don't let me be misunderstood

So for the last three weeks I have been what some might call A Lazy Bum. I, of course, prefer the more technical term of ‘Unemployed (And Not Looking)’. You see, as much as I’d like to think of myself as a worldly young traveller with adventure in her heart and determination in her stare, the truth is I am not. And instead of spending this time going out, seeing the sights and feeling alright, I’ve simply been withdrawing into the world of french cafés and cakes and sleeping in until the the fat lady sings. Which is rather appropriate, really, as I have seriously been dithering whether or not this should be the end to Project London altogether (as opposed to moaning and whinging about it incessantly).

I am living at the moment in a ginormous house with 15 gals. Or as I like to call (as I have been spending all this free time renaming a buncha shits too – that’s just how I roll – shush) The Oestrogen House. I’ve never been in a sorority, it may shock some of you to learn, so this is rather an interesting situation I have stumbled in.

After bumming gratefully staying at a friend's house for two weeks when I came out of the hospital, I desperately needed to vacate the place as soon as possible in fear of abusing my welcome and/or losing the lonesome three remnants of sanity left as I may or may not have ended up somewhat involved in a rather clothesless way with said 'friend' (ahem) all the while recovering from what shall now be referred to as That Being Punched In The Face Thing*. At this precise moment in time, as these things tend to happen, obviously, work was taking on epic proportions and demanded nothing but utmost attention and devotion, which I sadly couldn’t be bothered with anymore, for fuck's sake (quite literally too as I really didn’t have any time left to enjoy any good nakedness time, sleep and/or find this elusive other place to live and save the three flakes of sanity clinging on to my brain - I am a Priorities Girl, you know). Luckily, a lovely girl from work (who, incidentally, also quit the same day I did) suggested I have a look at The Oestrogen House, where she is staying, as it is cheap and “really cool”. Desperate and broke (with an ounce of ‘panicky’ and a pinch of ‘insane’) (but mostly desperate), I figured it would be a satisfactory settlement, in the short term anyway, enough for me to sort things out. But one week turned into two, turned into I-am-quite-settled-in-now. Despite it being The Oestrogen House, filled with girls, oestrogen, giggles and girly stuff.

Like oestrogen.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not the girls per se that are causes for concern. Most of them are rather lovely actually, during the limited encounters I’ve had with each of them individually. And I’m the girliest girl I know so being submerged in full 'Girl Mode' is quite comforting and refreshing indeed. It’s just that… well, when you find yourself in a large group that is predominantly composed of one sex – female as the case may be – a particular phenomenon occurs, yes? Without falling into any gender stereotypes - it could have been a group of boys and the same occurrences would arise (except maybe having your hormonal cycle all fucked up (yes, you all needed to know that)) - somehow gossip (read 'talking behind eachother's back') and competition (read 'cattiness') seem to be the plate du jour... Differently executed and manipulated, granted, but they are still quite palpable. Which is odd, for me, you understand, as I've always shied away from any large group, being the antisocial bitch that I am. So after spending extended hours with The Group, I just desperately need to retreat back to my cave room and remain there. Indefinitely. Or until my roommate comes in and begins relating her entire life story to me.

Oh, did I forget to mention it is a roomshare?...

Fortunately, despite the constant chatting, followed by more chatting, Crazy Roommate is, well, utterly crazy and I love her for it. True, there are times where I’d gladly tear my hair in batches from my skull with my own teeth if that would shut her up, but she is the sweetest nutbag I’ve ever met and she makes me laugh. (Whether it be intentional or not sometimes is beside the point.) E.g. some crazy things Crazy Roommate have said:

“ Yeah, like me and my friends would just have make-out orgies for fun.”
“ I have like this friend, and then one day, she comes over and says her name is Troy and she’s now a boy, and I was like, hell no, you are fucking not...”
“ Like, I’m stalking the Tower of London, making sure that it’s still there?”
“ I’ll go have a smoke and then retreat in my heaven, also known as Happy Ipod Slash Sudoku Land.”
“ You know what’d be cool? Beheading. I want to be beheaded. Like when I die.”
“ Can we have a sea lion in our bathtub?”
“ Frogs creep me out a little, I don’t like hoppy things. Toads I like, ‘cos they just make, like, little hops, but frogs – have you seen the legs on those things?”

(Note that all these are said out of the blue. Who needs a telly when you have such comedy gold in your very own room?! Even though I wish she came with a remote.)

Unfortunately however, the rest of The Oestrogen House doesn’t quite think Crazy Roommate is as deliriously funny as I do and often discard her from such fun activites as Going To Every Fireworks Every Other Day, Clubbing In Skanky Joint and/or Sitting In Front Of The TV Singing Pop Countdowns. Yes, yes and yes, I know. There are cliques in The Oestrogen House, you see. I, it may shock some of you to learn (again), fall into the Socially Inept Hermit category. Or Weird Girl In Number 2.

Anywho. All to say that these are strangely interesting social dynamics, especially with the going-back-to-high-school feeling. Equally interesting is to see how long I can endure this without throwing a Carrie fit.


Right.

So I guess I’m staying. Which is the point of this post. (If there were ever any point to be had at all, I concur.) I’ve decided to stay at least for another couple of months, at least until Christmas.

This also means however that I need to look for a job now. But none of that ‘interesting’ shite, or anything that would require me to care. Because I obviously don’t [cf. blog title]. I just need something to pay the bills, and occupy enough of my attention so I don’t feel utterly needy and insecure the parts of the day when I am not stuffing my gob and/or asleep, yet leave enough time to indulge myself in, well, me. Which, let’s be honest, is the entire point of Project London [cf. blog title]. I know, it’s a wonder I ever get laid.

Wish me luck**.




* I figured if there is anything good to come out from this entire ordeal would be milking every possible ounce of it having a little laugh about it, yes? *thumbs up*

**For the Finding A Job part, not the Getting Laid thing. (Although that is always nice, thank you.)