260310 Fuck. That. Shit.

I always remember my own words of advice ‘work do, don’t do’.

Yes, but each time I have an eternal optimism, until someone seems to slip into my drink the opposite of Prozac. Some fucking hideous depressant, some horrible incubated infectious mental condition.

This Friday, all went well to start with. Various people stared at me wide-eyed saying, ’I don’t know what you’re talking about’. But that’s normal for us higher beings without opposable thumbs.

Work to live. Live to work. Or do what I do – deny you work at all. Some semi-posh girl approaches me and my dandy gang to tell us about the list of top totty the men have leched upon.

And these men are not nice men. Some, frankly, make fascists seem like florists.

Poor little Rach is top of the list, and the pervs are named and shamed. She seems oblivious, which is good. When I ask where I appear on this rancid list, it’s ‘maybe near to the bottom ten , but we’re old’. This girl is nigh on forty and I’ve just started my ‘ascent’ into my thirties.

Then she expands upon the detail:

‘You need to put some conditioner on your hair and get a new wardrobe’.

What?! WHAT?! Who has ever said that to another woman? Yes, it’s true my hair has been likened to straw and hay on several occasions, but keep it to yourself, I’m doing all I can! And the wardrobe – do I want to look nice for work? Or more specifically, the men at work? I purposefully deter; tonight alone a married man with children has told me he can no longer hug me due to his sexual feelings, and another remarked on my facebook pic in a pair of pants (dressed as Micky Jackson you understand). And they are the hottest of the bunch.

Why do people care about what people think of them? Why do people care about what the pondlife of drudging ordinaries think of them? Where does their sphere extend to? I’m all for a cup of Horlicks, but Horlicks with a hit list is another matter…..

I go off in a huff. Oh dear. What’s wrong? Am I premenstrual? NO, I’m at a frigging work do, and it always turns……….for every season.

When I regain my position at the purgatorial table, I grimace and look to my partner in crime Ivan for some support. The support comes in the guise that we will leave in approximately three and a half minutes.

But I don’t want to burn bridges with this girl – she keeps me in marmalade year-round. We have also conversed in the kitchen about men a lot. She is the one who, after two weeks with a new man, says it’s great if you know where you stand, then you aren’t wondering if you should move in together……………can’t say THAT thought ever crossed my mind.

Anyway, now she lezzes onto me, saying she wants to know what makes me TICK, what makes me go LOOPY. I realise now more than ever that she is clinically unstable, and wonder how to best explain my way ‘tactfully’ out of this one.

I tell her I hate work dos. I tell her the only reason I attend is to get to know the people OUTSIDE of work. I tell her nothing makes me tick, or loopy, that I am completely sound.

She tells me she admires me and wants to ‘cross-pollinate’. She can get me laid. I tell her I can get me laid. She says she doesn’t know what she can offer me. I tell her she can offer me herself.

She goes outside for a rollie.

Thank fuck. I leave……………………………….

180310 shalom, farewell, auf wiedersehen - goodbye

So I mentioned my friend’s dealer. Yes, that’s how I like to refer to him. The South African that was sourced for me to fuck.

You have escaped a convoluted pondering on spiritual connection, and a lecture on time and space being abstractly relative.

It’s been nearly two months. And Five occasions. And yes, I do count.

That’s the point. I do count.

I can cope with ‘I’m not emotionally available’.

But as my good friend Johnny puts it, ‘I’m not emotional’.

We had good times. Really deep fucking. The kind that’s good. Books, film, alternative culture, that sort of thing.

But he never texted me. And so tonight was the unbeknown grand finale. Or maybe he knows it, shallow in his waters…………

He cooked for me, which is sweet. He drank my chai. I wrote him a poem that ended:

Some

Bitch

Some

Shit.

I like to leave something behind. And it’s him.

And ironically, I think he’s the only man to walk me home, ever, in my life. As in, purposefully make the decision to walk me home. Mainly to get me out of his flat. And I was going to decline the offer, being the well-travelled hardened bitch that I am. Then I remembered that thing they refer to as ‘self esteem’.

And now I feel great. The queen of premature endings. Don’t wait till the light’s burnt out. Don’t wait till you’ve inflicted so much pain on each other you can’t turn over in bed at night. Just end it. Beautiful endings.

Or worship me. Or fuck off.

Fin