maundy wednesday......

Thought I was fine today, maybe a bit come-downy. Went to work. Did some extremely subdued tasks. Got a pissed off email from a mate who I’d blogged about. Semi-sorted it. Low level. Sadness pervading through the office from my mighty gills. A sudden flurry of people telling me I look beautiful on facebook. Which obviously, makes me profoundly sad. The beans on the toast in the park in the rain. Arrange to flee to London town for the weekend to get away from it all.

Nearly meet a friend. Get a lift to tescos in the rain with a cheery girl from work. Where did she get that serotonin? Not fricking tescos, that’s for sure.

Bought a few limp cancerous low fat ready meals to eat cold in the middle of the night, and stooped home.

Not fine. Not fucking fine at all. Winter has come and I am holed up in a squirrel’s nest. I know: I’ll treat myself, I’ll suppress my ADHD long enough to watch a film. Picture fucking perfect. Yes, that’ll cheer me up.

Wailing. WAILING. WAAAAAAAAIIIIILING.

I am Jack’s wailing mess (cit. Pahalniuk).

How dare a man hold a woman in that way? There is something wrong with me. Split up with a teenager and watch a Jennifer Aniston ‘movie’ in my tracksuit bottoms? Who will love me now? WHO? I’m reminding myself of that little blonde munchkin from big brother, you know the one. Miniature with ridiculous gesticulation. What a beautiful re-incarnation.

So I get stoned and write instead. And here I am; everytime the phone goes it’s someone random texting me something strange. Not a lithe mischievous young creature telling me he wants to rip my clothes off.

I’m fluctuating at the moment between fucking someone for the sake of it, (note I don’t have to say fucking someone ELSE anymore), and being a barren depressed fat stoned spinster.

In the moments of ‘hope’ for a new horizon I realise I need to get my backlog out. I had remarked several times to friends that I needed to think who to fuck now that I knew the curtain was slowly slipping down.

Here’s the latest one:

• Desperate agoraphobic. Big cock, stupid shallow style. Extremely cheap thrills.
• Ex-boyfriend from years ago. Wallow in sepia goo.
• Wine me up man. Mmmmmmm.
• Dodgy arse-obsessed French man – brother of the groom and best man. Shallow, immature, smooth, brown, sexy. Just moved to London.
• Keep desperately trying to claw at the young man in the hope he might black out at some point and I can attack him.
• Music producer. A new entry in at number six. Not sure his records have got that high in the charts, (not that they have charts these days).
• Random. Most likely disappointing. Feelings of pain and anguish. What no text.
• My finger. Makes me want to cry.
• The vibrator I bought so I wouldn’t fuck someone when the boy was away. (being sandwiched between two young music producers from Coventry with a tongue in my mouth and a cock poking me from behind doesn’t count does it?). As mentioned before, I believe, you wouldn’t know how disgusted I am with that thing.

By the way, just played a game on facebook: ‘who does it look like I’ve fucked but I haven’t, and who have I actually fucked but wish I fucking hadn’t?’ It’s fun, you should try it, Godiva’s back in town. And I’ve a sudden craving for meat….and winds of frickin change is on my itunes, (opium-induced moment in Laos made me buy the Scorpions).

What did I love about him? His gangly ways, that’s what. His inability to shut up and his comfortableness with that. Our ability to mouth words at each other that neither bothered to absorb.

Side by side. The lion and the lamb. The dragon and the snake.