nothing came out

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 bloque.
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...!)

love and truth

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?

for the price of a cup of tea

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.

ball cap*

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 Man Pig

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).
  

Hm. Speaking of which, why not skip right along to…

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?

No, really.

5. The arh-gn-gn-gn-gnargh Relationship Thing.

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*

Okay.

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?

…For what?

...For me?

... 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.)

on the radio

**NEWS FROM THE WAR-FRONT**

Oi STOP Still here and kicking STOP Will be back in a jiffy STOP Busy moving in with A Boy and keeping head from imploding STOP Yippies STOP

**END**

christmas is going to the dogs

He cooked a mean piece of rosemary stuffed roast pork with parsnips and potatoes for Christmas night, the leftover of which we had as sandwiches, picnic style, the next day. We had had vegetable curry – his mum’s traditional meal – on Christmas Eve. There was wine. And music. And candle lights. There was also lots of love. And kisses. And laughs.

He managed to spend the entire day without trousers on. You gotta love someone who can make a deliciously debilitating meal without any pants and still be completely sexy.

He said he loves me. That he wants to make me happy. He said he’d shave his cat for me...

And me? All I can do is miss the snow, my crazy family and think how much I will miss him when I go home.




Next year, I want to learn how to be happy please.




A very good one to you too.

*cheers*

maybe this christmas

Yes, friends and foes, real ones and virtual ones, even indecisive ones sitting on the fence who will fall to a particular side in one defining moment, it is undeniably that time of year again! And, being away from home for the first time evah for Christmas, without snow nor loud screaming from my beloved family gatherings to comfort myself, I shall shamelessly withdraw into Full Corny Mode, complete with Slow-Motion-Lashes-Battering Kisses, Dancing Under The Mistletoe and Gazing Through The Misty Window While Nat King Cole Sings In The Background. *grins*

And my generosity is such, as these times commercially pound into us, that I extend these uncomfortably warm fuzzy feelings to all of yee. May you be with those who appreciate your gaggingly silly tendencies & tastes in corniness and/or false cynicism & debauched relationship with Sir Alcohol – brandy or otherwise.

A round of drunken kisses and awkward hugs to all!

fixer le ciel

Through the midst of cigarette smoke and barbecue, buses and cabs splash their way down the drenched road while trendy Londoners quickly clonk their way on the busiest corner of the city. As I take a sip from my coffee, the wind picks up, splattering droplets of rain on my right cheek.

That’s when it hits me.

For the first time since I’ve been here, I feel at peace. I have a little job I enjoy, a friend to join in some much welcomed drinks later on and a warm bed to greet me in a forgiving embrace when I stumble back...

“Is it weird that I miss Friday night TV with you?” buzzes in my left pocket.

Oh. And there's also a wonderful boy who makes me smile with longing.

It’s moments like these, I think to myself.

Moments like these....

smooth criminal

Can.
Not.
WAIT!!!

*claps and drools*

*faints as she realises the world shall cease to exist as nothing can beat Johnny Depp singing while slashing throats in goth make-up ever again (not that she had such high hopes)*

moon river

Relationships are weird.

I don’t mean just the romantic kind. It’s the general idea, the incessant drive, the rumbling need for people to come together in one moment in time and share a piece of their lives, their memories and their hearts, to bond, to connect, and then just up and leave, as the tidy currents of life would only have it, that all seems a tad... odd.

Doesn’t it?

When J flew away to his Big Corporate Job about four months ago now, I didn’t fully realise what it entailed. So we won’t be skipping and singing along the streets in repugnant British accents anymore, and we won’t argue over who hates the other more or who's the bigger bitch nor will we embarrass ourselves our mothers by orgasming over the gorgeous colors of Club Monaco’s shirts and skirts. So we won't mimic sexually depraved shenanigans to the horror of our friends or whore ourselves on the dance floor to the dismay of too-cool-to-mess-their-hair indie posse. Nor can we mock, gag and plan devious ways to shun folks with shiny pants and moustaches only to come up with stupid t-shirt ideas we think are absolutely brilliant. So we won’t be able to have shitlong conversations over beers and tears and lattes and laughs. After six years of friendship and all that we have gone through, it is a little silly that being a continent and ocean away would mark the end of it, I thought. Besides, as proud 21st century unsociable geeks, practically 50% of our relationship can be recorded through the intricate nanobite world of the interweb, it’s not as if it’ll be that big of a difference anyway.

I thought…

The funny thing about being away, every relationship I have is re-evaluated. And by extending my distance from them, I seem to have found space to better feel them. And it feels like going through a big cleaning for the harsh winter. Like assigning old frocks to different boxes – the ones I don’t really need, the ones for the deep freeze and the ones that I’ll always keep, all year-round, through the seasons. Like an inventory for my heart strings. To know what’s waiting for me when I come home. To seek out the ones I want.

I’ve known Jules & Mary since I was seven years old. Despite having briefly ‘drifted apart’ during high school, and though we don’t see that much of each other anymore, every time we get together we somehow manage to pick up right where we left off. And the only things that seemed to have changed are the careers, the cars, the boys, the locations. We still laugh at the same old jokes, at the same old memories, and we even manage to love one another more for the little pieces we find out through all these years.

It’s astounding, really. To find these people you can be yourself with. Who just get it. Like E. A feisty little woman with enough sass to sell and still be able to kick your ass to the moon. But also so sweet. And innocent and caring and just and honest. Whom I wish I had spent more time with...

And what about those who are bound to you by blood? Who are inexplicably and irrevocably true and strong and unconditional. These people to whom you owe so much yet never comprehend why, or know how to ever repay. These people whom you have no choice in the picking, whom you learned to know and hate and understand and love, who build and feed and comfort you, for the sheer reason that they are referred to as ‘family’. Who are indefinably yours. Whether you want to or not.

But... there are also the others.

The ones who after all this time together somehow still don’t quite understand. Unfortunately. And though you still care and love them dearly, no matter how hard you try, they will never get it and will always hurt you by it. Unintentionally. So what to make of these people, those years past and these pieces of you blown in the wind? How can you get them back? So you can take them and give them to those who would care. Because there is such a depleted amount of where that came from...

And isn’t it a little self-delusional to think that there would be people who would care? That aren’t all these relationships just another accessory to reaffirm your illusions of self-importance and your meaning in the world? Simply through the feeble validation of others? Aren’t all these friends and lovers, connections and conversations sought out to comfort & endorse your subjective beliefs & opinions, and pat yourself on the back? To make you feel less trivial somehow? Anyhow? And at any cost?

As much as I hate thinking of people like some appropriating piece of clothing one can store and wear and throw and give away, for sentimental reasons or self-preserving purposes, the truth is I can barely keep myself together let alone someone else in my out of whack wardrobe.

Yet…

There is that yearning again…




And then there’s the moon...
And my Seventeen-Year-Old Self...
Who believes that the trivial is meaningful…

Enough.




Human nature to survive, by any means possible, is stronger than one may think. And completely, utterly fucked up weird, if you ask me.

Which, of course, no one did.

fleur de saison

À Montréal, l'hiver.

À Londres, soleil...




[n.b. photo de kimberly blue.]

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.)

piste 7

What better way, may I ask, to lift one's spirit up than to spend one's birthday enjoying the pretentious decadence of High Tea, seeing three exhibitions (one of which reignited childhood glees while another reminded why art can kick so much arses), getting giddily tipsy with el vino while a wonderful man prepares one's dinner, gorging oneself silly with said wonderous cookery goods, engaging in lively discussions and shagging 'til the wee hours of the morning, hm?

(Oh. And there was chocolate cake. Obviously.)

I know. Suddenly, turning A QUARTER OF A CENTURY OLD doesn't sound so daunting.

(Much.)

better

It’s friday night and I’m on my own. For the first time since I’ve been here.

A sign that I am finally settling in?

A cup of tea, dark chocolate digestive biscuits, a good thick book.
And my laptop.

I have been here for nearly two months and I still haven’t a clue of what I am doing.

I don’t remember what happened. I can piece together some parts of the day, from lunch to dinner. And then, I vaguely remember flashes of whites and yellows. And pinks. My pink shirt in red blood. How unfashionable. And all these voices... My vain efforts to spell out my name, remembering to see if my jeans were still on, relief that they were. I remember nothing in between. Just wiping my tears away the next day. Trying not to cry. Thinking ‘what the fuck…' . Over and over. And wishing my mother was there. To hold me and make it all better.

...What. The. Fuck?

What am I still doing here? So much money and effort and sweat and tears and blood. Literally. For what exactly? Could I not draw and paint and read and soak myself in the life I need back in the comfort of my own bed, my own friends, my own family? In my own home? I am confused.

It is eight. He hasn’t called yet.
I don’t know what I’m doing.
I seem to have found myself in strange territories.

He is a good man. He is kind and gentle and warm. And so gifted... But I don’t know what to do of him. And I'm lousy at this because I foresee the end. How, why and when. And I am unable to filter these thoughts. Through my mouth. With every kiss.

Such a terrible way to begin. Or live.

I have been listening to that Regina Spektor song in hoops. The one that goes ‘...uh-oh’. Or ‘ah-ah-ah ah-ah-ah ah-ah-ah-aaaahhh’. And/or. Repeat and shuffle. She’s got great hair. I need a haircut. I can’t stand my fringe anymore. And my skin is acting out. It’s allergic to him. His budding beard.

It’s so silly, I keep saying to myself...

It’s too soon. Unusual circumstances.
It can never sustain itself in my natural context.
It doesn’t mean anything. Whatever that means.
Stop worrying about it. Planning its doom.




...And when I’ll go home, will I miss him?




Such useless questions when there is really only one to ask...

our faces split the coast in half

For the few weeks that I have been in Britain, I have (in chronological order):

• Bathed with centipedes;
  
  
• Moved five times;
  
  
• For the first time in my life, been stung by a wasp – twice, in the same day;
  
  
• For the first time in my life, been punched in the face in front of my flat, woke up in the hospital with a concussion, memory loss, smashed sinuses and a broken cheekbone, wondering why people here say ‘hospital’ without putting an article before and impressed that I was able to text on my mobile without any spelling mistakes;
  
  
• Spent two nights in [the] hospital with a polite little senile woman pleadingly crying to go home and a lady who wants to get in contact with Whitney Houston’s aunt who was going to tell her where Heaven is;
  
  
• Moved again. For reasons unnecessarily undisclosed;
  
  
• Met The Sweetest of Men;
  
  
• Been hit by a car and sent flying to the ground with a scratch on my elbow and a sore bum, incredulously;
  
  
• Understood the comfort of this whole Tea-And-Biscuits-In-The-Afternoon Thing;
  
  
• Actually liked a cat;
  
  
• Requestioned my entire self-concept [due in no small part to above-mentioned point];
  
  
• Shagged so much my abs ache and legs can barely hold themselves up;
  
  
• Become comfortably accepting in deluding and ignoring my Fear of Relationships;
  
  
• Had a panic attack [due in no small part to above-mentioned point];
  
  
• Quit two jobs;
  
  
• Been wondering for the 472nd time what the fuck I am doing here;
  
  
• And really hoping that all my bad karma has been paid for...
  

... And how have you been?