party for one......

Dear readers, I find myself here tonight typing into google ‘will singed eyelashes grow back’.

Apparently, yes, in seven or eight fucking weeks. Marvellous. My friend obstrov would say it was me trying to tell myself something. What would that fucking be? Don’t get burnt…………..oh too bloody late!

Yes, readers, the inevitable has happened. Nearly. The plan was, hold off while the boy was away. Tick. Wait and see what happens when you actually get your hands on him. Well, sort of. The first night was great but I’ve been reaching my talons through silent waters in the seeing him much stakes. Distance. He’s backing off. And I found three used johnnies in his bin today. And then saw him with a girl. Marvellous, you could say I’m adding up events into an average, rather than seeing them as separate, unconnected happenings. Hmmmmmmmm, more herbal tea please vicar.

The next part of my oh-so-unsuccessful plan was the feeling that after a few weeks we’d have to have ‘a chat’. Well, this has now become ‘THE chat’, and gawd am I dreading it. Especially with only one set of eyelashes.

The miraculous mr fish gave me some excellent advice. I can’t remember any of it, but I felt good, and I walked out into the street after scrawling ‘you’re nobody till somebody loves you’ on his toilet door in eyeliner. Which I may need for my left eye. And I walked out into the street smack bang into my boy and a rather lovely young lady friend. Thanks for spending your daytimes without me. Thank you.

Bitter? Possibly, old and can’t be fucked with all this, definitely.

1. it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s all going to be okay. (denial)

2. Fly away little one! Off to your tossers in shit nightclubs. (anger)

3. maybe we’ll talk and it’ll be okay - everyone seems to think he’s into me and won’t let me go? And I do do an excellent blow job. (bargaining)

4. fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. Might never fuck again. He doesn’t give a fucking fuck. Fuck. (depression)

5. (acceptance)

The singe, by the way, occurred at the accuseds’ birthday party. 22, what am I to do? Sit and procrastinate, write poetry, get stoned, learn Blur’s ‘to the end’ on guitar to drown people with at open mic, draw a picture of him and me from an amazing photo and obsess about various strange features he has and the way our bodies are interlinked, text the world, listen to Dolly Dagger and blog. That’s freaking what. God, is creativity about life or is life just all about creativity?

Haven’t blogged for a bit, and decided no more about this one. This thorn in my proverbial fucking side. This frigging muse. But hell, how creative!

So the chat comes next. Last time we had a 'chat' he upped his game....but I wasn't a bald-eyed old psychotic cunt back in them days. Shame...........shame that his beautiful penis reamineth not in his skinny jeans.

Last time I dumped myself? Hmmm........well my favourite time was a beauty. We got to my front door, I stepped inside, he stayed on the doorstep, and said:

'I can't see you anymore. I love you'.

Classic. They usually conk it or I shit all over them. This one's going to be a breaker. And the storm is coming, and I'm guessing he won't come under my umberella. There are no benefits to my doubts, watch this blog.....x