A long week

This last week hasn't been that good. I had to spend most of my free time meeting up with complete morons to work on group presentations. Group presentations, the way it seems to be going, that will end up being all of yours truly's work. Gotta love your hard-working peers, really.

Fortunately, I managed to keep my mind off morony things by going out a bit. A lot, actually.

On Monday night, I accompanied Gay Mike to an auction preview, which basically combines everything I love. Free art, champagne and social chit-chat.
Unfortunately, this sort of event only attracts old wealthy businessmen. As much as I'd love having some of the sculptures gracing my bedside table, I don't have the multiple zeros sort of cash in my wallet. £14,67 would be more like it.

I did miss out on the opportunity to refill that wallet of mine though. The kind of thing that only happens to me. See for yourself.
I was walking around, champagne in hand, admiring statues, and NOT provocatively dressed, when I noticed that (old and creepy, it goes without saying) man, who seemed much more interested in my bum than the art work on display. I turned around. He repositioned himself in a way that left no doubt that he was indeed staring at my ass.
I moved to the next room. He followed, without taking his eyes off it. When he not so casually brushed his hand against my bottom, I began to see red.

Look mate, there's a very nice naked lady just here, you can get it for £16000 and look at her arse for the three remaining years of your life. It's a bargain really. Now please, leave mine alone!

And you know what the son of a bitch said?
Maybe I'd be more interested in spending £16000 for the pleasure of your company tonight, what do you say?

-What do I say? FUCK OFF!!!

Now my credit-crunched self is staring at the £14,67 in my wallet and thinking I should start rolling my cigarettes. Great.
But I do hope he too gets credit-crunched to death and shrivels up in a concil house.


On Tuesday night, Italian Neighbour dragged me to That Bar, where I spent half the night praying for G-the-M not to turn up. Thankfully, he didn't, and a Jason Bourne look alike kept making sure that my glass of wine was full at any given time, so I guess it was a good night...

Most of Wednesday was spent in lectures, cursing both the hangover and some of my moronic fellow students who certainly did not make things easier with their constant stupid chatter.


Friday was a good one though. Tarzan and I finally met up for our first date.
My... this guy is my future husband. Seriously, he's perfect. Intelligent, well-spoken, well-traveled, funny, arty, with a great job, and fit-fit-fit!
We laughed our heads off for the five hours we stayed in that Notting Hill pub, until the moment we parted with an awkward kiss on the cheek. I really hope I'm going to get more. Soon.
I headed to Soho, where the Usual Suspects were celebrating Halloween in gay fashion. It was alright I guess. I had one too many shots of sambuca and did my fag-hag duty (Aka: You look amazing with eye-liner dah-ling!).


I was woken up on Saturday morning by a text from Tarzan:
Sorry for the delayed reply, hope your night went well. Looks like it did... :p . Yes, it'd be good to meet up again. Take care.

It only meant one thing; I had sent a text that neither me nor my retarded phone had any recollection of...
Oh dear, I did send a drunken text, didn't I? My phone is currently refusing to give its content. I'm going to hide in the corner now.

His reply?
Haha, don't worry, you didn't write anything bad; it was nice...

-I love you I love you I love you!
Ok, I didn't write that, but it was close.
At the risk of repeating myself, I NEED to see that man again. And buy Italian Neighbour a massive bottle of champagne and a box of chocolates.


Well, if I don't fuck it all up. Because I've been very bad last night.
I went to my friend 'Pusc' 's birthday last night in Angel. It was great fun; nice bar, nice music, great company, alcohol flowing, etc... You know, that kind of night when everyone gets in the seriously-I-love-you-guys mood.
At 2am, while on the night bus back home with the Usual Suspects, my phone rang.
And guess who?
Bloody fucking OG, who has a knack for systematically calling at the wrong moment in my life.

I didn't pick up, and instead chose to complain to the Usual Suspects who kindly backed me up on the this-guy-is-such-a-dick assumption.
And once home I textingly unleashed all my hatred:
Is it just me, but was that a booty call? I'm sorry, but I don't find the fact that you're calling me out of the blue after months, when you happen to be a) in London for a couple of days, b)drunk (hello, it's 2am!) c) horny, exactly flattering.

-Hahahaha, no! But I kinda miss you. Yes I'm in London, but I'm not drunk. If you'd allow me, I'd like to see you again... If you pick up, I can ring you to prove you I'm not drunk?

-I don't care if you're drunk or not. I am. And I'm planning to sleep through the hangover. Now!

-If you'd like me to kiss you goodnight tonight, know I'm here...

-And that wasn't a booty call? Yeah right. Please stop that. What's the bloody point?

-I told you. I miss you... What are you doing on Tuesday night then?

-Revising. I've got exams on Wednesday.

-Wow, exams? You clever, clever thing. Well, is it ok to call you on Tuesday to see when's good for you, my lovely one?

-Fuck off. I'm not lovely. I told you I can't do late Tuesday. And you'd never get anything more than a coffee anyway.

-You really are lovely. And beautiful, and sexy, and smart. I'm really looking forward to that coffee of ours then. I'll call you on Tuesday, will try not to be late. xxxxxxxxx

-How can one sound desperate AND arrogant at the same time? Go back to a club and please pull another drunken girl.

-It's you I want to pull. Talk on Tuesday then! Can't wait! xxx


Now, I need help. Can someone please explain me how the heck that happened? My head is a fuzzy mess right now. I did not agree to see OG, did I? No I did not. I was verbally abusive. That's all there is to it.
How could that arrogant bastard assume I'd be up for it when I expressively told him to fuck off?

I'll tell you how. Both of us know I want to...

SHIT!

I don't cry very often. It's been yonks since I last shed a tear.
But I just got off the phone with A. He called to confirm his definite moving to Australia. I would have gone and visited him in Cannes before he moves, but even Cheesy Jet tickets are damn expensive and I really can't afford it right now.

As I said before, A is the closest thing I ever got to a family. He's my blood. The only person on earth who knows me inside out. Even if, nowadays, we only see eachother three times a year at best, at least Cannes was not that far, and just knowing that we could visit eachother "whenever" made things easier.
I'm also sad in a sort of fucked up motherly way, because that means he's "leaving the nest" and will get on with his life. It's going to be virtually impossible to be part of it once he's out there, as much as it will be tough for him to be part of my life.
As long as we've known eachother, every major decision was never taken without consulting the other one. I'm worried that, with the distance, it will no longer be the case. And I need him to be there for me.

Still, I was the one who encouraged him to move, because I knew it would be good for him.
It's what family does. To love is to let go.


If I save 20 pounds a week, I might be able to go to Australia next summer. I'm off to buy a Tesco value pack of rice.

The joys of Trashbook

Now that Tarzan has decided to get back in touch, he's sending an avalanche of texts.
*The 2nd one, to apologise for late texting because he's phone is "playing up".
*The 3rd one, to say that he'll be getting a new number in a few days, so that we should get in touch through Facebook.
*The 4th and last one to date, to give me his contact details so I can actually find him on Facebook.

I still haven't replied, I'm saving that bit for tomorrow evening, you know, instead of studies-related researches...

But still, there I go, and type his name on Trashbook.
You have 1 friend in common.

Damn, this is getting interesting, who could that be?
I keep going, click on the one friend in common.

TADAM!!! G-the-M!

Great. My next date and my Friend-Turned-One-Night-Stand-Who-Didn't-Want-To-Have-Anything-To-Do-With-Me-Ever-Again-After-That are mates.

Seriously, how many inhabitants in London? 7 millions?
I'm giving up and becoming religious. There must be a superior entity.
One particularly fond of taking the fucking piss.


PS: I just wanted to update you on how well my studies are going. I am spending the next two hours removing all sort of evidence that G-the-M and I ever met on my Facebook page. Talk about productive work!

This morning's lecturer was replaced by a hungover misogynist, still reeking of booze, and talking out of his arse. The one thing everybody learnt? He was once -and a long time ago, seing the physical state he's now in- a referee.

In order to stop rolling my eyes, I tried to keep my pre-menstrual self occupied.

"Young woman in the green top at the front?
-Yes?
-(to my cleavage) Do you actually think you're making the best of the lecture by sending text messages from one hand and drawing on your notes from the other hand? What was I talking about?
-Oh you were ranting about last week's match, should I really write that down?
-Erm...
-And don't worry about me. I'm a woman. I can multitask."

He left me and my cleavage alone, and I resumed my texting, while extending my general culture to his views on red cards.
On the bright side, with 99% of girls in my group I made about thirty best friends.


Oh, and Tarzan sent a text. Only took him four whole days to write the following literary masterpiece:
Hi Lilith, it's Tarzan- I met you on Saturday at [...] club. Are you free to meet for a coffee/drink next week?

To his credit, he makes up for the lack of originality and sense of humour by a perfect spelling.
I'll reply in a couple of days, since it seems to be the way it's done on this island.

Like I said, I'm pre-menstrual, so I'll fuck right off to spread the hatred somewhere else.

Facebook chat

Lilith: Still haven't heard from Tarzan. Do you think he's playing The Game? Or simply not interested? Anyway, instead of studying I typed his first name plus his job on facebook and found [link], do you think that's him? Could be.
Cripes, that officialy makes me the worst stalker in West London.

Italian Neighbour: Maybe, can't be so sure. You know, I was drinking. If it's not him, he's very cute on his profile picture anyway. I'll add him as a friend and we'll see...
But... He was a tad pissed you know, and even if he was so obviously into you, he might have lost your number. To cheer you up, my [insert insult here] of a housemate baked a thousand chocolate and peanut cookies when I expressly told her I was on a diet, want some?

Lilith: The most depressing thing? The fact he hasn't called yet makes want to eat chocolate, and I'm allergic to peanuts!
But yes, he must have lost my number. Reality denial will get me everywhere!
Or else, I can always commit peanut-based suicide.

-Wait a minute! You did NOT add him as a friend, did you? You really are making sure you'll die of a slow and painful death. And very soon!
Seriously, what would you say? "Hello I'm the pimp from Saturday night"?

IN: Too late, it's done!


L: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!! You do know how much I hate you, right? I would call a priest now if I were you.

IN: I was thinking of bringing all the cookies at my new job. Someone could die of food poisoning and I'll secure a long-term contract.
You know we discussed the magic of pheromones the other day. The fact that it's always easier to find a shag when you're already shagging for Europe? Well, that old fuck buddy of mine called and I was considering giving it another go, you know, just to get back in the game. But the thing is, he was not exactly good at it.

L: Nice try at changing topic. If you decide to take him up on the offer, make sure it's a Saturday afternoon, just before going out, and not to G.A.Y. But seriously, how bad?

IN: Stop watching your phone! You could really do with more nights out. Grab a boy and run away with his mobile.

L: I am not watching my phone! I'm merely waiting for it to ring, that's all. Anyway, that's nice to know you think I could make a career in the phone stealing business... Will start next time we go out together. Can I use your handbag for provisional storage?

IN: I meant the number... Back to the fuck buddy, he is: not dirty, not big, with no oral.

L: Apparently, Fuck Buddy doesn't even have the basic qualifications to be used as such. Here's how it works in a fuck buddy:
Not dirty and not big only works if there's loads of oral.
No oral and not dirty only works if there's sizeable material.
Not big and no oral? Erm... the point of it?
Fire him!

My phone's not ringing. I assume you don't have any peanut-free chocolate? I'm gonna run to the corner shop, need anything? Apart from fuck buddies of course because I know for a fact Costcutters is out of stock.

IN: No thanks, nothing from corner shop. I'm saving money to buy a New Efficient Fuck Buddy from Ebay. The beauty in it? If you don't like it, there's a refund within the next 7 days!

L: Should really get around opening that Ebay account...


And you were wondering why we're still friends? There.

Love thy neighbours

Saturday night, Italian Neighbour and I hit the town.
With an ulterior motive, (aka: find a reasonably cute guy each, share a cab in between the four of us, and wish eachother good-night-wink-wink once at our respective doors), of course, because there's only such an amount of time one can go without sex without losing one's sanity.

We did find a nice pair, and followed them around the club discussing potential ways to chat them up, until they grabbed eachothers' arses and exchanged a long and langourous kiss. Well, so much for the infallible gaydar then.

I was cursing my consistent lack of luck over my cranberry juice (having been ill as fuck for the past few days, I still was on antibiotics, hence no alcohol, and before you say it, I know it would have been in my best interest to stay home, but FYI, I did not go out on Friday, so I consider myself half guilty only) when this absolute hunk walked past.
I poked IN on the shoulder:
"Me. Jane. Him. Tarzan!"

I should have never forgotten than IN's flirting and matching techniques were still very much jungle-like. Or at least, primary school courtyard-like.
She pushed me into him, and before I had time to say sorry -and feel sorry for myself- she had already asked him his name, whether he was single or not (he was), said the two of us had something in common then, and buggered off.
Oh dear. Now Lilith, say something. SAY something!

"So... Erm.... Hahaha! God, I wish I was hammered. Rest assure she will not live to see the next sunrise. Anyway! Do you come here often?" (oh-dear-oh-dear-oh-dear)

After the initial embarrassment, it went surprisingly well, I have to say.
We chatted for the best part of four hours, until he invited me to come along to an after party with his friends. By this time, I had realised that not only "Tarzan" was super fit, but also smart, funny, employed, and straight!
Unfortunately (or fortunately, I still don't know), my sober mind had also decided that he could be more than one night stand material, so I politely (and ridiculously) declined and let him beg for my number.

I not sure I like my sober self that much.

When the lights came back on, I said goodbye, and he gave me a bear hug, promising he would "definitely" call.
I grabbed IN who was lap dancing one of the two gay guys in the utopian hope of getting a threesome, and we went home.

No cab. No good-night-wink-wink. No hot sex.
Night buses. And harassing drunken arseholes at the bus stop. And enough time spent in the artic wind to have a relapse.

Tarzan'd better call.

I don't have time to wash my hair, let alone blogging.

I need a cook, a driver, a nurse, a male prostitute, a cleaner, a secretary, a hair dresser, and someone to catch up on sleep for me.

Oh yeah, and a nice city man unaffected by the credit crunch, to pay for all of that.
Obviously, my hopes are high.