed/interested but immediately know it is platonic. the first impression of the asexual.

what was a random acquaintence becomes a friend. someone outside my mess. a breath of fresh air.

a friend becomes closer. people joke about how much time is spent together and we both ignore the insuations and laugh with the flippant comments of friends. but its nice to have that even.

somewhere in the joking things get awkward, and we get over it (it usally takes me awhile to not feel scrutinized and you not to feel judged). we maybe even take a step back to assess and readjust to this post-weirdness phase.

and a little part of me is always disappointed.

not that it didn't become love. not that i didn't suddenly wake up and realize this was forever (and equally important, that i want to jump their bones). but that it's the beginning of the end.

that the culitvated intimacy i have so enjoyed isn't going to be enough for you soon.

i can't deny it wasn't like dating without the date. it was all the good bits and none of the mess. it was the niceness and honesty.

and somehow soon it will be wrong of me to want that.

one day, or perhaps phased over weeks, you'll realize you'd rather have someone you can fuck. and i'll slowly fade into the background as nice girls fill my slot for your time and your chat and your lost moments - with the added attaction of sex.

i don't blame them. it's how it works. i wasn't the one (i didn't want to be, but it somehow stings all the same). its okay though. you'll be happier in love. i probably will someday too.

but i really wish there was a man i could be friends with (and not resent it like a girlfriend when he leaves me).

there is no ever after for friends.

one step closer to kevin bacon

everyone who knows anyone in the film business is a name dropper. you can't help it.

i don't miss it much and as a bonus, the further away you are, the more easily awed your friends/co-workers/target (not that i would ever brag while chatting someone up. of course not.)

but all that aside, i'm just a little happy that a movie i once helped out with is on imdb.

granted, i griped the whole time, i did it only for my sister, and i think i am visible in all of one scene. but all the same, it exists out there.

not that i have ever watched my dvd copy (it probably totally blows), but still.

and by the way, the DoP fucking kicked ass. He is probably going to be actually famous. Then the real name dropping and back stage stories can begin.



ps - I can't believe I anticipate the success of others and gauge its usefulness. it's sick.

i heart tv

we all know i love steve carell.

i loved him before he ate big red candles and threw tridents.

i loved him in head to head debates with steve colbert in his bowtie era and interviewing appalachia's finest in those early post-Kilborn days.

and i will continue to do so - even if he does insist on making that piece of trash, that atrocity evan almighty.

but until today, i couldn't forgive him for the office.

granted, i am in the land where ricky gervais is king and i don't own a television, so my hatred of the american remake could be preemtive. though i must admit, it does look from here like nothing more than coupling 2 - a sacriledge to the epitome of british humour and pain (and the inexplicable dorky sexy of martin freeman).

today i am willing to reconsider. still off from work, i happened upon the office PSAs. and begrudgingly, some are actually funny (well, at least funnier than the Family Guy PSAs in that one where Lois loses the car in a Native American casino, which is already a rip off of the Simpsons where Marge gets addicted to slot machines, except with more spirit guides.)

so maybe i was a little hasty in my condemnation. maybe i was being judgemental in rallying against all hollywood sitcoms (and was becoming more british than i thought in my pseudo-patriotic televisual stance). and maybe i was the tiniest bit wrong.

just maybe. i make no promises.

but the least i can do is give it chance.

i'll try for you steve. for the sake of our love.

news of the day

1 - i got up off the couch
1a - and did laundry
1b - and bought ice cream and cranberry juice just in case i induced a relapse by going to the shop
1b(1) - when i left the house, i was still wearing slippers. am delirious with fever. went straight back to bed (after ice cream)

2 - my dad is coming to visit
2a - on a golf tour with a bunch of dentists
2a(1)who may or may not have time to fit me in between rounds
2a(2) - could they be more cliche?
2b - despite this, i am excited
2b(1) - and may hijack him and go to dublin

3 - i, of my own free will, called someone today.
3a - on the phone.
3a(1) - on my mobile where i had to pay
3b - i thought he was deathly ill and i had given it to him.
3b(1) - it is not fatal, but it is my fault.
3b(2) - this does not detract from the importance of the gesture.

do you think sore tits are a sign of bird flu?



ps - am well enough to order chicken bbq pizza. hallelujah.

the meg ryan epidemic

when i am ill things tend to go very very wrong.

all of the nice, safe, reinforced flying butresses that hold my life together come crashing down and i find myself standing, or probably swaying with nausea, in a pile of rubble just me, my puffy eyes, and rudolph nose - waiting to be saved.

of course, this makes me want to cry like a small child who needs to be held (aka a romantic comedy heroine) which in turn brings out every iota of self loathing and guilty weakness i have.

the vicious circle of cannibalistic emotions becomes a ferris wheel of death.

it's like wes craven got into my psyche.

and i wish i could say it was the meds, but all i want is someone to brush my hair and a doris day marathon on amc.

observations of no importance and little relevance:

- i knew i loved Jon Stewart, but when USA Today called him Mr. Snarky it sealed the deal
- the only genuine quirkiness is when the practicioner doesn't believe it's abnormal.
- pomegranate juice is ambrosia
- i am determined to summer in the highlands

freedom, women, and lost arts

there is something entirely liberating about basking in the dying sunlight in just a tuxedo shirt.

i think this is related to that ever sexy woman-in-the-boyfriends-oxford inclination (and therefore embedded in my genetic code).

probably along with the desire to have thinner arms and coo at little girls in wellingtons.





in other news, check out the big finale: juggling comedians - what is the world coming to? and yet i kind of love it.

it's funny how sometimes you can be so sure about something and then one day wake up and realize you've been wrong all along.

today's epiphanies
- living with a quiet girl actually means your flat is loud because all her friends will be louder by comparison. Especially the psycho nasaly north londoners. they break the fucking sonic barrier.
- it is more common than not that my friends wont like each other
- i'll tell you things, but i won't talk about them.
- no matter how i pretend, i expect too much
- i want a family
- these lists are not as inspiring as i imagine

the resurrection of reality tv

oh. my. god.

reality television, i may yet forgive you for all you have done. if sci-fi can make good on the potential herewith, i will forgive big brother 6, temptation island 2, gay or straight and even cheaters.(i conceed to the apprentice, america's next top model and room raiders there is still a home for trash tv in my life, but you take it one too far once too often.)

but oh the glorious dreams i will have tonight imagining spandex geeks and middle-aged mutants tonight.

wait. that's not what i meant. but come on it's stan fucking lee.

voicemail of death

pick up the phone when no one is home. dial the number on the descreet business card.

ring ring. ring ring.


"you have reached the GUM clinic. please enter your password

"your results from the 10th of March are in

"they are as follows

"if you have any questions at anytime press 1 to talk to a member of clinical staff

"please hold the line just so we can torment you with anticipation (aka dread)

"your results for

"cervical gonorrhea are negative

"cervical herpes are negative

"cervical chlamydia are negative

"hiv are negative

"weird shit you have never heard of but is probably like aubergines or lorries or some british shit is negative.

"thank you for calling the GMU results hotline. have a nice day."

hang up.

try not to shake as your life flashes before your eyes.



that is the shit they should scare teens with. no more tracy gold videos. just straight up disconcertingly calm and slightly robotic phone women who may or may not tell you you are going to die of AIDS.

i am glad i am not all the same.

things i love (for today)

1 - liam and i are engaged.

2 - he gave me a black rosary. i am wearing it as a bracelet.

3 - spent the day skiving in glasgow yesterday. whiskey with sonja and hot scot and v for vendetta on IMAX (which i am trying with all my soul to not feel betrayed by) made for a lovely day off. not to mention the turn of the century collins sense and sensibility i found in the "voltaire and rousseau" bookshop piled to the ceiling.

4 - it's a weekend of parties lined up which significantly curbs the anxiety attending my imminent call to the clinic.





ps- in case there is anyone in new york, hot scot will be there for a reading this weekend. sunday evening at the KGB bar. i am dying to flood the audience with my friends to be ridiculous (and even a little supportive).

i am a celebrity whore.

i still love that i go out to networking drinks with hot young authors. they are cute and charming and clever and really want my approval and attention (and shelfspace).

but would they be so cute if they weren't published?

snippets of the salacious

my emotions run on a such a predictable schedule. almost to the minute i stop bleeding i want sex.

sadly, i didn't even notice this until someone else pointed it out. at a house party last night i knew no one but a co-worker, a lapse in conversation leads me to scope a room of 10 men. (what else was there to do? besides, we were the only women in the room - i stood a fair shot, having already been approached by the cute(ish) south african if i could be bothered.)

jules: it's back
me: what?
jules: the cosmic horn. you're back.
me: how can you say that? there is no one in this room even i would bother with.




i am reflecting on this after a rainy afternoon in the pub with the guys. the conversation turned to relationships.

on dating
it was a long story, but we think in hindsight a guy in high school thought we were dating until i made some off the cuff joke/comment about how it must look to other people. he gave me the puppy eyes of the crushed and never spoke to me again.

on relationships
phil (to me): what's your longest relationship?
jack : in minutes?
me: those weren't relationships
phil: no, really.
me: i think i made it three weeks once, but i'd only count two of them.

on first kisses
jack: my first girlfriend
phil: at one of those make-out parties, there were like 20 people watching
me: i was at a banquet in front of at least 200
jack: good on ya. of course you were.




to test myself, i took the tried and true 500 question purity test when i got home.

I am 10% down on last year.

the wrath of babes

so i am sick of my twenty-first century whinging and endless lists. It's like those late episodes of a good sitcom where the premise no longer works and it wasn't clever enough to handle self-reflexive irony.

and like any true sitcom, i am introducing a spunky child to boost ratings and liven up a deadly saturday line-up. But unlike my 80s predecessors, through a twist of fate (and a minor time warp), the child is me.



doodle-loodle-loo, doodle-loodle-loo, doodle-loodle-loo...

you know how your brother is totally annoying and scribbles on your bestest ballerina drawing with the red slippers? or that time your sister totally used the blue power rangers slurpee cup from k-mart even though she knew billy was your favorite? remember when mom forgot to call you in sick so once again you have to grovel to the principal about your family's minor mishaps and get him to unfail you from world history due to absence?

you know what totally is the best emotional release for this? and no, i dont mean counting to ten, yoga, volunteering with the girl scouts or making macaroni mecklaces for grandma.

concoccting poison.

just sneak out into the yard while mom makes spaghetti and gather a few simple ingredients:

- a strong stick stripped of leaves and twigs for stirring
- dirt
- water (if you can unkink the hose)
- leaves - especially maple since they crack and get gooey
- pine needles and/or twigs
- any flower petals available
- those red squishy berries often found on old lady hedg
- a brick

to prepare deadly poison potion:
- gather the berries into a pile on the pavement. smash them with a brick repeatedly until the sidewalk runs red with their blood. this sacrfice is cathardic and symbolic.
- add dirt and water until it is a thick nasty paste and imagine force feeding it to said sister until she chokes.
- add pine needles for texture and leaves if needed
- flutter flower petals daintily over the top to decorate
- then smash their pretty little faces with the brick, thus metaphorically destroying all that is pure and innocent in your wake

- scrape onto a big flat leaf
- visualize serving it either open-faced or perhaps rolled like a taco.
presentation is everything, use your imagination!


...doodle-loodle-loo, doodle-loodle-loo, doodle-loodle-loo.



this is something i actually used to do as a small child to curb my fury. i saw those berries today and wished i could again, but alas - no bricks.

sometimes i worry for little me and want to wrap her up and make her unpsycho.

and sometimes i cant help but laugh that i thought the geeky ranger was hot.

jesus, mary, and the holy ghost of hollywood

sometimes pajiba really is all i hope. and i quote:

Item #4: Shohreh Aghdashloo (her actual name) has been cast as Elizabeth, cousin of the Virgin Mary, in New Line’s forthcoming Nativity, to be directed by Catherine Hardwicke, who also helmed the solid Thirteen and the regrettable Lords of Dogtown. Keisha Castle-Hughes (Whale Rider) has already been cast as Mary in what is sure to be the latest he-said/thee-said brawl between the godless baby-killing homo infidels of Hollywood and the righteous warriors of Zion headquartered in Lynchburg and Colorado Springs. Really, though, I don’t see what the fuss is about. It’s not as if New Line’s producers are shamelessly capitalizing on the popularity surge of America’s civil religion so that they can exploit icons of faith in order to turn a quick buck. And it’s also not like religious leaders are going to stand up and decry the film sight unseen or encourage their flocks to strike out against the film industry, with violence if necessary. Seriously, I think we’re all rushing to judgment here. — DC

that said, i'd see it.

revelations from the sickbed

i called in sick to work, something i have never done before.

and i am not, as this may lead you to believe, at death's door. i am not even (strictly speaking) ill.

but for the better part of three days i have been disgusting.

remarkably inconsistent at work and with friends, clumsy to the point of dangerous, depressed, severely cramped, and an insomniac.

at 8am, walking through the sunshine, dizzy, slightly feverish, and on the verge of tears i decided enough was enough. i needed a day where i didnt pretend it was all peachy. i didnt ignore every alarm in my system going off and risk certain death by scissors if allowed near screaming children.

after a nap, some doritos and a morning of absolute silence to sort myself out (from bed and between massive pms groaning of course) i have come to realize some significant things have fallen under the carpet of late it is detracting from my lifestlye enjoyment quotient. they are as follows.

1. i no longer write. six months without my frantic scribbling and two without my journals (of the daily update and emotionally significant kind) have left me bottled, pent, charged, and without recourse to emotional support. it is unnatural.
2. i have not had an original thought or intellectual conversation (and no, post-modern media debates dont count. in shop full of phds without employment it's like breathing). i need stimulus. i need input. i need meaning.
3. and i need a partner. a dependable someone i know will be around. for these types of conversations for mystery science theatre or the opera. i want to stop splintering friends by event and emotional moment and having someones i can handle being me with, whatever that entails.

(4. being left to my own devices can be volatile.)

familial freedoms

i love my family.

i mean, granted, waking up and feeling like a just ran 10 miles because of my fucking restless leg syndrome sucks. and the degenerative spine. and the fear of psychological damage. and all the other insanity i inherited that would have got my lynched a hundred years ago.

but sometimes i am so glad to have people who express me in ways i didn't know i needed. to feel understood and not alone even through the tiniest gesture is an amazing thing.

this morning, only a little worse for wear and emotionally complicated, i found my inbox flooded with family mass emails. uncle tom is compiling a Reid Code to distinguish prime numbers greater than 100. uncle john sent a naval observatory spreadsheet of compiled moon rise times and uncle bill debates the merits of getting a home server to network the family PCs.

so insignificant. trivial even. like the trinonym game. but something so wholly ours.

i may hate them. i may gripe. but it is really something to belong.

aged like fine wine and just as imbecilic

i obviously cannot be trusted.

a long weekend away for work has yielded first edition penguins and narnia, needlepoint pillows, a polkadot chiffon dress to die for and a kitchy leather bookmark for my collection.

i am not sure if i am vintage sexy or quickly becoming geriatric.





ps:

a haiku of cambridge

bike baskets and hedge
pretentious yet dense hopes rage.
remember the good.

so i am twenty minutes away from my first business trip.

i have 100 pounds of petty cash, a flight in my name - and other than the passport panic of this afternoon, am quite looking forward to a weekend in london and then a few days in cambridge to myself.

leave it to me to splurge and turn an afternoon meeting into a fullblown mini-break weekend.

but still. i hope the weather is nice. i'd like to bike along the Cam.

sometimes i wonder who's life i am living.

clinical observations

1. all women feeling the need to get up before dawn to que outside the emergency sexual health clinic are overdressed. we are repenting through sensible yet sexy clothes. my herringbone pencil skirt and bottleneck heels were not out of place at 7am.

2. there are four times more women than men.

3. no one reads the signs. no matter how well marked.

4. the men get called in faster, but come out later.

5. there is a kiddie play table for those minors left unchaparoned in the 3rd circle of purgatory. the poor bastards.

6. the amount of people over 30 are shocking.

7. non-chalance will always be feigned when 3 women poke up your cunt looking for evidence of the mistake.

it's funny one can be plunged into existential dispair in a breathless moment or errant glance.

that or the fucking cold is getting to my brain.

but either way, what had been a manic and wild couple of weeks promising equal fun and flirtation in future has suddenly crashed and burned into a wallowing fog even a ripped copy of kelly clarkson cannot disipate.

this happened somewhere between 1 and 3 pm.

it's like i had been looking at the top 10% of my week figuring it was pretty damn good, and then suddenly I glanced at the lower percentile and thought it all a sham and couldn't look away from the carnage.

so here i am in trainers with pizza. you do the math.

Sam I Am.

so i am no longer in the depths of despair. maybe the shallows.

really i am just insanely bored with my life. it feels like i am endlessly waiting for this event, that raise, this vacation, that party. not bad things mind you. but the in between bits seem dull, unfulfilling and leave me a hairsbreath short of suicidal. mostly i think i might be lonely of actual companionship (i want to kill my flatmate with a dull blade these days.) well, and i haven't been laid in all of two weeks.

right, but on the brightside, liam and i have bonded over lost love and a lot of whiskey. when my friday night plans fell through we had one of those epic nights of insignificant randomness that indie film makers find seminal. jim jarmuch has nothing on our ennui and banter.

plus, had sunday girly brunch with waffles for dessert. i was skeptical of breakfast food as pudding, but lordy lordy. orgasm in a diner. orgasm on a plate. orgasm in my mouth. (why do I feel like the Xrated Dr. Seuss?)

in other news, i have given up beer and tea for lent. i find it slightly disconcerting i now drink copious amounts of coke and whiskey (not together, though can tipples at lunch be far off?). i think that might be cheating.

images of my day: a chronology

1 - flashbacks to weird sex dream with mike work. was v twisted. and frustrating.

2 - tiny granny in pink house dress and red slippers shuffling along her drive kicking a box of recycling at about .1 mph. oh the dedication.

3 - dad and son in tandem riding bikes to school at sunrise through the meadows. the only reason i saw this being my fingers were too frozen to turn the pages of my book and i was forced to observe real life.

4 - ugly sexy sidling up to me, hands behind his back like a naughty school boy, until he reveals my burned arrested development season 3.

5 - perfect austrian babe jasmine stopping in to chat books and bookworld. she has my job in another shop and lives with an author i know. she is lovely in all the ways that would make me feel mediocre if she wasn't so perfectly nice.

5 - anti-ben (a truly geek boy hot scot) hitting me on the shoulder (he's like 6'6" at least) with a pen as i talked and when i stopped to look at him says "what? keep talking" with puppy dog eyes. he is a looker, man. behaves like he is twelve, but whew.

6 - hot scot popping in to say hello, dimples and all, muttering (when he tells Jules how comfy my sofa is) "we'll have to make more time for your couch". oo-er. but no.

7 - ultra-chic me in black flipped collar coat with satin trim, audrey hepburn shades, leather gloves, and pinstripes ... carrying a series of hot-pink teen novels titled things like "...and that's when it fell of in my hand".

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.