Sunday bloody Sunday......

So, if you read the last entry you may remember that I left you after the wine shop and before ingesting the wine. Party for one. Must stay up till midnight strikes and I can leave the last year behind….well I shouldn’t have gone to the wine shop. I remember looking half a bottle of red down and knowing this probably wasn’t such a good idea. I roll a fat one. I honk on the guitar. Everything is sprawled out on the floor. I ring duke and interrupt an intimate moment whilst shrieking a country version of ‘que sera’ at him.

I decide to publish a blog at midnight. Even with one eye completely squeezed shut (the eyelashes are growing back, thankfully), I can’t actually see the words I’m posting on the world wide web.

But a girl needs some satisfaction. So I post. I proudly tell everyone on facebook also that I have posted. I also go status-mad, a sure sign that a girl’s been dumped. You know the ones, suddenly they’re telling ‘the world’ (but hoping their ex sees and him alone), that they are gutted, broken, crawling the walls, licking the floor. The sequence went as follows:

Godiva is dangerously close to blogging her fingers off for the next three hours (no euphemism intended). wine me up had come up top trumps as usual. oh red wine, wash over and subdue me........9.41pm

Godiva has been literarilily (like it?) constipated. enema administrated....

av it

Then a youtube of Grizzly Bear’s two weeks….11.02pm

Godiva: ‎1800 words.....how many blogs to split into?! (so far...)11:29pm

Godiva: okay. published. next one tomorrow. get on it. 12.14am

This was followed by two youtubes, curtis mayfield ‘keep on keepin on’, followed by hayseed dixie’s ‘you shook me all night long’. Stanley vitte likes this. Thumbs up. 12.39, and 12.44, respectively.

Like I said. Party for one. Oh, but it didn’t end there. What would be the ultimate treat for ms godiva? Orgasm. God damn it, I’m gonna show that vibrator who’s boss. Conquer the beast. Let its rubbery walls not break me.

Oh dear. I try to get horny first, yes that’s a good idea before you try and ram a nine inch pulsator up you. I get the lube the smear nurse gave me out and slather it all over. I have an unconvincing wank. I get it and switch it on somehow (I spent a frantic ten minutes trying to prise the goddam battery compartment open in the kitchen. A recommended way to get to know your ‘toy’ I believe). Maybe I should write romantic novels?

Anyway. It’s time for the point of entry. Easy does it girl, that’s it girl, easy does it. I wince. I get it somewhere. It’s horrid. I get the clit bit in the right position, ramming the purple monster deeper in.

I fucking hate it. I pull it out and fling it across the room, lube a-flying. I never want to see that waste of forty quid again.

Hmm, maybe that’s how I should see my relationship with the boy.


Monday bloody Monday……………..

I awake. It’s my birthday. There’s lube all over the shop. There’s the purple beast in the middle of the carpet. I am alone. I appear to be vaguely intact. It’s my birthday. Hm.

What do I do? Cleaning. Meet up with duke, and depress each other out of our heads. Go home. Maybe a sleep will help, (or maybe a text from a certain little someone? No chance).

Then I get trussed up like a forlorn turkey and make my way to my wife’s for rehearsal and certain cake.

I get to my wife’s. I am a dreary mess. They play happy birthday to me as I come in and there’s a cake all lit and ready for bulimia. It depresses me. The poor sods, obviously also quite depressed, set grins on their faces like grimacing masks.

BIRTHDAY! BIRTHDAY! BIRTHDAY!

I’ll saw off my belly button when I get home, I didn’t get born.

Love it, three people with heartache in a room gobbling cake. A mighty celebration.

My wife suggests we just go to hell with it and sings the blues at our gig tonight. The only blues I can think of requires me to play slide and I can’t. What a useless piece of shit I truly am, on this, my birthday.

So we crank up some possibles and realise it’s all we’ve got, and trundle to the pub. The pub is full of fat greasy men in tight red t-shirts watching football. And completely eyeing me up as if I was the parton herself, as I huff about with my geetar. This is all I need – a constant reminder that most men are even more inadequate than the boy that’s surely gone.

And then my friends turn up. It’s my birthday. I apologise for being absolutely fucking depressed, but as they should know, I hate my fucking birthday and it’s over with the boy. Seriously, I don’t how they they could sit near this rain cloud and not get soaked. I think I managed a downpour by the end of the evening.

We have a mighty introduction from the organiser of the night, as usual. Then we play three random happy and sad and strange tunes, which no one really gets or is in the mood for, the stench of tight football shirts and wet bottom lips infesting the space.

Awful. Luckily everyone fucks off.

Me and my wife hit a strange ex-goth pub on the corner and set down our instruments - the heavy burdens we both had to carry. We prop ourselves up on bar stools and order a drink. My wife is making it better for me. We have a last chance saloon kind of chat about what to do when the world falls out of your bottom, and the bottom falls out of your world. That’s more like it. Matching. Mature. Real. Moody.

And that’s my kind of birthday, thanks for gettin hitched x