I don’t think I have ever believed in Santa. It just seemed so remarkably inefficient that my parents would buy my presents and give them to a stranger to return them on Christmas Eve. Inefficient and beyond reasonable caution. It’s not just Santa I don’t believe in. I don’t believe in Christmas. I don’t mean that in an agnostic or even atheist way. I believe in the birth of Christ our Saviour. I believe in a season of goodwill to all and peace on earth. I just don’t believe in Disney, or Coca-Cola, or the need to send everyone I have ever met a Christmas card, to deck my house out in boughs of throwaway tat, or to eat myself into a sugar induced coma, or to buy shit no-one wants made by modern day slaves in Bangladesh wrapped up in a needless waste of tree, I don’t see the point in butchering a tree to stick in your house for a few weeks at most, or any of the other ludicrous and appalling behaviour excused with the rousing chorus of “but it’s Christmas!”.
I have in recent years become adept at avoiding Christmas. In the past I have worked in children’s homes and who could deny children in care a well staffed Christmas with all the trimmings? I’ve volunteered in homeless shelters, I once supervised a paedophile for a very long and painful week, and this year I had a severe bout of flu. Being bed bound gave me time to reflect on a few things. I realised I got exactly what I asked for. Nothing.
I learnt at a young age if someone asked you what you wanted for Christmas the correct, parent-approved, response was “I don’t know.” There was absolutely no point in being honest and saying Barbie’s Dream Castle when in fact you were going to be presented with a second-hand Sindy with matted hair whose head continually fell off. Christmas is so much easier when you’re very young and genuinely anything at all is amazing. I had some pretty ace presents – I was given many Sylvanian Families (more to my father’s unending pleasure than mine). Actually come to think of it, Sylvanian Families are the only presents I can remember appreciating. I was once given a bike I never wanted because my brother had begged and begged for a bike. I wasn’t allowed to ride it on the road because it was too dangerous, on the pavement because it would annoy pedestrians or in the local park because it was against the by-law. Which left our garden. And that was too small. Then there was the Commodore C64 (that’s a computer to anyone under 25) my brother really wanted. This was a joint present that lived in his room and I wasn’t allowed to use. When I was in a massive George Orwell phase of literature I asked everyone for more books. I was duly given some pious stories and the Jackie Annual. As I get older the presents get worse. As a teenager I was handed a yellow bra with the words “I know you won’t like it.” Why the fuck did you buy it then? Spot cream. What a pissing insult. A suitcase at 18 as a massive hint to leave home. My mother came back from a trip to Australia with a summer cardigan (yes ,Christmas is still in winter over here) with 8ft long arms. I really liked the colour but how the fuck are you supposed to wear that? The following year it was an appalling tie dye skirt in a size 16. I was, and still am a size 8. “Put some elastic in it,” she said. Oh, and there was a shirt to go with it. A totally clashing shade of yellow, possibly mustard, with a flower print on, and ribbons sewn in. And sequins. Let’s not forget the sequins. And of course it was too big. Prior to that she gave me make up which would have suited Naomi Campbell. It was cheap no-brand make up undoubtedly tested on animals and possibly small Vietnamese street children and I can only assume was designed for much darker skin than my own. This was the year my sister in law came for Christmas, although at this time she had only been my brother’s girlfriend for five minutes. She received a nice hat and scarf set from my mother. I got the shit make up for a black woman. This was the year I decided honesty was the best policy. I tried diplomatically to say I appreciated the thought, but it probably wouldn’t suit my pale almost translucent skintone. I was told I was an ungrateful bitch and wouldn’t be getting presents again. I took the make- up back to the shop and got £5 in exchange. I spent it on gin.
Last year I had to go with her on Christmas Eve to get my own present. I had the same age old problem of not being able to think of anything to ask for that I might reasonably get so what I ended up with more ill fitting underwear and pointed her in the direction of Lush. Lush, over run with over-helpful shop assistants. They put green stickers on the vegan products. They write ‘vegan’ on the vegan products. What did she buy? Honey bath soak. Honey. Bees died for that.
This year I saw my mother some time recently. I don’t know, September? July? Recently enough. She said, “Do you still wear that nice stone bracelet I gave you?” Being a pedant two words jumped out at me: “still” and “nice”. I don’t wear any jewellery ever nevermind about “still” wearing jewellery. Furthermore my mother has never given me anything “nice” so I really didn’t know what she was talking about. I managed to deflect the question and not say what I was actually thinking but she’s still offended I don’t wear whatever awful thing she is talking about. Nevermind how offended I am she took all the gold jewellery my grandmother left me before she died and gave it to my sister in law. A total fucking stranger. She’s never met my grandmother. I’ve only met her twice. And she has my birthright.
So this year when my mother asks what do I want and I still have my 7 year old self’s instinct to say “I don’t know” I managed to think of something. “Oh I saw a lovely diary in the National Gallery. It has a Renaissance painting on each page.” “Oh you don’t want that.” I hate her fucking habit of telling me what I do and don’t want. Maybe this is why I just can’t be bothered. “That’s boring. I’ll just give you money.” Just. I don’t mean ‘just’ as in a small amount. I mean ‘just’ as in no fucking effort involved. How boring. I literally got a cheque at the beginning of December and nothing else.
So I’ve figured it out now. All I want for Christmas is for my mother to pretend to give a shit about me for long enough to work out who I am. Or maybe she really is under the delusion her daughter is a fat black woman with a penchant for hideous tie-dye.
Friday, 25 December 2009
Wednesday, 18 November 2009
Not waving but drowning
Today I went to Buckingham Palace and saw the Queen. I waved at her, she waved at me. Well, she waved in my general direction. She wasn’t really looking where she was waving.
Later I realised I actually do fancy Mr N, the maths teacher, and not just because he’s the only man I know that I don’t already live with.
Later still, I had a drunken shower and noticed the bath taps looked like monsters’ eyes and nearly fell out the bath entirely.
I’m not yet sure which of these three things will become the most significant in the futre. I like to think it’s the bath taps. I was also asked to ‘save the date’ for a wedding. A wedding. My life is so far beyond being able to comprehend eternal married bliss I have yet to find a way to say ‘congratulations’ that doesn’t sound entirely sarcastic.
Anyways, we need some catching up. Since giving up on the boy whose name doesn’t rhyme with anything I also managed to give up on pretty much everything else. I saw him a few weeks later at the Offset festival. I was with 10 hot young indie boys. He was on his own and had dubious piss stains on his jeans by 3pm and was as drunk as a judge. We got on amazingly well. A little too well. Oh no! no kissing or anything like that. But after how badly it all ended we actually talked, and drank, and laughed and he kissed me on the cheek on the way home.
Since then I tried Speed Dating. Disaster. I tried Speed Hating. Disater. I tried speed wine drinking. Drunken Disaster. I had a date with my ex Rob the Knob that definitely wasn’t a date but I defintiely do still fancy him. Gardener Boy (my lust of last year) asked me out on a non-specified date which never materialised. A guitarist of an upcoming rock band also asked me out on a non-specified date which has also yet to materialise. And Stalker Boy is still stalking. What ho. But with a disatrous love life comes some funky homemade jumpers. Kissing goes down knitting goes up. It’s a strange karma seesaw.
And of course no story is a story without a dilemma. I’m not sure why but about every 7-10 days I feel the need to text the boy whose name does not rhyme with anything (lets just call him Richard). I think it idle curiosity. Will he text back? Do I care if he doesn’t? I have a destructive personality, what can I say? Rather shocked this time to have a sustained textual conversation with him. He had a hangover, I had a hangover, it was after all a Sunday. He was thinking of ‘debauchery’ (sex, in case you’re slow on the uptake). I’m not sure if he was thinking of me and debauchery in the same context or inidentally. I was invited to come over and ‘do his cleaning’. I was too hungover to entertain any such thoughts. He tried to be persuasive. I have no idea whether he wanted me to go over or whether he just wondered if I would. I didn’t. I sent one message since then and no answer. Hmmm. So now what?
And now what with Mr N, the maths teacher? I mean, he’s hot. But he’s a teacher. And I have to work with him. Eek.
And what about gardener boy? What about anything? Pass the Shiraz, I need a think. No, drink. No, think.
Later I realised I actually do fancy Mr N, the maths teacher, and not just because he’s the only man I know that I don’t already live with.
Later still, I had a drunken shower and noticed the bath taps looked like monsters’ eyes and nearly fell out the bath entirely.
I’m not yet sure which of these three things will become the most significant in the futre. I like to think it’s the bath taps. I was also asked to ‘save the date’ for a wedding. A wedding. My life is so far beyond being able to comprehend eternal married bliss I have yet to find a way to say ‘congratulations’ that doesn’t sound entirely sarcastic.
Anyways, we need some catching up. Since giving up on the boy whose name doesn’t rhyme with anything I also managed to give up on pretty much everything else. I saw him a few weeks later at the Offset festival. I was with 10 hot young indie boys. He was on his own and had dubious piss stains on his jeans by 3pm and was as drunk as a judge. We got on amazingly well. A little too well. Oh no! no kissing or anything like that. But after how badly it all ended we actually talked, and drank, and laughed and he kissed me on the cheek on the way home.
Since then I tried Speed Dating. Disaster. I tried Speed Hating. Disater. I tried speed wine drinking. Drunken Disaster. I had a date with my ex Rob the Knob that definitely wasn’t a date but I defintiely do still fancy him. Gardener Boy (my lust of last year) asked me out on a non-specified date which never materialised. A guitarist of an upcoming rock band also asked me out on a non-specified date which has also yet to materialise. And Stalker Boy is still stalking. What ho. But with a disatrous love life comes some funky homemade jumpers. Kissing goes down knitting goes up. It’s a strange karma seesaw.
And of course no story is a story without a dilemma. I’m not sure why but about every 7-10 days I feel the need to text the boy whose name does not rhyme with anything (lets just call him Richard). I think it idle curiosity. Will he text back? Do I care if he doesn’t? I have a destructive personality, what can I say? Rather shocked this time to have a sustained textual conversation with him. He had a hangover, I had a hangover, it was after all a Sunday. He was thinking of ‘debauchery’ (sex, in case you’re slow on the uptake). I’m not sure if he was thinking of me and debauchery in the same context or inidentally. I was invited to come over and ‘do his cleaning’. I was too hungover to entertain any such thoughts. He tried to be persuasive. I have no idea whether he wanted me to go over or whether he just wondered if I would. I didn’t. I sent one message since then and no answer. Hmmm. So now what?
And now what with Mr N, the maths teacher? I mean, he’s hot. But he’s a teacher. And I have to work with him. Eek.
And what about gardener boy? What about anything? Pass the Shiraz, I need a think. No, drink. No, think.
Monday, 9 November 2009
Tuesday, 25 August 2009
Lovin's for fools
I asked the ether, fate, the air, luck, anything that would listen, for a man to keep me company. “All I want,” I told the wall, “is man taller than me. Dark hair, dark eyes, a sense of humour, good taste in music and must like a drink. Well a few drinks. I just want a heavy drinker really.” And fate gave me Richard. He was EXACTLY all of those things. And his name doesn’t rhyme with anything. Perfect.
So we met in a dark dingy bar. I was wearing a ginger beard, you were dressed as a sailor. We had fun. We had vodka. We had Jagermeister. We had champagne. We had absinthe. I had a hangover. And we remade Jaws. Aaaaarrrrr shark! But I wasn’t sure if you liked me. I gave you a peck on the cheek and got nothing back.
So we both like vodka. How about we go to a vodka bar? A vodka bar made of ice. The bar was made of ice, the tables are made of ice, the chairs are made of ice, the glasses are made of ice. Its all ice. Except the vodka. So Richard and an over-zealous barman poured another 8-9 shots down my throat. Its time to leave. I’m a bit fuzzy. We have conversation. I’m not sure what about but it ends up with a lot of kissing. And very nice kissing too.
Date three: not really a date as we had both already arranged to go to the same festival weeks ago with our friends. I get there (late of course) and he’s wasted. Hmph. Pretty soon I’m wasted too and we have the best time ever. It rains so of course we snuggle up together. He kisses me again. Its so lovely. We agree all the shit bands are shit and all the good bands are in fact amazing. He has a perfect taste in music. He has beautiful eyes that always look a little bit sad. But he always smiles at me.
Date four: an acoustic night. I am almost on time. Richard looks ill. Is he ill? Or just unhappy I don’t know. We see an acoustic singer with an aocustic guitar and groan to ourselves slightly. Initially; it turns out he stopped my heart beating. “Go on love her, love her forever. I won’t tell her I told you to… lovin’s for fools, lovin’s for fools.” I wish those words were about me. I look at Richard and I notice he has melted too. Those sad eyes are weeping, but I doubt its for me. Not the most exicting date in the world. Emotive.
A week later: I get us free tickets to a television recording of a comedy show. We’re restricted to free nights out now cos we’re both so poor. And sober. After weeks of heavy drinking we both need to give our livers a rest. I was late, of course. We only just make it into the studio on time. Richard is trying not to show it but I can see he’s a bit annoyed. At the end of the night he asks “so did we have fun sober?” why yes. We did. “see? That’s another thing I’ve got going for me.” Ahhhh so you are trying to impress me. I like.
Next time: feels like I’m moving more into girlfriend territory. It’s the most uninspiring date going. We’re both skint and we’re both house hunting. I’m invited to sit in a pub in Bethnal Green waiting for Richard to look at house. The twist is we’ve both decided to have a sober night. It only takes him fifteen minutes, which was a blessed relief. But in that time I’ve had a pint of Guinness. I feel like I’ve been let into his real life now. House hunting, sobreity, talking about work. He tells me about the death of his father. And his ex. Actually he talks about her a lot. We head to Brick Lane and sit on the pavement with cans of cider and he puts his arm round me and its all just perfect.
I promised to cook for Richard. We’ve never really eaten together. Well, we never really eat. Just drink. So I go to a whole world of effort to make sushi and bake cakes. This is the first time he’s been to my house. This is the first time he’ll stay over. Fingers crossed. This is the first chance I really have to ask him if we can move this on. I want to be more than just your date. I want to be your girlfriend. Except… I have noticed you talk about yourself. You talk about your ex. You talk about your family arguments and you’ve only ever asked me “want a drink?” That is a bloody good question, ask it any time. Well, I’m excited. We meet at the train station. No kiss hello today. I’m worried about the rice. Richard wants to drink in the sun while it still shines. I just want to talk to him. In the park he talks about his ex, a fight with his brother and the loss of his dad. I know why your eyes are sad but I don’t want to. I pretend they’re not. You make hurtful quips and you don’t even realise they hurt. I have nothing to say. I can’t think of anything that won’t betray my hurt.
Back at mine you ask if I’ve stopped sulking. Sulking? You’re insensitive. I can’t say that. I don’t want you to walk away. I just like you so much. So much more than you like me. An uneven yoke will never plough a straight line. I know this, but I don’t want to. Those big round eyes bore into me as you make another hurtful quip. “Do you like anything about me?” I ask. I had to. This isn’t the night I planned. I see you visibly shrink and quietly say “yeah, I like you”. I start wittering. “I need some reassurance you fancy me even a little bit”, “I want to move this on” “I just want to know if you feel the same.” You’re so defensive. Am I that unfair? Is it wrong to ask? You give nothing back. “Isn’t it too early for all this?” you say. Yes, it is. I’m not ready to settle down and see you every day and let you rule my life. But I don’t like the way every time I see you I fear its going to be the last. Of course I can’t say this. I can’t say anything. I don’t know what I’m saying but every time I open my mouth it’s the wrong thing. I’m such a bad therapist. I work in communication and I still can’t say the right things. I thought we had kissed and made up. We defintiely kissed. A lot. Kissing is easier than talking. But on the doorstep I ask “will I see you over the weekend?” “I dunno,” you say because ‘no’ is too difficult. Its fine I understand. “Its too much pressure. I don’t know what I want”. That means you do, you just don’t know if you should say it.
That’s it. I got what I asked for. I got my perfect man and I fucked it up and I don’t even know how. He didn’t speak to me for days. In the end I had to ask. Again. I wrote what I thought had happened. I wrote I pushed him and I didn’t mean to, I just wanted clarity. We don’t have to change the way things are as long as I know they are still there. He wrote back. His last girlfriend was bipolar and I am exactly the same. I am insecure and irrational, and what? Needy? Too much too soon? Well, Richard, I am sorry your dad died. I’m sorry your ex-girlfriend was too difficult for you. I’m sorry you feel you wasted your life with her. You didn’t. And I’m not her. I’m not irrational or insecure. I knew you didn’t want me, not how I wanted you. I’m sorry this is too soon for you. Not that I am pushing you. You’re just not ready. I cannot be your stepping stone to hover on until your life begins again. I’m not a magic sponge to suck up all your pain at half time. I’m just a person. A normal person, not a bipolar person, a normal person who wanted to be loved. All of this is fine. We were unevenly yoked, it cannot be. I have moved on.
So we met in a dark dingy bar. I was wearing a ginger beard, you were dressed as a sailor. We had fun. We had vodka. We had Jagermeister. We had champagne. We had absinthe. I had a hangover. And we remade Jaws. Aaaaarrrrr shark! But I wasn’t sure if you liked me. I gave you a peck on the cheek and got nothing back.
So we both like vodka. How about we go to a vodka bar? A vodka bar made of ice. The bar was made of ice, the tables are made of ice, the chairs are made of ice, the glasses are made of ice. Its all ice. Except the vodka. So Richard and an over-zealous barman poured another 8-9 shots down my throat. Its time to leave. I’m a bit fuzzy. We have conversation. I’m not sure what about but it ends up with a lot of kissing. And very nice kissing too.
Date three: not really a date as we had both already arranged to go to the same festival weeks ago with our friends. I get there (late of course) and he’s wasted. Hmph. Pretty soon I’m wasted too and we have the best time ever. It rains so of course we snuggle up together. He kisses me again. Its so lovely. We agree all the shit bands are shit and all the good bands are in fact amazing. He has a perfect taste in music. He has beautiful eyes that always look a little bit sad. But he always smiles at me.
Date four: an acoustic night. I am almost on time. Richard looks ill. Is he ill? Or just unhappy I don’t know. We see an acoustic singer with an aocustic guitar and groan to ourselves slightly. Initially; it turns out he stopped my heart beating. “Go on love her, love her forever. I won’t tell her I told you to… lovin’s for fools, lovin’s for fools.” I wish those words were about me. I look at Richard and I notice he has melted too. Those sad eyes are weeping, but I doubt its for me. Not the most exicting date in the world. Emotive.
A week later: I get us free tickets to a television recording of a comedy show. We’re restricted to free nights out now cos we’re both so poor. And sober. After weeks of heavy drinking we both need to give our livers a rest. I was late, of course. We only just make it into the studio on time. Richard is trying not to show it but I can see he’s a bit annoyed. At the end of the night he asks “so did we have fun sober?” why yes. We did. “see? That’s another thing I’ve got going for me.” Ahhhh so you are trying to impress me. I like.
Next time: feels like I’m moving more into girlfriend territory. It’s the most uninspiring date going. We’re both skint and we’re both house hunting. I’m invited to sit in a pub in Bethnal Green waiting for Richard to look at house. The twist is we’ve both decided to have a sober night. It only takes him fifteen minutes, which was a blessed relief. But in that time I’ve had a pint of Guinness. I feel like I’ve been let into his real life now. House hunting, sobreity, talking about work. He tells me about the death of his father. And his ex. Actually he talks about her a lot. We head to Brick Lane and sit on the pavement with cans of cider and he puts his arm round me and its all just perfect.
I promised to cook for Richard. We’ve never really eaten together. Well, we never really eat. Just drink. So I go to a whole world of effort to make sushi and bake cakes. This is the first time he’s been to my house. This is the first time he’ll stay over. Fingers crossed. This is the first chance I really have to ask him if we can move this on. I want to be more than just your date. I want to be your girlfriend. Except… I have noticed you talk about yourself. You talk about your ex. You talk about your family arguments and you’ve only ever asked me “want a drink?” That is a bloody good question, ask it any time. Well, I’m excited. We meet at the train station. No kiss hello today. I’m worried about the rice. Richard wants to drink in the sun while it still shines. I just want to talk to him. In the park he talks about his ex, a fight with his brother and the loss of his dad. I know why your eyes are sad but I don’t want to. I pretend they’re not. You make hurtful quips and you don’t even realise they hurt. I have nothing to say. I can’t think of anything that won’t betray my hurt.
Back at mine you ask if I’ve stopped sulking. Sulking? You’re insensitive. I can’t say that. I don’t want you to walk away. I just like you so much. So much more than you like me. An uneven yoke will never plough a straight line. I know this, but I don’t want to. Those big round eyes bore into me as you make another hurtful quip. “Do you like anything about me?” I ask. I had to. This isn’t the night I planned. I see you visibly shrink and quietly say “yeah, I like you”. I start wittering. “I need some reassurance you fancy me even a little bit”, “I want to move this on” “I just want to know if you feel the same.” You’re so defensive. Am I that unfair? Is it wrong to ask? You give nothing back. “Isn’t it too early for all this?” you say. Yes, it is. I’m not ready to settle down and see you every day and let you rule my life. But I don’t like the way every time I see you I fear its going to be the last. Of course I can’t say this. I can’t say anything. I don’t know what I’m saying but every time I open my mouth it’s the wrong thing. I’m such a bad therapist. I work in communication and I still can’t say the right things. I thought we had kissed and made up. We defintiely kissed. A lot. Kissing is easier than talking. But on the doorstep I ask “will I see you over the weekend?” “I dunno,” you say because ‘no’ is too difficult. Its fine I understand. “Its too much pressure. I don’t know what I want”. That means you do, you just don’t know if you should say it.
That’s it. I got what I asked for. I got my perfect man and I fucked it up and I don’t even know how. He didn’t speak to me for days. In the end I had to ask. Again. I wrote what I thought had happened. I wrote I pushed him and I didn’t mean to, I just wanted clarity. We don’t have to change the way things are as long as I know they are still there. He wrote back. His last girlfriend was bipolar and I am exactly the same. I am insecure and irrational, and what? Needy? Too much too soon? Well, Richard, I am sorry your dad died. I’m sorry your ex-girlfriend was too difficult for you. I’m sorry you feel you wasted your life with her. You didn’t. And I’m not her. I’m not irrational or insecure. I knew you didn’t want me, not how I wanted you. I’m sorry this is too soon for you. Not that I am pushing you. You’re just not ready. I cannot be your stepping stone to hover on until your life begins again. I’m not a magic sponge to suck up all your pain at half time. I’m just a person. A normal person, not a bipolar person, a normal person who wanted to be loved. All of this is fine. We were unevenly yoked, it cannot be. I have moved on.
Thursday, 20 August 2009
Fear of Falling
“I just like you too much”. That’s probably the worst reason I’ve ever been given when a boy has broken up with me. What does it even mean? Surely the point is to like someone, yeah?Its right up there with “you’re just too cool for me” pffff. Yeah. I am so intimidatingly brilliant. Its obviously so cool to knit, bake and stroke cats. My 70 year old neighbour is just way rocking. Hmph.
Well, now I know exactly what “I like you too much” means. I like you way more than you like me. I like you so much it hurts a little bit. Every time I see you I have to catch my breath. I think about you all the time. I replay all the thing we’ve done together, and imagine all the things we might do in the future. I have imaginary conversations with you. I had a dream about you. It was a slightly weird dream where you came to my knitting circle (just me, you and a friend staying in my house) and you knit me a pink crochet bikini but then refused to hand it over. Instead you wanted to give it to the topless models doing the phot shoot up the road. When I woke up I felt betrayed. I like you so much I never know what to say. I re-read your text messages hundreds of times. I can think of five or six ways to interpret each one and then I can’t decide what was intended. I text you and wait patiently for an hour. I wait a bit longer telling myself you’re busy. I wait longer, cos I know you’re busy. Two hours in I wonder if you got the message. Two and half hours in I think maybe I did something wrong, re-read what I wrote and think about clarifying it. Three hours later, having not sent a second message, I am covninced you don’t want to see me again and are pondering how to say so. Three and half hours late I get a message that starts “I’m sorry.” That’s it. You don’t want me anymore. I read on. “I’m sorry, I can’t make Tuesday” Oh! Phew. I like you so much I have these panic attacks every day. I like you so much I can’t quite cope. I know you don’t feel like this. I know you probably never will. Is it worth me waiting to see? I decide the only thing I can do is tell you.
“I really like being with you. I want to keep seeing you. But I don’t know what you want because you never say anything.”
“don’t you think it’s a bit early for all this?”
“erm yes. But this is what I feel. I just want to know what you think. I want you to be honest, you don’t’ have to pretend anything”
“when have I not been honest?”
“erm well how can I ever now? But that’s not it. I just wondered if you liked me at all”
“yeah I like you. I did. I’m not sure anymore. This is a bit weird. Its way too much pressure”
“right. I’m not asking you for anything”
“…”
There you go. I like you just too much. And now you don’t like me at all.
Well, now I know exactly what “I like you too much” means. I like you way more than you like me. I like you so much it hurts a little bit. Every time I see you I have to catch my breath. I think about you all the time. I replay all the thing we’ve done together, and imagine all the things we might do in the future. I have imaginary conversations with you. I had a dream about you. It was a slightly weird dream where you came to my knitting circle (just me, you and a friend staying in my house) and you knit me a pink crochet bikini but then refused to hand it over. Instead you wanted to give it to the topless models doing the phot shoot up the road. When I woke up I felt betrayed. I like you so much I never know what to say. I re-read your text messages hundreds of times. I can think of five or six ways to interpret each one and then I can’t decide what was intended. I text you and wait patiently for an hour. I wait a bit longer telling myself you’re busy. I wait longer, cos I know you’re busy. Two hours in I wonder if you got the message. Two and half hours in I think maybe I did something wrong, re-read what I wrote and think about clarifying it. Three hours later, having not sent a second message, I am covninced you don’t want to see me again and are pondering how to say so. Three and half hours late I get a message that starts “I’m sorry.” That’s it. You don’t want me anymore. I read on. “I’m sorry, I can’t make Tuesday” Oh! Phew. I like you so much I have these panic attacks every day. I like you so much I can’t quite cope. I know you don’t feel like this. I know you probably never will. Is it worth me waiting to see? I decide the only thing I can do is tell you.
“I really like being with you. I want to keep seeing you. But I don’t know what you want because you never say anything.”
“don’t you think it’s a bit early for all this?”
“erm yes. But this is what I feel. I just want to know what you think. I want you to be honest, you don’t’ have to pretend anything”
“when have I not been honest?”
“erm well how can I ever now? But that’s not it. I just wondered if you liked me at all”
“yeah I like you. I did. I’m not sure anymore. This is a bit weird. Its way too much pressure”
“right. I’m not asking you for anything”
“…”
There you go. I like you just too much. And now you don’t like me at all.
Thursday, 6 August 2009
I mean, I don't really hate you
Patronising me is no way to win an argument. Relating every point to you is not going help. Its not about YOU I couldn’t give a shit about You. in fact, I almost hate YOU. Almost. If I did hate I would point out in a week or two you will get your exam results. Confirmation of failure will be fun to celebrate, won’t it? What are your life plans now? No, I know you don’t have a job. Are you parents still disowning you? I mean that must be tough not having anywhere to live when you finally flunk out of halls. Or a job. Yeah, good for you not needing to work while you erm neglected to study, but no job? At all? Not even a Saturday job to contribute towards the rent. Well I say rent, you need a house first don’t you? Still you have your rich mummy and daddy to fall back on… oh yeah, right, short memory, sorry. So erm what about your friends? You could sofa-surf for a bit, couldn’t you? Actually, where are your friends? I don’t think I’ve seen you hanging out with anyone in quite while. What about your boyfriend? I can’t imagine why he dumped you. I know he said “it just didn’t feel right” but did you really buy that? I mean that’s just what boys say when they can’t be bothered to give you the real reason, like they met someon else, cos it might start a fight. And boy do you like a fight! Not that that’s a bad thing. Necessarily. Obviously, sometimes people just want peace and quiet without uncalled for judgmenetal comments, misinterpreting everything, wild assumption making and your generally self centred, self obsessed view on life. But that’s just YOU, right? And if really hated you, I would let you know.
Friday, 17 July 2009
Flaws and Jaws
I don’t recommend going on a date in a ginger beard. On the other hand it hasn’t done me too much harm as date #2 is in the pipe line. The story so far? Well it’s been a few weeks so let’s skim a few facts first:
(Useless G***, or UG from now on, says this blog needs more bullet points so blame him for the lazy styling)
*I finished my job at school, went to a yummy vegan café for a leaving do
*Had five days off (felt like an era) and went to the seaside and got sand in my pants
*Re-started ballet lessons and convinced myself I have whole body dyspraxia (a motor disorder)
*Took up spinning – my epic quest for thinner thighs is causing muchos paining
*Started my new job and hmmm three weeks in but ARGH! Oh and who should I see on my second day? SPANIEL! Oh and he fancied a chat. Grrrrrr.
*Went to a hippy-ish wedding in the lake district and got massively drunk on free champagne nicenice
*Went to two school discos (actual school discos in schools) and got massively drunk at one and just high on sugar at the other
Oh and ! internet dating relating news; four dates so far.
Date one: we met on a foot bridge in Camden. We drank ridiculous amounts of cider. I think I had an ace time but I was a bit squiffy. I think I liked him, but I was a bit squiffy.
Date two: this was drummer boy I thought I would actually like. Turns out he was a bit on the short side. We met in a cool pub in Holloway. He spent most of the night tapping his fingers on the table saying “ooh this is awkward.” Silence is golden, love, no need to fill all of it. He took me to the National Youth Theatre to see some horrific sixth form-esque performance bollocks. The plot was this: A boy took so much skunk he turned into a skunk. During Q&A the writer told us she was influenced by Kafka. I’m sure he’d be pleased at such paltry, underdeveloped use of metaphor. She also seemed to think it was the fault of parents that their offspring chose to get themselves addicted to drugs. *sigh* Drummer boy took me here cos there was a free bar – of orange squash. Bah ha ha! He ran into his mates – The Holloways funnily enough and this is where my heart really sank. Not only was he friends with such low lives he preferred to talk to them instead of me. No way to impress a lady.
Date three: didn’t actually happen. I was going to meet this boy, let’s call him Stalker, at a Pixies night in Islington. I had a friend coming from Manchester to stay and two other friends in London all coming. He was going with his mates so it was never going to be a high pressure date, after the last disaster. To cut a long and bitter story short my friends are cunts and didn’t turn up. Or tell me they had changed their minds. Or apologised. The next day I got an email from Stalker disappointed I wasn’t there. He’s also tracked me down on twitter and is stalking my every thought hence the moniker. A few days later I sent him an email saying we should go to do something fun, what did he suggest. “Are you asking me to ask you out?” FFS. Is this not the point of internet dating? If you’re going to be as useless as UG then you can twat off. There isn’t quite room in my life for one unmotivated, sloth-like loser let alone two.
The fourth date was a repeat of boy one. I absolutely had to go see Posh Josh’s band in town so we agreed to curry on Brick Lane followed by a bit of mathematic noise. Obviously we only got as far as curry on Brick Lane. But some kissing on the way home made up for not seeing the band.
Date Four is another boy yet to be named. Boy One has gone on holiday for a week so why not? I suggested we met up and went to an arts night remaking the Jaws film. I was about an hour late. Not entirely my fault as my new workaholic boss made me stay an extra half hour and then my train broke down. I was also a bit side tracked by not being able to find beachwear that was suitable to wear on a date i.e. not flesh flashing. I was hoping to be a background girl screaming “argh shark!” in a comedy horror manner. I ended up donning a ginger beard and saying something inane like “you’re going to ignore this problem til it swims up and bites you on the arse!” Absinthe and champagne made it all the less painful. But payback the following day occurred where I was nearly sent for looking like I had swine flu. High temperature? Check. Sickness? Check. Crippling stomach pains? Check. Runny nose, chest pains, sore throat, headache? Check all = must be swine flu. Well, no. Its just severe hay fever and a severe hangover. Although two weeks off work would be rather lovely….
(Useless G***, or UG from now on, says this blog needs more bullet points so blame him for the lazy styling)
*I finished my job at school, went to a yummy vegan café for a leaving do
*Had five days off (felt like an era) and went to the seaside and got sand in my pants
*Re-started ballet lessons and convinced myself I have whole body dyspraxia (a motor disorder)
*Took up spinning – my epic quest for thinner thighs is causing muchos paining
*Started my new job and hmmm three weeks in but ARGH! Oh and who should I see on my second day? SPANIEL! Oh and he fancied a chat. Grrrrrr.
*Went to a hippy-ish wedding in the lake district and got massively drunk on free champagne nicenice
*Went to two school discos (actual school discos in schools) and got massively drunk at one and just high on sugar at the other
Oh and ! internet dating relating news; four dates so far.
Date one: we met on a foot bridge in Camden. We drank ridiculous amounts of cider. I think I had an ace time but I was a bit squiffy. I think I liked him, but I was a bit squiffy.
Date two: this was drummer boy I thought I would actually like. Turns out he was a bit on the short side. We met in a cool pub in Holloway. He spent most of the night tapping his fingers on the table saying “ooh this is awkward.” Silence is golden, love, no need to fill all of it. He took me to the National Youth Theatre to see some horrific sixth form-esque performance bollocks. The plot was this: A boy took so much skunk he turned into a skunk. During Q&A the writer told us she was influenced by Kafka. I’m sure he’d be pleased at such paltry, underdeveloped use of metaphor. She also seemed to think it was the fault of parents that their offspring chose to get themselves addicted to drugs. *sigh* Drummer boy took me here cos there was a free bar – of orange squash. Bah ha ha! He ran into his mates – The Holloways funnily enough and this is where my heart really sank. Not only was he friends with such low lives he preferred to talk to them instead of me. No way to impress a lady.
Date three: didn’t actually happen. I was going to meet this boy, let’s call him Stalker, at a Pixies night in Islington. I had a friend coming from Manchester to stay and two other friends in London all coming. He was going with his mates so it was never going to be a high pressure date, after the last disaster. To cut a long and bitter story short my friends are cunts and didn’t turn up. Or tell me they had changed their minds. Or apologised. The next day I got an email from Stalker disappointed I wasn’t there. He’s also tracked me down on twitter and is stalking my every thought hence the moniker. A few days later I sent him an email saying we should go to do something fun, what did he suggest. “Are you asking me to ask you out?” FFS. Is this not the point of internet dating? If you’re going to be as useless as UG then you can twat off. There isn’t quite room in my life for one unmotivated, sloth-like loser let alone two.
The fourth date was a repeat of boy one. I absolutely had to go see Posh Josh’s band in town so we agreed to curry on Brick Lane followed by a bit of mathematic noise. Obviously we only got as far as curry on Brick Lane. But some kissing on the way home made up for not seeing the band.
Date Four is another boy yet to be named. Boy One has gone on holiday for a week so why not? I suggested we met up and went to an arts night remaking the Jaws film. I was about an hour late. Not entirely my fault as my new workaholic boss made me stay an extra half hour and then my train broke down. I was also a bit side tracked by not being able to find beachwear that was suitable to wear on a date i.e. not flesh flashing. I was hoping to be a background girl screaming “argh shark!” in a comedy horror manner. I ended up donning a ginger beard and saying something inane like “you’re going to ignore this problem til it swims up and bites you on the arse!” Absinthe and champagne made it all the less painful. But payback the following day occurred where I was nearly sent for looking like I had swine flu. High temperature? Check. Sickness? Check. Crippling stomach pains? Check. Runny nose, chest pains, sore throat, headache? Check all = must be swine flu. Well, no. Its just severe hay fever and a severe hangover. Although two weeks off work would be rather lovely….
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
