Et si ça ne valait pas toute cette peine?
Si à la fin, ça n’arrivait pas juste, que je me retrouvais en déficit?
Tout d’un coup, comme ça, parce que j’ai fait la bêtise de négliger les aptitudes mathématiques et cartésiennes qui m’étaient ethniquement et généalogiquement allouées, par simple rebellion juvénile et/ou refus aveugle du stéréotype, et que j’ai mal calculé le tout, la somme, ma vie?
Si xy = ac, bon.
Ni plus ni moins qu’au départ, tout ce secouage de vieux linge familial et abandon du bonheur enfantin à la recherche du bonheur adolescent pour revenir à peu près où on en était. Un peu con, oui, inutile certes, mais au moins, j’ai pas vraiment perdu grand chose sinon du temps. Mais ça, je m’y suis habituée. Et puis de toute façon, c’est un sujet pour un autre poste un autre jour. Démonstration par procrastination, voilà.
Mais, si xy > a – c , je fais quoi?
Kesseke vous voulez que je fasse avec ce moins de plus? Un vide que
j’ai j’avais pas. À garder en tête que j’ai jamais été une grosse fan d’auto-mutilation, je l’enfouis où alors, ça, ce cé? Dans quel trou noir pour que je disparaisse davantage?
Et même si xy < a + c , en surface, semble tout à fait désirable, en ai-je sincèrement de besoin, de cet extra de cul qui me donnerait l’impression d’avoir obtenu quelque chose en plus et, par intrapolation, viendrait m'auto-valider? Ne serait-ce pas de trop? Dans cet âge de surconsommation, de surplus et d’effet de serre, n’ai-je pas appris que plus n’est peut-être pas mieux? Plusse que je puisse digérer, plusse j’épuise. Non, ça’arrive pas. C’est même pas grammaticalement correct. Logiquement, ça s’ent fout carrément. L’important, dirait-on, serait de trouver la valeur des variables. Malheureusement, dû à l’abandon de mes cours d’algèbre passé le collège (pour des raisons puériles mentionnées ci-haut), j’ai oublié désormais comment y procéder*. Merde...
Bon. En attendant, je me réconforte qu’Einstein a coulé ses math de secondaire.
Hiroshima, mon amour.
* Avec tout le trichage que j’ai accommodé au secondaire, on aurait déduit que quelqu’un m’accorderait karmiquement la réponse, crisse... Quelqu’un kekpart me crie qu’it is not the point! Câlisse.
Friday, June 6, 2008
Et si ça ne valait pas toute cette peine?
Friday, May 30, 2008
In eight days, I will be coming home.
Job has been quit, tickets have been bought, denial is in gear.
Too much to say. Too much to do. Too much…
Too little words. Too little time. Too little space…
And in there.
Then, there is only fear.
Of facing what I left behind. Of leaving my heart here. Of owning up.
The weather had better be nicer than here.
rambled vapidly vibrant
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
I've got too much in my head at the moment to coherently write anything of my usual nonsense. So instead, may I present to you Arch Nemesis, Cat:
Don’t be fooled by her sweet feline face, she's a cunning one.
Hobbies: secretly spreading hair onto my clothes, eating flowers from window box, getting sick from eating flowers in window box, sprinting after 'voices in her head'.
Likes: staring competitions, moaning to herself, coming up from behind & scaring the begesus out of me, fighting with the rug and curling up to Blond Monkey.
Dislikes: being ignored, other furry animals, any more than four humans [or the equivalent of] in the same room, the hoover.
Wish: opposable thumbs.
I'd gladly dispose of her if I don't actually think she's a wily old lady trapped in an aging hairy suit with no teeth. And really, who wouldn't empathise?
We haz cmplxic8 luv/h8 rltnshipz.
rambled vapidly vibrant
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Saturday, May 10, 2008
I am supposed to be Barcelona this week.
J came and stayed a few weeks ago, as Blond Monkey was busy getting his portfolio together and I tried to play Good Hostess while simultaneously hiding my murderously violent tendencies at work.
I failed miserably.
But that is not to say that we didn’t get some good’ol times rollin’ and dancin’ (or as much as my QUARTER OF A CENTURY OLD’S Newly Acquired Rubbish Need For An 8 Hours Night Sleep To Function Comprehensibly allowed). And it was delightful to be with J again, someone who knew me before. Someone I can run to, and would understand where I came from. Reminding me who I am by showing me how I’ve changed, without having to say anything... It was the closest piece of home I’ve tasted since I’ve been here and it filled a hunger that went unsatiated for far too long.
We ended up being completely annoyed with one another, obviously (ta! darl!), but his is a friendship that brings love & hate as much & as easily as family does, I think. And it was also the first time a close part of my life met a 'boyfriend'. I don’t remember much, on the account that I was massively drunk (it involved a fallen pint of cider, I believe), but I think it went well as both parties spent the remaining days ganging up on me. Bitches.
After I saw my best friend off after a week long emotional ride, Blond Monkey also had to go away for a few days. I relished at the idea of having the flat to myself but suddenly, creepily and unexpectedly, it felt bare. Although I knew he would soon come back, in a few days, just wait, you silly girl, I missed him oh so terribly....
Just a few days...
Just you wait….
I am supposed to be in Barcelona this week. But I am not.
Because, although having bought the tickets months beforehand with the idea that you might be able to get away together, life has this tendency to throw random insignificant things at you, carelessly, so as he suddenly can’t. Because, even if a part of you childlessly feels like a useless soppy girl who wouldn’t travel alone simply because her boyfriend isn’t going with her, a bigger part would just rather be with him. Because sometimes your strength comes from humbly recognising what makes you happy regardless of how conventional and stereotypical it may appear. And also because, by the end of the month, you will be leaving him.
And your Twelve-Year-Old Self can go screw herself.
rambled vapidly vibrant
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
I need to do laundry. And the dishes. And wash the bathroom. And a dozen other things too, now that we’re at it. And since J is coming over TOMORROW, I also need to clean the bed in the front room, which could seriously use a good tidal wave (unless I want him to find things his pure pederasting eyes don’t want to see*), yet all I’ve been doing all morning is downing coffee with Pringles (that’s some hell of a breakfast, by the way, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise) and reading blogs.
Shit. It’s 12:15 already. I should’ve been out of the house an hour ago.
We have a wine tasting at work later, which means I would have to haul my ass there earlier than usual. Without pay. Tch.
In normal circumstances I would’ve poked my own eyes out giddily to ‘taste’ wine for free, but with all the things I need to be doing I think I’ll need to pass on this one. The thought is more painful to me than it is mentally healthy.
No matter. I can always drink and clean at the same time – it’s all about multitasking here, people!
* Luvs, dahling, but there’re just certain things friends don’t need to visualise, ahem...*winks seedily*
rambled vapidly vibrant
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Wine is good. Wine is my friend. Makes me happy without the headache. Very good.
Blond Monkey is setting up a blog for his artwork at the moment and for some reason it makes me queasy. The reason might be that, oh I don’t know, he is not exactly aware that I also have a blog. Myself. And when he asks me what I think about layouts, whether I’m familiar with html or not, or if I have blogger account, well, I’m not quite sure what to say.
I end up lying, obviously, because, tch, I’m far from being sane enough to have him know every single thought that farts through my brain. The much that he knows is more than I ever imagined letting anyone have
to hold against me as personal information, or believed laudable with such loving indulgence, really. I’d rather not push it. He, however, freely gives me his passwords & pin numbers, and I’m not sure if that makes him utterly naïve or me a complete untrusting biatch. Or both. Opposites attract and all that. Or perhaps birds of the same flock as we are both a little screwed up?
Ooh! Pizza’s here!
Cannot process more coherent thought now.
Am officially drunk.
rambled vapidly vibrant
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Just for the record, things aren’t ‘bad’ in London. Shocking, I know, from recent [and most, to be honest] posts in this here blogue.
It’s just that when things are ‘good’ you’d rather enjoy it rather than sit & shit it away through your fingers. Because the more you write about the ‘good’ things, the more you dwell on them, and the more you pick at them, and the more you tear them apart. Until you effectively kill them.
So you don’t describe how incredibly cool double-decked buses are without thinking about the maddening traffic or insane driving. And you don’t mention your favorite restaurant with the friendliest staff without worrying about the precarious financial situation that living in The Second Most Expensive City IN THE WORLD breeds. And you don’t rave about the innumerable art wonders available at your fingertips to wipe away a bad day without hanging an equal amount of pretentious ‘arty’ wankers pestering the sites. And you definitely don’t want to talk about how freakishly awesome things with the boyfriend are... without ignoring the overwhelming fear when comes the imminent day you will need to part.
So yeah, I’d rather not write about the ‘good’ stuff, thank you, but that’s just me.
For the record.
rambled vapidly vibrant
Saturday, March 29, 2008
We have a new Operations Manager at work. I’m not entirely sure what he does (carry out spying operations? Operate complicated machineries? Both?), one thing’s for sure, it involves wankery.
On Friday, he did ‘the rounds’ and basically 'taught' us how to sell
our souls the restaurant, which left me a trifle confused as we’ve never been busier. He also pulled me aside regarding a complaint... Guess what? It wasn't for me. Another sign that this guy knows his shit: “The one thing you must ensure is to keep that customer and not let them walk out the door, even if we’re full... How do you feel about getting them the ringer?” Faced with the unabashed puzzled (and slightly frighteningly appalled) gleam in my eyes, he explained that ‘the ringer’, instead of being a krav maga move or the really bad movie that Jackass guy was in as I suspected, is a gadget given to clients while they wait for a table at the bar or some such sort, and as soon as it's ready, transmits a ring and/or vibration via a controller so they can trod their way towards gluttony goodness. Not unlike the cattle we ironically sell them. Because, you know, walking up and greet them to the table yourself is just too damn personal for a small restaurant like ours. And I suppose it does slow down the entire spending process.
Sure, I’m no business woman – heck, I’m can barely haggle my way through a decent deal with that shop keeper on the street who sell his pashminas £0.83 more than the one on the other side of the road - but it seems that all these ‘strategies’ and ‘gadgets’ to ‘upsale’ sounds a bit cold and unfriendly, donnit? And from a customer’s point of view, rather obviously desperate? And off-putting? And did I mention cold, unfriendly and, you know, generally unattractive? Because when I go to a restaurant, beside the food, it’s the homely and welcoming atmosphere, the comfort in knowing that you’re not just a walking dollar sign nor will you be treated as such, with overbearing greetings, fake friendliness and obvious sales pitch - that stinking smell of cheese (not the good kind anyway) - that gets me through the door. Or is that just me being childishly naïve again? No, like, srisly, I can’t tell anymore.
A colleague and I, in what we innocently thought was a random conversation with one of these new Sales-y managers (we’re trying to ‘re-brand’ ourselves, apparently), were suddenly quizzed on what the ‘6 R’s’ were. As we looked at him as though he landed from Planet Twat, surprised mostly of the existence of such a planet in the first place, he made a note to speak of it in next week’s meeting. Oups. Apparently, when faced with a complaint, the infamous 6 R’s, as he was happy to inform us, are: 1) Remove object of complaint; 2) Report to upper management; 3) Replace item of complaint; 4) ...frankly, I was too repulsed at this point as I realised how retardedly unaware of his own moronic rapport with human reasonning to concentrate on what he was rhyming at. Then I was distracted in wondering if there’s an R’s rule on how to not smack your boss? Refrain, restrain, re-consider, run and retire?
Anyrooney, if this is how it’s going to be from now on, I’m afraid I might have to kick my Do Not Bite the Hand That Feeds You policy right into Bitchville on these virtual pages. As well as start drinking heavily .
rambled vapidly vibrant
Friday, March 28, 2008
It’s a really bad sign when you can’t enjoy the one thing that has always cheered you up.
Whenever I reach That Point – when I can break out in tears, turn to pyromania and/or slice various things, living or otherwise, that fall upon my path – a nice meal, on my own, always seem to keep me away from your evening news. Yes, glorious, life-saving, food.
But as I took a bite of that wonderfully baked garlic champignons with spinach and cheese à la raclette, tears welled up. And not just because I had burned my tongue.
“How izcit?”, the very pretty French waitress asked me in broken English. I nodded as I squinted one eye (the teary one) and tried to create an air passage to ease the burn in my mouth, and created instead a burn in my throat (because it's impolite to eat with your mouth open, especially when someone is talking to you.) Seemingly satisfied to make her customers painfully pleased, she walked away and seated a loud couple a few tables away from mine.
He’d enjoy this, I couldn’t help thinking to myself.
From where I sat, I couldn’t tell what my new fellow diners looked like but they sounded slightly, for lack of a more flattering word, pudgy. There was weight and heaviness to their tone - hoarse and tired, for all the volume exuberated. Their cheerful chit-chat quickly turned to growing resentment as my steak, perfectly rare, with frites & watercress, was presented before my hopeful hunger. “I know you don’t like them, but they’re still my family!...”, the lady spoke out, so defensively, I turned my head. She had curly hair. “And there’s no need for you to be so rude! Especially in front of me!”, she continued.
So some couples have more serious issues....
Still, the thought didn’t help me enjoy as I could this 7oz of juicy dead meat, the sweetness of which hasn’t melted in my mouth in months. Bastard. Because as I sat there, sipping the nice glass of red and guiltily amusing myself in eavesdropping, I know he is at home, sulking in his bowl of homemade fried rice. And though his fried rice is pretty good, somehow indulging an overpriced meal out without him, in spite of him, just doesn’t seem fair. Even if he started it. And slammed the door behind me when I continued.
“Fucking bastard”, the pudgy-sounding man shouted in tandem, but unrelated, with my head. He then mumbled something underneath his breath, quite angrily I noted, and shuffled loudly various things, the salt and pepper grinder probably, on the table. “And that’s how you speak of my family…”, surly curly lady sadly pointed out. An icy silence ensued, interrupted only intermittently by the restaurant manager asking the pretty French waitress to clean up just as the last customers left so they could all leave sooner, to which she replied ‘it donne madderre to mi - shure, but it donne madderre eder wé…’.
It doesn’t matter indeed.
I finished my steak, satiated, asked for the dessert card but didn’t order any. “I’m just going to finish my wine, thank you”.
I just wanted to go home. Wherever that was.
rambled vapidly vibrant
Monday, March 17, 2008
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Quand je fais la montagne de vaisselle qui pourrit dans l'évier, quand je descends les pavés inégaux de Regent Street, quand je remonte les escaliers mécaniques du underground (à la DROITE, à la DROITE!) ou m’assieds sur les bancs feutrés style soixante-dix du tube (surtout quand je m’assieds sur les bancs feutrés style soixante-dix du tube), peu importe ce que je fais, je ressens cet intense désir de m’évacuer. Ça s’accumule et s’empile, ça gronde et ça grouille avec une lenteur souffrante, juste là-là.
Mais quand ça compte, quand je pose mes fesses et dégourdis mes doigts, avec anticipation et transpiration, ça ne. Sort. Pas.
Ça enfonce sans pousser.
Ça agace comme une grosse merde.
Ça fait chier, mais pas vraiment, vous suivez?
Mesdames, messieurs, je suis blogstipée.
Mais en attendant que mes muscles relaxent, veuillez visionner mon band* chéri du jour. Merci.
*Quoi, vous n’attendiez pas du Beethoven quand même? Pas après ça... (Ô! R’gard les jolies couleurs...!)
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Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Horoscope for Tuesday February 26:
“You will only be semi-satisfied during the course of today. You will look in vain for a passionate climate but love only leaves you with ripples in the soul, never fulfilling you entirely. The sensations you taste will seem too faint; you do not appreciate the hazy atmosphere nor half-admissions the stars have in store for you, in spite of your flirty mood."
Don’t you hate it when someone else other than you is right?
Espcially when he/she/it is an idgitt?
rambled vapidly vibrant
Sunday, February 17, 2008
I’d like to say the reason I haven’t written much was because I was busy travelling and acting decadently scandalous ‘till the wee hours of tomorrow. Fortunately, I have sufficiently shitted through my fingers to fool no-one. I’ve just been lazy.
It’s been three weeks since I’ve moved in with Blond Monkey - roommate and relegated boyfriend - and I still haven’t unpacked. Mostly because there isn’t exactly any room to put away my color-coordinated wardrobe, the entirety of which I had cleverly brought with me. I could, of course, clean and order the closet to clear out some space but that would just defy my obstinate lazy stance and foil the only thing I may succeed in throughout this whole trip.
We go out, we eat, we shag, we cry, we laugh and start saying ‘we’. It’s enough to make me sick. Only, it hasn’t. The best moments are those spent when he plays some music and I read
blogs the guardian while sipping tea. Ladies and gents, fags and faeries, I’ve become a 67-year-old semi-retired bore living beyond her means before my time.
Words cannot express my joy.
On the home front, I’ve recently spoken to my little cousin, aka Little Boy Whore, he of taciturn moods and tight pants. With all the blossoming vigor of his youth, he is planning a trip to New Zealand and Australia in May, despite being for as long as I’ve known him not the wanderlusting type. Hearing of his exciting new plans and the anticipation of his curiosity makes my heart soar. But despite my glee, I could not help a drop of regret sipping into my joyful heart. I wish I had the ability, the vision, direction and guts to travel far and wide when I was his age. To feel that drum in your head and just follow it. Right then and there, without question nor fear. To have fun while playing and not playing to distract.
Usual nostalgic bollocks, you get the idea.
As for The Crazy Woman, I've been avoiding her calls even though I terribly miss her. I'm not quite sure how that works yet, and quite frankly I can't be bothered thinking about it. Despite shooting our usual banter nobody understands (seeing as it is in our Crazy Language, which she took years to forge and perfect) there is always a dark gleam behind her upbeat speech. I can tell when she is holding her tears. Bless her for trying but I selfishly cannot deal with it at the moment (when can you ever deal with that?) Instead, I let her linger and cut our occasional conversations short with some feeble excuse. I know I will pay for being such an awful daughter but as these things work, I won't regret it until it's too late.
Thank goodness there's tea.
rambled vapidly vibrant
Friday, February 15, 2008
After five months in The Second Most Expensive City IN THE WORLD, I think I’m finally getting the hang of it. But why aimlessly & disorderly ramble on about it when I can use subheadings to fart out air of deluded self-importance? Yeah!
(Even though I’m sure as I type this, I have jinxed everything and will be ridden to bedrest, run over by a mental bus driver & infested with a new form of malaria. It is London after all.)
1. Slaving for the
Back home, I worked in a relatively nice restaurant in the heart of one of the trendier places of the city. After six years, and though I met and befriended some lovely folks there, it’s not exactly a place to work on a daily basis if your mental health is so intricately dependent upon your Faith In Human Beings. So you have to ask yourself, why in the name of sweet baby Jaysus have I found myself in one of the busiest and ‘trendiest’ joint in town?
Don’t look at me.
I’ve been punched in the face.**
Also, as I’d hate to ‘bite the hand that feeds me’ (or some other proverb, maxim, aphorism or witticism – you know, one of those, I can’t b e bothered), it is kinda exactly what I’ve asked for, innit? And despite having to deal with people who seem to have bitterly overgrown their nappies & become vaguely aware that it would be somewhat frowned upon to be seen breastfed by their mummies, answering questions to which you’ve already explicitly replied, demands that boggles any human logic and rudeness that brings about the Godzilla within about 50 times more than what you deem should be the legal amount allowed before committing random acts of violence - with compliance and a warm smile! - it is actually not that bad…. (Aside, of course, for the slight twitch I’ve developped in my right arm from restraining it to swing forth.)
The food is purdhy awesome – and free *winks* - and the entertainment from the ubiquitous love affairs, cliques, backstabbing, whisperings and glares is completely fabulous if not completely exasperating.
And I did get to see Hugh Grant.
Complain not lest ye be judged, I say!
2. Being A Consumerist Whore
Portobello market’s insane and TopShop is pricier than it appears. But for the little time and money I’ve had in my name I somehow managed to buy five pairs of shoes/boots since I’ve been here. Count it – one, two, three, four, five – five pairs of shoes/boots in one, two, three, four, FIVE months. (That’s one per month without food, for those out there who’s counting, thank you.) Granted, I’m a long way from becoming Carrie Bradshaw, but foregoing basic survival instincts to, say, live, in exchange for footwear? T’is my new life aspiration!
Seriously. Never have I been surrounded by so many beautiful, comfortable and affordable shoes in my life. Yes, affordable. And comfortable. And did I mention gor-gei-yuuuusss? Forget Mr. Effexor***, give me pumps any day!
You see, the great thing about London, fashion and design are embedded in every corner. Paris is prettier, Florence sweeter, Vienna greater, New York grittier, in my humble opinion, but London’s art culture is within its guts. There’s an artistic urgency here that I’ve never quite felt anywhere else. It’s overwhelming, really. The sheer number of vintage shops, independent music shops, cooky designer products shop, art galleries and art schools and art bakeries and art-this and art-that, is mind-numbing. I never really considered myself to be a small town girl, but ma’, we certainly ain’t in Kansas no more!
Here are just some of the cool places to look for, like, cool stuff I've managed to take in:
- magma: I never quite know where it is located, or exactly how to get there as all the times I’ve stumbled upon it I was lost. But it’s in Soho, and if there’s only one thing I learned here is that every road leads to somewhere awesome in Soho. The flagship is a bookstore that carries cooky arty/design gems I’d all buy if I had the money, while a few steps down the road you’ll find one filled with a buncha cool cards, gadgets and decorations. Utterly useless stuff, yes, but my, how joy-inducing!
- fopp: Again, another awesome store in Soho. Originally a Glaswegian retailer, it provides books, music, dvds for a fraction of what one of those Big Megatstore offers. One can spend days there rumaging through their floors for big names or dodgy elitist shit. It’s like an music geek’s wet dream and it makes me slightly regret I grew up with Wham! instead (damn you, Big Sister, damn you! *fist to the sky*)
- Grant & Cutler: Biggest European bookstore I know, right behind Oxford Street, that carries French books. They have piles and piles of books over shelves stocked to the electrical-wired open ceiling. It's neither corky nor pretty like some other smaller bookstore I’ve seen but it feels like one of those school libraries where I used to skip classes to linger in and spent literally hours reading about authors whose works were covered in the same lectures I was incidentally missing. It makes me all warm & gooey in the inside.
- Marks & Spencer: I get it. I really do. M&S is not just another big chainstore– it’s a wonderful chainstore. And all because of their rasberry & marscapone cake. *drools* For some 4 quid, you can easily ascend to crusty sugar heaven and would pledge undying devotion to its makers with just one bite even though one bite is surely not enough. Unfortunately, others seem to have found this glorious treasure as it is rarely on the shelf for long. *pouts* Even so, like Tom Cruise, I can’t possibly keep such a holy revelation to myself, so just make sure to save me a piece if you ever get your hands on it (no forks needed, thank you).
3. Eating Until the Fat Lady Blows Up
The consensus seems to be that English food is shite. And I wouldn’t argue much against that had my stomach not been a rubbish bin. Also, it is not so much all English food that are a tad below international par – its pies and cakes and biscuits are absolutely divine.
What is quite special here however, in The Second Most Expensive City IN THE WORLD, is its gastronomical variety. Aside from Chinese & Vietnamese food (oh! My kingdom for a decent phở!), Asian food here, particularly Korean & Japanese, is freakin’ awesome! And if you feel like some Indian, any restaurant you encounter every two buildings can beautifully accomplish the task, let me tell you.
On the European front, a south Italian restaurant, arancina, offers cuisine that makes me drool sexily with longing every two hours, offering seasonal seafood and pasta, a whole range of sweet creamy goodies and friendly local staff. There’s also this belgian bistro I’ve recently found, Le Pain Quotidien, that serves the best in house coffee with fresh cold meats & veggie platters, all served with homemade bread and is, with free internet, my semi-permanent residence.
It wouldn’t surprise me if I needed to buy an extra plane ticket to fit the excess fat I’ve gained when I’ll fly back home. Luckily, I can’t be bothered. Specifically because my brain is busy concentrating on chewing, digesting and making more room for more food. I heart my brain.
4. “There’s nowhere like home.” (Especially if it’s cheap.)
I’ve moved out from The Oestrogen House. Not without a little regret, I must admit, as for the last few weeks I was there, some of the girls have managed to melt my cold barren heart. But when mice moved in, I figured no warm fuzzy human feelings can over-compensate my over-priviledged sissy repulsion towards rodents nesting in my bathroom and fled the fuck out of there.
I am now living in walking distance of Notting Hill, Holland Park, Kensington Gardens and Portobello Road, with every convenience food shop and restaurants I’ve ever craved for right around the corner. And I’m paying a lot less. And it’s in zone freaking 1. It’s freaking awesome.
So awesome, in fact, you feel like there has to be a drawback somewhere…
Like, I don’t know, living with a cat. When you are acutely allergic to cats. But, with the pros being what they are, I figured one just needs to hoover a bit more often and buy more tissue paper. Or, you know, kick said cat.
Or then again, you discover you are highly propelled to kick instead the person you live with, who just so happens to share not only an enclosed tiny space but also a bed and a romantic liaison with you...
Would that be rather inappropriate, you reckon?
Somehow, all the above has blinded me to the fact that (a) I seem to have acquired what some might refer to as a Boyfriend *shudders*, and (b) I am now bewilderingly living with said Boyfriend *gags*.
Yes, I’ve moved in with the boy who was featured in such previous episodes as this, this, and this one too, and that one as well, and ouh! let's not forget this one! Which means, in addition to all the benefits already mentioned, I get the luxury to see him and his strange boy-habits, day in, day out, twenty-four-freaking hours a day, and somehow still want to shag him senselessly. A feat, dear virtual friends, that test the very limits of my sanity.
We have now passed beyond the Farting Stage, Shaving Stage and Having Sex Every Other Three Seconds (Or However Long It Is For Him To Go Again, Ahem) Stage. Frankly, I quite enjoy where we are – the amount of effort, time and energy I am saving from keeping my body primmed and proper can probably get me through a doctorate degree in Astrophysics.
Or, you know, cleaning.
*tears hair out*
I. Am. A. Clean-freak.
I know this. This is me taking responsibility, okay?
Great. Can we get to the part where he drives me fucking insane?
By putting the cheese grater back in the cuboard, full of cheese on it?
By covering the stove with dried sticky tomato slices right after I cleaned it?
By piling the rubbish bin so high it becomes the fucking ninth world wonder?
By discarding bottle caps and lids god knows where so the kitchen emits a cheesy-garlic-ketchup smell mixed with cat food?
By leaving my body towel by the bath tub – WHERE THE CAT GRAZES BY?
I mean, seriously. SERIOUSLY! THE MAN IS OUT TO KILL ME!!!
*takes a deep breath*
Right. So maybe he’d have some darn good reasons to plot my demise, and sure, these are relatively 'little things'****.
But... aren’t these 'little things' just ramifications of how he behaves generally? That when push comes to shove, he just doesn’t fucking care enough to do anything? And instead, just bows down, defeatedly, gives up, looks the other way? Out of laziness? That when it comes down to it, he doesn’t have what it takes?
... How the hell did I become this kinda girl? The kind of girl who needs – demands! – that Love, with the proverbial capital ‘l’, should be proven, challenged & conquered? To transcend somehow? How did I, the girl who is weary of relationship and all its by-products, have such naïve romantic beliefs about ‘Love’? And more importantly, what if my love for him isn’t unconditional?...
*rocks back & forth in dark corner*
Um, yes. All this brought about by ‘little things’. Like him not doing the dishes. Or leaving his dirty socks on my clean undies*****. Neurotic much?
And then... he’d say something like, ‘Should I start tap dancing now?’, and I melt with laughter like a pile of dungshit in an overheated oven, all over again.
I hate relationships******.
* So when I said 'jiffy' I forgot tot take into account that I was also A Lazy Bum. Apologies. I know you were all anxiously biting down your nails, painfully awaiting for an encompassing update. To pardon myself, click here. Carry on.
** Nope, that’s still not getting old, I’m afraid! *thumbs up*
*** Speaking of which, I am weaning myself down to now 35mg per week!! Huzzah! It’s been a long & winding road, but that’s another post for another very fickle day...
**** And there are other 'little things' too – little things that my brain must erase from memory immediately as to keep itself from sucking itself dry out of sheer mercy. (Shush. What do you mean, do I exagerate a bit?)
***** No, but I mean, that’s enough to make me gauge my eyes out.
****** In a ‘not really, not even a little, not at all kinda way’. (Help. Me.)
rambled vapidly vibrant