I beg your pardon…..Go Cougars!

He’s sooooooooo mental. But he’s soooooooooooo cute.

Now there’s a new dilemma (or is it just an old one I’ve forgotten?)

The last one was pig ugly but spiritually vast. Wouldn’t commit – not even to texting me, but showed me a secure loving place where I could exist.

Boring.

So now, let’s see what the remedy is for that poison…..

Beautiful boy. Beautiful. The kind of beautiful that made me remark to my colleague:

“ Well he’s obviously a bit mental – well I know he’s a bit mental – cos it’s always either that or serial fucking monogamists that like me.”

To which she gave me a small teaching on self esteem.

“Yeah, but that’s what I always say – they must be mental if they like me……..”

Etc. Not realising how literal and grounded I was being. Sad when you know it’s not necessarily you they like, it’s just that they need someone. Back off sunshine.

He commits like a boy scout giving a blowie for a mars bar – oh sorry, was that consents? He texts me every waking minute – chirpy, youthful (ahem) delightful little quips that warm just more than the cockles. Yet he does not show me a secure loving place where I can exist.

No, I thought we were living in parallel – that’s as far as I’d got, and decided to call him my squeeze. What a lovely fucking squeeze he has….

And how funny when you let yourself start to believe in that other side – maybe this is something, maybe there are no rules - maybe I’ll never frickin eat again, that’s when it comes crashing down.

Well I’ve been on the flakes tonight, guys and gals, that’s for sure.

This blog entry was intended to be called any or all of the following:

• My boy lollipop
• I am a child
• You’re only as old as the boy you feel
• 21 again…..
• Age before beauty
• All the young dudes

It started a year ago. I met a young lad in a bar in town when I’d taken a married man to see an old flame’s band. Said young lad was working behind the bar. And fit. And young, again. Twenty years old.

So miss doley pants squeezed a few more red wines out of her tight purse (wink), and chatted his fucking face off all night.

Musician. Tick. Wanted me to see his band. Yes.

And for the next year we myspaced each other and he invited me to various gigs, all of which I couldn’t make cos of boxing, or Michael Jackson dancing at love box, or laying in a darkened room masturbating.

Then, eureka, he’s playing at my charity event. Karma karma karma karma karma chameleon. Let the boy cometh unto me.

And cometh he has being, sometimes a bit sporadically, every which way and loose. We’ve been gallivanting through London town with rock equipment in tow, gracing the seediest corners of Southwark I know.

I even let him into my spaceship, which is an honour. And by the way, he’s twenty one now and his voice has broken.

But at six this morning I get a text. He says he’s done something ‘silly’, might have ‘harmed’ himself and didn’t know who else to tell. I say what harm. He’s frigging OD’d on happy pills. Christ. What am I? Childline?

He calls me. I’m not impressed. He calls an ambulance, he has tests, he sees a psych nurse. Let’s hope there isn’t a knock at the door…..

So I spent the morning ripping up carpet with my dad. Hurting a bit. Then trying to work out why. Is it the emotional manipulation of involving me, is it that I’m hurt he wants to hurt himself, when he blatantly has got a good catch (this one isn’t so convincing), or is it cos I’ve bagged yet another freakin nutter?

You do the math.

When I texted my faithful John in London to tell him I was thinking of opening my own mental hospital, he pointed out that you’re not meant to sleep with your own patients. So that’s where I’ve been going wrong………………..

So today maybe I’m thinking I’m going back to being one of Beyonce’s single women. Hurrah, throw your fucking hands right at me.

And of course, when in the throes of love everything is poignant, let’s do that bipolar twist and have the falling out of love poignancy. Four emails in my inbox from dating websites saying they hadn’t seen me for a while. Cunts.

With pride I delete them, knowing soon my fate awaits……..

And old mister agoraphobic-pants texts me for some morning sex, and I tell him ‘I’m kind of seeing someone’. He tells me to get in touch when I’m not. I hope, with disbelief, that’s not now.

So, dear readers, now I go to bed, to have a massive fat great orgasm on my own. Look on the bright side, he timed his going moonie with my period.

And like the squirrel-woman I am, I leave you with a lyric by Doolittle:

“Never more shall we find you bright in the snow and wind.
The snow is melted, the snow is gone, and you are flown:
Like a bird out of our hand, like a light out of our heart, you are gone.”

Well it must be over – I’m writing about it……………….