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.

Friday night Pinot Grigio fueled conversation:

Me: I am screwed. Actually, "not screwed at all" would be the correct statement.

Gay Mike: No one at uni?

Me: Oh yeah! Gay guys and straight girls. I am so lucky.

GM: And what about gay girls?

Me: Actually, and something tells me you will agree, I find that, in the long term, girls somehow lack the right equipment.

GM: True... But you could still have fun with a girl and a strap-on?

Me: Mike, would YOU have sex with a girl and a strap-on?

GM: No!!!

Me: There. We understand eachother.

Questions

Where are all the cute guys I saw at enrolment?
Seriously, where did they disappear?

And why are there only two "male" specimens in my course? An old, fat balding one, a gay Italian one, and way too many bitchy females, is that a sort of bad joke?

And is that wrong to think one of the lecturers is sort of easy on the eye? And shouldn't I have smiled when he greated me with the "up and down" look I usually only get in bars?
Ok. I know the answer to that one. Bad Lilith, bad!


Well, I guess I will have to attend most of the social events in order to meet more appropriate targets. First one tomorrow.
Too bad...

Bree

I've got no nails left. Probably no lungs either for that matter. My stomach is torturing me.
And even if I came back home at five this morning after a night at Barfly, by 1pm today, I had done laundry, food shopping for a week, cleaned The House from top to bottom, including the washing up accumulated while I was away (of course), dyied my hair, and baked a cake.

The Housemates were staring open-mouthed, wondering what had hit me, since I'm usually a Sunday couch-potato professional.

Ok, I'm stressed, and I'm doing a Bree Vanderkamp to keep me from being stressed. It doesn't work, but at least it gets things done.

It's ridiculous, I know, millions of people start uni every year. But even if it's something I feel I really want, until quite recently and from as far as I can remember, if people had told me I was going to study I would have rolled on the floor out of laugher.
That's probably the most disturbing bit for me now, and all of this is coming up the day before enrolment. Nice.

I think I'm going to prune the hedge.

So, I'm back in London.
Lately, the above sentence seems to show up here with a certain recurrence. This being said, it's nice to get out of the city once in a while, just for the pleasure of coming back, and it probably won't happen again anytime soon since I'm starting uni on Monday.

The initial excitement has been replaced by a sort of irrational fear. Of course, the nightmares I've been having recently involving a bunch of eighteen years olds laughing at me and pointing out my (invisible) wrinkles don't help...
Call me vain, but I can't help to recall how fucked up we were back then.

Not that things got that much better since.
See for yourself: I've just accepted to go on a date in a few weeks time with a bloke I met at the Ikea "restaurant" yesterday.
Well, he's charming, literate, well traveled, exactly my type physically speaking, but, there are a few buts.

But number 1: He's French. This is not racism, but seeing my previous experience regarding French guys, you know where my reluctance comes from. Well, I'm not going to blame an entire nation for one arsehole's shitty behaviour, am I?

But number 2: He's a decade older than me. Actually, that's not exactly a problem as far as I'm concerned, but I wonder what he would see in me?

But number 3: He's a divorcee. That's unexplored territory for me (as far as I know...).

But number 4: He's got a son. Wow, now, that's a massive but. The maternal instinct hasn't knocked at my door yet, actually, it hasn't even been in my neighbourhood, and I. simply. do. not. like. children. As I say on a weekly basis; come on guys, use a condom!


So why did I say yes?
I've been thinking about it last night (instead of getting my beauty sleep), and as I said, he's my type, charming, literate, etc...

And maybe I'm a tiny little bit desperate?
Arrogant German cancelled his trip to London, and if you ask me, that's for the best. But, meanwhile, I haven't got any action in erm, a very long time, and it is starting to get to me. A few days ago, as I was passing through the city OG now lives in, I seriously considered calling him "for old times' sake". The only thing that saved me from doing it was his facebook update: OG is in Shangai. Lucky escape.
But I know I won't last long. And I seriously can't start jumping on innocent students from Monday, can I?

Student, moi?

Long time no blog. I know I should give myself a tap on the hand in the "Bad Lilith, baaaad!" way, but I just haven't had time to do even that.

My laptop has finally given up on life (to be honest, I'm sort of pleased with the outcome, since it had been nagging me for months, refusing to cooperate, and many times has been very close to win a free one-way flight ticket through my window).

I've also been very busy, mainly applying for universities courses via clearing. And against all the odds, it paid off!
I'm starting very soon, and need to:
-fly back home get the originals of my various diplomas for enrolment,
-incidentally visit the family, you know, just to be nice,
-argue for hours on end to convince them that that career choice of mine is a good thing (and as a result of it, get the funds...),
-clean out Ikea of its furniture, since I might be in serious need of things, you know, like a desk for example...

The good news; I get to stay in the Big Smoke for at least two more years and will, if everything goes well, get the exact degree I wished I had for quite a while now.

The bad news; as an undergraduate mature student, I'm going to spend most of my days surrounded by 18 years-old.
I shared that concern with Gay Mike yesterday and he had that incredible answer: "You know when I was eighteen, I still wasn't out, and if I had met you then I'm sure I would have felt completely in love with you."

Ta, darling, knowing that I'll spend two years helping young closet students come out is so comforting...
I've got amazing friends, really.

More about the rest later, will try to update during or after freshers' week. Time to pack.

Bomb

By the start of the Usual Suspects' party on Saturday night, G-the-M had sent a text apologising for his -lame- joke, and saying he wouldn't be able to make to the party in the end. But see you when I get back, I hope.
Whatever.
Stella texted me too to say she couldn't make it either because not in the country.
Fair enough. It meant much less trouble for me! Especially since I decided it was not worth mentionning the affair with G-the-M to her.

God, the party was fun! No fresh meet, but I didn't feel like a carnivore either.
I was high on redbull to keep me alive after the journey, and it was good to catch up with -almost- everyone. I remain slightly concerned about the fact that the old lunatic pub landlord spent most of the night trying to pimp me up with various newcomers in the neighbourhood though...
I really hope he doesn't think of my weekly drinking sessions in his pub with the Housemates Gay-Mike and Slightly-Retarded-But-Adorable-John as sad. It certainly doesn't feel like it.
On the other hand, it would have been a bit problematic to explain to him that his pub is too dodgy for me to venture in it with any sort of potential sexual partner.

I spent the whole Sunday in bed, catching up on some much needed sleep, and only got up to wach Peep Show with the dozen of remaining survivors from the night before. (I love The House!)

And then, at 9pm, the phone rang.

I stared at the German number on the screen with an open mouth as my brain was working fast. German number=Arrogant German. Pretty simple, really.

Pick up or not pick up? That was the question. Of course I picked up. Of course it was him.

God it was so good to hear his voice. Good doesn' t even start to cover it. And God, I was pissed off he decided to get back in touch. Pissed off doesn't even start to cover it.

We chatted for a good hour, at the end of which he dropped another bomb in the conversation. Clearly, he's such a bomb specialist that he'd have no trouble finding work for Al Queda. Here's that specific bomb's components: He's coming to visit in London in September for three or four days. He didn't even ask if it was ok with me, he's coming, and that's all there is to it.

My feelings now are a mix of extreme fulfillness and anger. I'm too happy for words, but what the fuck happened to the not keeping in touch part? And he's coming to visit, and then what? We'll have to part again. Of course.

So, what's the fucking point? If only I could errase that stupid smile from my face...

Last days

I spent my last few days in Florence going to school (I am now the proud owner of an Italian diploma recognised by the Italian ministry of education!), visiting around (as you do), and going out at night and talking about life and philosophy and sex with Mexicana and Austrian Goth. Most interesting.

Mostly, Italian guys were at the center of our conversations. My main problem with them is that they tend to be metrosexuals on the edge of gay looking (everyone knows I'm generalising here, ok?), but at the same time incredible machist dickheads. Seriously, what do they think they're going to get from standing at street corners and shouting at everything wearing a skirt: Ciao! Bella! Bellissima! Ho detto ciao!
I've never seen that technique succeeding. Never. So why do they keep doing it?
And it would be fine if it had happened once or twice, but twenty times a day, seriously?
By the third week, Austrian Goth and I had set up a routine which consisted in kneeling in front of the Italian offencer in a prayer mimic and telling him in his language: Thank you, thank you, thank you so much for telling me I'm beautiful. I feel so flattered to be worth of your attention. You really made my day, thank you!
Fat chance, mainly, they didn't get sarcasm. And my knees are still bruised. But we still got a few good laughs from their puzzled faces.


That last week was good. But, truth to be told, it felt a bit weird being there without Arrogant German. I forbid myself to think about it too much and G-the-M's outing sort of kept my mind busy.

By the end of my stay, I couldn't wait to be back in London. We spent our last Friday night at an outside bar next to the river and said our goodbyes after a few hours of dancing.
Good luck with your life and take care. Maybe we'll see eachother in a few decades.

This is not helping to keep my cynicism levels relatively low. Each time, something was screaming in my head: people come and people go, and what's the fucking point of everything with them in between?
Enough.

I came back to my Florence flat, packed, and headed to the aiport way before the sun rose on Saturday morning.
The journey back to London was a nightmare. Bus delays, train delays, flight delays. You name it. Even in Stansted the suitcases were delayed and the passengers had to wait for them a good hour and a half after we landed.

But exhaustion, annoyance, irritation, nostalgy, and all those unpleasant feelings flew away as soon as I set foot in London. Home. Sweet polluted home! It felt so fucking good...

Karma

Allora, yes, Monday night was epic.
I was around at Austrian Goth's flat, getting ready to go out, when I got a facebook message from G-the-M:

"I am out and proud. Sorry girl, I am just drunk at home being honest about my sexuality for once"

My first though was something like what the frigging fuck?
I didn't gratify it with any kind of answer. If it was a joke, then it was NOT funny (but makes the probable drama of this coming Saturday's party less erm, dramatic), if it was not a joke, then, what can I say?
I just know for a fact that at least he's not as gay as my housemate Mike for example, who is erm, unable to lift it with girls. This didn't seem to be a problem with G-the-M.

Sure, a few days later I am now able to look at it in a more rational way, but truth to be told, I became nuts the moment I got the message, and dragged Austrian Goth out immediately in order to get truly and wonderfully plastered.

Of course, three beers and a shot of sambuca in, as I was cursing out loud in every possible language my eternal lack of luck, an Italian pidgeon decided it was the appropriate moment to take a shit. All over me.

Now, try to go and wash your hair in the disgusting toilet sink of a dodgy Italian bar. So much fun.
After such an experience, I could only go back to the bar and tell my life story to the cute bartender who from then on kept the -free- drinks coming.

I'm not sure what happened next. I vaguely recall smoking pot with Austrian Goth and Cute Bartender after he finished his shift. Then?
I'm not sure. I must have walked home somehow.
One thing is sure, both Austrian Goth and I were still pissed in class on Tuesday morning. Mamma Mia!

There's only one conclusion to that story; I must have been very mean to pidgeons in a past life.

If, after a whole day holding my head in two hands at school because of the Hungover of the Century (yes, him again!), I was feeling a bit better, I'd have a lot to tell about last night, but right now the only words I am capable to put together are:

I. need. my. bed. Ho bisogno del mio letto. Ciao

After a wander in the ruins of Fiesole, I climbed further up the hill all the way to the convent of San Francesco. From there, whole Firenze was spreading itself in the valley down below, for my eyes only, it seemed, because for once, I was the only visitor around. How nice.

I then took the bus back to the city center, paid the Museo dell'Opera del Duomo a visit, before meeting up with Spanish Geek at the Signoria's square to say our goodbyes.
Sharing loads of people you're never going to see again is becoming a tad exhausting, but she left on the promise she'd come and visit in London. We'll see.

The plan for Saturday night was to go for a good dancing session at that club Arrogant German and I were supposed to go to.
It didn't happen due to a certain lack of enthusiasm from the creek; Austrian Goth had her period, Mexicana had blisters from wearing high heels.
Another reason to miss the Usual Suspects. All of them being males, I know for a fact they would never come up with that kind of excuses not to go out.

But, as it was my last Saturday night in Florence, I took myself out nevertheless, and spent the night getting hammered with three Italian guys I met in an outside bar next to the river. The only problem was, they were already out of their faces when I met them and I ended up ditching them and going home when they started to take their clothes off...
...to dive in the very-green-and-very-muddy Arno. Ewrg.
I just hope I won't read stories of drowned bodies found in the river in the newspapers tomorrow at school.


This morning, I was woken up really early by loads of people screaming outside my window.
After verification, it was "just" a dozen of old half-deaf Italians waiting to go to the mass together, at the bus stop across the road. Oh Dio mio!

I decided to make the most of the day, had enough coffee to wake up the whole Medici dynasty from the the deads and went visiting "a bit".
A bit, well, that included the Piazza San Marco, the Santissima Annunziata church, the church of Santa Croce with its museum and MichelAngelo's tumb, the Palazzo Medici-Riccardi, some long but good bargaining on leather bags at the market of San Lorenzo, and the visit of the Cappelle Medicee which made even more of an impression on little-sensitive-me than it did when I first came five years ago.

I've always reacted very strongly to art in all its classical forms (paintings, sculptures, and music), especially to Renaissance masterpieces, but this time, I had to sit down for a good fifteen minutes before being able to breathe properly again.
I am not goin to descirbe what I saw, there's no words. You should go and see by yourself.
Let's just say that, to me, Michelangelo will stay one of the greatest men who ever lived.

I was supposed to go straight after my visits to Austrian Goth and Mexicana's flat for beers and gossip, but a break in the air-conditionned internet cafe seemed like a good idea.

Tomorrow, new start of the week at the school. I wonder what the new people will be like.
As long as I don't end up paired with a hysterical Polish priest like last week, everything should be fine.

Fiesole

Saturday 16th of August, 12:25, Fiesole

Note to self about Thursday night: Never walk in an internet cafe again with three very strong Mai Tais in your bloodstream...
It is true I was sad, still am a little bit, but I'm confident I'll survive.


I am now sat in the shadow of an olive tree on the Etruscan archeologic site of Fiesole, that small village overhanging Florence, where at last I found a bit of peace and quiet.
It is true I'm having a great time in between the classes, the infinite amount of Renaissance art available (the Galleria Palatina and the Uffici on their own are worth the journey from London) and the nights out spent drinking and talking international bullshit with Mexicana, Austrian Goth, Spanish geek, and usually a handful of Italian guys found on the streets, but I find it hard to cope with the hordes of tourists, and was starting to suffocate due to a lack of me-time.

Here, it's perfect. It's just me, the ruins, and the Toscan hills.
And my inner Japanes feels more than contented with all the photographic opportunities.

I know I shouldn't be complaining, but the truth is, I am starting to miss London a little bit. Especially the Usual Suspects, and the endless possibilities when it comes to meeting new people and discovering new places.
Florence is a bit too small for me I think, and I hate feeling like a sheep and having to follow the groups of sweaty American tourists in the queue to famous monuments. The problem is, I would never be able to sleep again if I didn't visit as many of those as humanly possible during my stay.
This, and I could kill for a breath of air under 30 degrees.

Londonners, be aware, I'm coming back in a week!

Little sad moment

Often, I say:
People come in your life then they go. Then new people will come and they will go too. One can never get used to it, but one has to accept it.
Because sometimes nothing can be done about it.

It is all so true. Especially when, like me, you have a nomad lifestyle.
And yet there I am, crying in the far corner of the internet cafe, hiding in between the hard disks and the earphones, Placebo at full blast.

Arrogant German left and maybe it's something else inconsciously coming up at the same occasion, but I feel crushed.


No. No. Before you ask, NO. Nothing happened.
Nothing, or everything. What can I say, I've spent the best part of two weeks, day and night, with someone whose sole presence made me, wholly, entirely, unconditionally happy.

Infatuated? Of course.
Call me the biggest drama queen in Italy.
Call me stupid.
But we had the wow-effect connexion.

He was not fuck buddy material. And his studying in Germany made him no boyfriend material either.

We discussed it after one too many cocktails and agreed any "happening" of any sort would only make things harder when parting.
We also agreed not to keep in touch.
The faster you forget, the better, right?

So far the first few hours have been terrible. I just wish I could cuddle up on my London futon with a blanket and a big joint. I want to be alone.

I'm going for a walk around the deserted streets of Florence.

Florentine Friday night

Saturday, 9th of August, 3pm

I woke up half an hour ago, as dehydrated as if I had been running across the Sahara.
Two liters of Italian coffee and a cold shower later, I am still trying to work out exactly what's going on.

Yesterday, after class and the visit of the Capella dei Medici, I went to the Germans/Austrians' flat in central Florence for Trinks.

Of course, Arrogant German was there, and the two of us spent hours on end arguing about international politics in Italienglish. Clearly, the boy has brains.
And there's no better foreplay for me than a witty challenging conversation.
Add to this a deep voice and a perfect body, and I am smitten.
I was smitten.

When the temperature eventually went under 30 degrees, the seven of us grabbed a handful of Heineken and went to sit down on the benches of the Piazza Santa Croce.
I wish I could do that more often in London; sit outside with a drink and a couple of fags without shivering after three minutes, but, from what I heard from the Usual Suspects, it is not bound to happen anytime soon in (now cold and rainy) London.
That is, unless there is some serious acceleration in the global warming process. I can't wait.

Heinekens downed, we decided to follow the young dressed-up crowd to a so-called "club" close by.
God. It was terrific. And not in a good way; stupidly trashed Amrican tourists profusely sweating on five years old commercial music.
Little precision at the risk of sounding like a pure snob: I am NOT a tourist, but would rather call myself a traveller, and I'd much prefer hand in local places with locals than having to bear the
"OHMYGOD! And then, Brandon pulled his pants down in the middle of the street, and ohmygod we were all so stoned after that joint and it was soooooo funny!
-Oh my actual God! I can't believe it! It must have been amaaaaazing!"
type of conversation in the smoking area.

After five minutes of this, I was seriously considering suicide. So was the rest of the rest the -mainly geeky- group.
Even after filling our stomachs up with Sambuca in a failed attempt to get in the mood. One after the other, everyone made his way home, leaving only Arrogant German and I, clearly still there because of eachother.
So much for playing it cool.

I eventually shared my desperation with the bouncer who sent us to that other club across town. Florentine night public transports being unreliable at the best, virtually inexistant at the worst, the two of us started that forty minutes long walk along the Arno river.
Maybe it was the undeniable romanticism of the situation, but something switched in Arrogant German, and he went into full courtship mode, insisting in offering his arm for the whole way, and helping me whenever we had to triumph over a couple of steps.
I have to admit I found it embarrasingly nice.

We arrived at the club at three, only to be told it would be closing at four. We agreed not to pay the thriteen euros for such a short time, and spent the remaining hour salsa dancing on the car park.

Bring on the cheesiness! Hmm... I loved it!
By this point I was dying for him to push me against the wall and take me there and then.
Maybe i'm not such a lady after all.
Oh wait, I think I knew that already.

Unfortuanately, the dancing stayed what it was, only dancing.
At four, he offered his arm again and we started the long way back.
Half way, in between the Ponte Vecchio and the Ponte alle Grazie, we sat on the low wall, feet hanging above the water, and resumed the our conversation about European cultural differences (pure hotness if you ask me!) before moving to more personal subjects.

That's when he dropped the bomb:
"You know I'm only twenty and...
-WHAT? Erm, I mean, I thought you were older but who cares anyway!"

Me and my big, huge, enourmous, woolly mammoth sized mouth.
On the other end you couldn't blame my surprise; he doesn't look a day younger than twenty five, and certainly doesn't behave like a piss-head teenager.
I guess it wouldn't have mattered if my reaction had beem a bit more, erm, suttle.

But my inability to shut the fuck up probably discouraged him, and, even if we stayed there talking until seven, long after the sun rose, absolutely nothing more than hands holding happened.

Maybe I am just a seriously retarded romantic, but I am very curious to see what Monday morning will have in store for us.

Situation

Shit-shit-shit-shit.
Me and my propensity to get myself in the most awkward situations!

Explanation:
On the day of my return to London, the Housemates and I are throwing one of our legendary parties. This time is meant to be so big that, in an attempt to salvage The House, we actually rented our local pub next door, with Dj etc.
So far so good.

The first problem is, it is going to be the first day I'll have the opportunity to see Stella since the whole G-the-M thinggy. I am still pondering weather or not she should be informed of what happened between G-the-M and me. Since I've been totally unable to make up my mind, I've asked around for advice but the diversity of the answers was such that it left me even more confused if possible.

The second, and bigger, problem is that, probably in a moment of high intoxication, I invited G-the-M too. And he very kindly sent me a message today to confirm his presence.

So there we'll be in two weeks time, three "friends" for a big "friendly" catch up!
I might need to bring boxing gloves, you never know.

Why do I keep doing that to myself, seriously, WHY?
Anyone out there can offer any kind of advice?

Some more travelling

As I am now abroad, I'll try to update this whenever possible. Chances are it will be copied from rushed notes, hence a bit erratic in the dates.


Sunday 3rd of August, 3:32 am

I am now on the coach to Stansted (sounds vaguely familiar, in fact, so familiar that once in the terminal, I'll be able to go straight to the toilets with my eyes closed).
On the coach, miraculously enough, since I am not quite sure how I got here in the first place.

Friday night was every bit as fun as I thought it would be; major piss up with the Usual Suspects around the pubs of Liverpool Street, followed by six hours of hardcore up and down jumping on DJ Fresh at fabric.
I went to bed at 8 on Saturday morning (don't you love taking the tube in the wee hours with six junkies in your carriage to keep you entertained, and a couple of liters of vomit splattered on the floor to remind you that at least your sense of smell is still intact?) and woke up at 2pm, quite confused.

I packed, coloured my hair, made bloody marys with the Housemates, and drank them on the balcony, enjoying the rare warm evening.
The original plan was trying to stay awake until 3 by watching baby kangaroos on youtube, or anything equally random. The thing with bloody marys, is that they always get me inspired.
I knocked at Italian Neighbour's door, and 20 minutes later, we were downing sambucas at the Notting Hill Arts Club. Funk night, yes please!
We danced with what we thought were two gay guys.
It looks like I'll have to revise my claim to fineliest tuned gaydar in London since they actually became way too interested for gay people.

They were fun nethertheless. In any case, we both had true excuses for once; her regular shag-buddy was coming to pick her up, and I had to go to the airport.

Drunkennes was in the air by 2am when we left the club, but I still managed to make it home, swap high heels for comfy shoes, and finish the stach of weed hanging in my room ( since I knew that, with the "people traffic" in The House, it so wouldn't remain there, unsmoked for a whole three weeks.

Seemed like a brilliant idea at the time, but obviously it wasn't since next thing I knew, I had lost - yes lost!- the coach stop in Marble Arch, and spent a whole forty minutes looking for it up and down oxford Street with a suitcase twice my size. Hmm...



2:05pm, some Italian train, local time

The staf in Stansted decided I looked very much like a terrorist and took a very long fifteen minutes to empty my handbag in full view of everyone, handbag which, incidentally, had just been stuffed with random things from my overweight suitcase at the check-in desk. By random things, I mean all my lacy underwear which has been making so many public appearances recently it needs an agent.



My destination was Florence, where I will be starting a three weeks course tomorrow, but (oh, the joys of flying Ryanair!) I landed close to Pisa and decided to stop there for a few hours to see the famous slanting tower.
It is still there. Well, if it wasn't, you would have heard about it I guess.



Thursday 7th of August 7:30pm, Firenze

So, I am well settled down in Florence. My flat is a bit, erm, sweaty (Florence, because of its geographic situation, is supposedly the hottest city in Italy and I am on the fith floor with a massive window facing South) but very cosy. Not that I've spent more than the strictly necesary time to sleep there so far.

I share it with a Japanese piano teacher with whom communication is virtually impossible, so we smile at eachother whenever we're in the same room.
Fortunately, people on the course are way more fun.

There's the Mexican girl who with I get on like fire. She was supposed to go back to Mexico about a month ago but decided to stay a bit longer because the guy from the internet cafe she's sleeping with happens to have -her words, not mine- the biggest one in the world. No, you don't need more details.

There is the Spanish Geek who doesn't drink but shares my passions for Michel Angelo, Rafael, Puccini and tall Italian guys.

There is the Austrian girl who always wears funky tights and must be dying in the heat but loves as much as I do the live music scene.

There is the pure Hungarian Hunk who unfortunately doesn't speak anything but Hungarian. Actually, who cares, every girl on the course, teachers included is actually much more interested in his potential body language.

And there's also the very arrogant German student whom I can't help but provoke. Damn, I love arrogant guys way too much for my own good.
And I know for a fact that they love being provoked. I'm telling you, it works everytime.
Actually, I've already been asked for a drink tomorrow after the classes.
I said I wasn't sure. Which is true. He's attractive enough, but... Well, I don't know. But there's plenty of time to decide.

Well, sort of, especially since my timetable has been pretty busy since Monday; classes from 9am to 4pm, usually followed by a visit either with Mexicana, Austrian Tights and Spanish Geek, either on my own.
So far, culture wise, I've walked through the beautiful residential area on the hills, the South of the Arno and the Boboli Gardens, visited the Academia museum, the Uffici Gallery and the Museo Nazionale, until 10pm, closing time.
Each time it was followed by dinner/drinks with a small roup of students or a few randoms Mexicana and I met on the street.

No, I don't have time to sleep, but I am fucking loving this!
Actually, I have to go, I'm going for drinks in fifteen minutes. I'll raise my glass to Michel Angelo!

Text

Hello my lovely one!
It was so good to see you last week...
I'm in [...] until next Thursday. Will you be around?
If not, I would like to take you out for drinks next week on my return and maybe we can start again!?!
kinda miss you...
xxxxxx

Of course it comes from OG. Seriously, who else?

Thank God I spent last night stone-talking to another of the Schmokin Creek's (sexy) guests until 5am. Meaning I'm too dazed and confused right now to formulate an appropriate answer.

Thank God I won't be "around", neither in London next week. Because I know I would have jumped on the opportunity, quite literally.
Bugger. I should stop caring since it is NOT. HAPPENING. Apart from the fact that we're never in the same country, just for health and safety reasons.


I need to get my brain back together instead, do some packing, get ready, meet the Usual Suspects for drinks, and go to Fabric with Sexy Guest.
Sounds like a good plan.

Timing

Tell me about the female hormones! I can't stress enough how much I hate them. I guess it's because they are one thing I cannot control.

Two days of phone-watching finally paid off, when G-the-M called to invite me to a gig yesterday night. And obviously, at that moment, I was bent in two on my futon, popping ibuprofen by the bucket and cursing period cramps. I had to explain that I would have luuuuuuuved to come but wasn't feeling very well at the best. God loves me, clearly.

It also means I'll be "in that state" until Saturday, day I'm leaving to Italy for three weeks. Perfect. Great timing.
I won't see G-the-M until he will have had loads of time and many opportunities to *catch up* with Stella. Call me a paranoiac, but that freaks me out.

My mood is just too great for more blogging today. I'm gonna go and kill a few fellows on the street instead.

Fun

On with the catching up.

A week ago, on Monday, G-the-M and yours truly, spent the whole day texting eachother.
The furious texting ended late afternoon with a "Really hope to see you tonight at That Bar... xxx" from his part.

I didn't reply. But first thing that morning, I had invited my crazy Italian neighbour (whom I love to bits, though not in that way, even if she loves girls too) to come with me , and my outfit was ready. Sometimes it's good to play a little games.

All in my own relashionship/exes torments for the past few months, I had forgotten how exciting the first arrangements can be.
Very.

We showed up late. Very late, (hell, Italian Neighbour is not Italian for nothing!) but still in time to see G-the-M play.
As I.N. didn't fail to not-so-discreetly notice (eg: screemed at the top of her lungs) when I showed him who was G-the-M: Yummy!

Yup, he is yummy. I decided to ignore the fact that Stella and I's friendship is momentarily non-existant for that reason and to go for it.

Also because drunk I.N. was doing anything in her power to go for it too. Or for me, for that matter. Actually, she mentionned something about sharing. The night at That Bar was all a bit confusing, and erm, slightly awkward too. And as lovely as she is, she didn't make things easier.

Especially when she grabbed G-the-M by the arm and told him in front of everyone (eg: me):
"So, as a musician, you must be able to do wonderful things with your fingers and your mouth, right? wink-wink!"
I pulled her back and gave that look to make her shut up, but she immediately grabbed my ass in full view of everyone (eg: G-the-M), caught G-the-M's hand while I jumped up and told him that he should touch my ass too because I had a great one!

Seriously, how do you get out of this kind of conversation without alcohol? Laugh?

She had a job interview the next morning and had to leave early. Thank God for that! Ok, I'm such a bad friend, but your have to admit that my friends are a tad bizarre...


As soon as she was out of the way, though, it became obvious that "it" was going to happen.
We went out for a cigarette together, crammed on a little bench, not knowing what to say anymore.
You know when you pick up that little something in the other's eyes, and you just know what's going to happen? That.

He took my hand and dragged me back inside for a dance. I followed, making horrendous faces to myself as images of Stella kept popping in my mind. An onlooker would have found it rather, erm, inappropriate. And I guess it was.

But when I felt his hands on me, his body against mine, the whole Stella problem was immediately filed in the Will-think-about-it-later section at the very back of my brain. Carpe Diem, right?

We kissed and danced and kissed some more until the bouncer kindly informed us that he had been trying to close the place down for ten minutes already, and that we were the only two people letf in there...

As we simply couldn't end the night then, we jumped into a cab and went back to his place. You know I cannot possibly say no!


So yes, my "friend" G-the-M and I had sex.
Disturbing enough.
But the most disturbing thing was that we did not only have sex. We had amazing, wondrous, earth-shattering sex. Is that even supposed to happen? On the very first time?
I never ever came on the first time with anyone else before. So what was that about?

As he was away from London most of last week, we communicated by text messages, first making sure we were "still cool".
Whatever that means, apparently we are, and are supposed to meet up at some point this week (when he calls).

Clearly, my hormones have now taken over, and I can't help but obsess.
Now if you'd please excuse me, I have to go; I have some serious phone-watching to do.

The joys of unexpectedness 2

I was heading to my friend Tam's formal birthday party in a Soho bar.
I don't even remember my tube journey in the evening dress/very high heels combo. Must have been quite an interesting sight...

I had promised Tam I would be there at 9ish. Instead, I walked in at 11pm, and completely out of my face. I am such a reliable friend.
Trying not to make a complete fool of myself in a crowd of 40 plus, I went to the first friendly face, Mike.
Whose face changed when he saw me:
- Lilith! Don't turn around-don't turn around-don't turn around.
- Why? Who's here?
- Your dear friend OG. Right behind you. Here. Have my shot of vodka!
- (gulp) Bugger. Shit. Fuck. I mean, thanks Mike! Erm, I'll see you around, I need to... Erm, move!

I made a bee line to the bar, downed a mojito, and spent the next half hour in the smoking area outside, telling the bouncer all about my problem.

I eventually decided to follow his advice, by behaving like the adult one. I walked back inside, head held high, and as soon as he was on his own, to OG and initiated polite conversation.
I was terrified. It was pretty hard to see OG in the flesh again. And yes, he is still VERY good-looking. But it didn't go too badly. I think. I was so drunk I really can't be sure, adn I kept drinking the wine he was pouring me.
Weather, summer plans, career plans, etc... It was all very casual.

Until he asked me out for "drinks at some point next week".
That's when Masochist Lilith and Responsible Lilith had a very long argument in my head.
Masochist Lilith: Go for it! Look at him, he's so hot!
Responsible Lilith: Yes, and he knows it. And I'm not falling for that again!
ML: Come on, what's just a drink?
RL: Like just a drink is going to happen...
ML: See, you're dying to fuck him again, and so is the rest of the London female population!
RL: Maybe, but I'm not going to do the same mistakes again!

OG waited, looking quite puzzled while the inside debate was taking place, for a good five minutes.
In the end, Responsible Lilith took over, and I am glad to say I politely declined.
I politely declined again when he asked me if I could do some translation work for him too, and politely declined again when he offered to drive me home.
Wow, I'm self impressed. Maybe I'm learning after all.

There's still some serious learning to do in the drinking department though, because, even if I pulled an OK face whole night, as soon as I was in Tam's car on the way back to The House where the official after-party was taking place, I passed out. And had to be carried to bed. Or so I've been told.

And the hangover on Sunday was priceless.
I spent the whole day wanting to die, but ordering pizzas and watching DVDs with survivors from the night before instead.

Of course, OG filled my Facebook inbox with "messages" ranging between ";))))" and "xxxxxx", to which I didn't bother replying. I'm sorry, but even if it does not always show here, I like proper sentences.
And I guess the good thing is, I am now able to use my brain before my hormones.


Well... Sometimes only.
I need another (long) post for that.

The joys of unexpectedness 1

I did well to stock up on some pure no string attached fun in Cannes, because, even if I was reluctant to come back to rainy London, I certainly didn't know what a mess my first week-end back here was going to be.

First of all, on Thursday night, French Guy called me.
That's right, after two months of complete silence he could have been dead for all I knew (wouldn't have it been for Facebook), HE called me with the big news.
No, he didn't want to get back with me, he didn't want to apologise either, he merely wanted to explain me "why we didn't work out".

So, WHY?
You'll never guess in a million years.
This is actually so unbelievable it would be funny if it wasn't so revolting:
We didn't work out because I was not wife material, and while we were still together, he's met a girl who is just like me except that her, she is wife material, and they're getting engaged.

WHAT THE FUCKING TRIPLE FUCK??????
The man is 23, commitment phobe, and my teenage cousin is ten times more mature than him, for fuck's sake!

My answer?
It looks like someone is having a hell of a madonna/whore complex. Wish luck to your fiancee from me, she's already been cheated on, and getting engaged to a moral-less piece of shit. Bless her!

Obviously, even if I was more infuriated than anything else, I didn't take it too well, didn't sleep that night, and had to call Pusc over on Friday morning while I was having a panic attack over my morning coffee.
I eventually calmed down over bloody marys, a four cheeses pizza and Hot Fuzz.



But the big mess doesn't stop there. Far from it.

G-the-Musician-from-That-Bar and I had planned "drinks" on Saturday afternoon. The constant phone and internet flirting was becoming unbearable, (and Stella still hasn't got back to me and is not in London until the end of August anyway) so I decided to ditch my conscience and go through with it.

We hadn't seen eachother in about three weeks, but had been in touch every single day. No pressure at all. Yeah, right.
And what do two people under pressure do when they meet at the pub?
They get pissed as quick as they can.
So we did. From 4pm. To 10pm.

You said it. Ouch.
I remember having a great (spinning) time. G-the-M really is a very smart and witty guy. And that turns me on! As for our six hour long conversation, well, let's say I keep getting flashbacks.

At 10pm, I managed to say what I thought was a dignified and friendly bye, stumbled back home with a kebab, put on an evening dress, and headed out again.
The rest tomorrow. I really have some sleep to catch up on...

Can you Cannes Cannes Cannes?

I came back from Cannes on Wednesday. It was every bit as amazing as I thought it would be, and I am glad to say I did everything on my to do list. A bit more, actually...

Let's see;

I did spend most of my days on the beach, with a lunch break either with A and friends, the henna tattoo guy who kept buying me coffee, the girl from the ice-cream stall (friend of A's I got on very well with from my stay in January) and even, on the last day, in a very chic hotel restaurant with a hot Brazilian boy I met "sur la Croisette".

I did get a great tan, until I got sunburnt and all my skin started peeling off.

I did get high. Even if high doesn't start to cover it since, under the pretext of my being on holidays, I was at a minimum of six joints a day.

I did swim in the sea for two hours a day, and amazingly, (seeing my constant state,) didn't drown.

I did go to a rave on the beach. One word: Wow! (And came back with enough sand on myself to open a new beach in A's flat.)

I did attend the opening of that brilliant club with an even more brilliant line up inside the festival hall, full of v.e.r.y b.e.a.u.t.i.f.u.l people, to the point I had to stop myself from drooling over half the clubbers.

And yes, I did have sex and won 50 Euros!
No, I didn't go into cheap prostitution. It's just that A, his creek and myself set a bet: the first one to get laid would get 10 Euros from all the others.
I know, I know. Lame. But what else are you supposed to do on holidays where no rules apply? (And that bought me a carton of duty free cigarettes!)

Now, what happened.

On Saturday night, A, Ice-Cream Girl and I went back to that same club. As you do when you're a bit tipsy and in a crowd of 2000 people, Ice-Cream Girl and I lost A. We carried on dancing nethertheless, and somehow ended up invited at a VIP table by four French blokes. As they were so obviously into flashing their money -which disturbingly reminded me of French Guy- we accepted.
After all, what was wrong with Moet et Chandon?

What was wrong with it, actually, was that, five bottles later, the four guys started to annoyingly try to make us make out in front of them. One of them offered to pay us (quite a lot) for that. That was the final straw.
As much out of provocation as because I've been in lust with Ice-Cream Girl ever since I met her (she looks like Scarlett Johansson, in better), I told them it was something I was considering indeed, but that I would rather do because I felt like it than to please a bunch of pricks who use their father's wallet as a penis substitute.
And on a "have a good wank guys!", she grabbed me by the arm and we headed back to the dance floor.

Where we made out after half a song, obviously...
... and finished in the ladies'! Erm, no pun intended.

Not classy, but damn, it was great.
We left the club and finished the night sharing a joint and talking bullshit on the beach watching the sun rise. Awww...



The second "event" was on Tuesday, my last full day in heaven.
I was leaving the beach to go and get my free coffee with the henna tattoo bloke, when I was stopped by the nicest pulling line so far:
"Excuse me, sorry to disturb, but I couldn't help noticing you, and I had to make a move before you left. Would you terribly mind if I invited you to join me for lunch tomorrow?"

Maybe I was a bit too hot from the sun burns, but when I actually saw what he looked like (tanned, tall, slim but nicely toned, dark hair not too short but not too long, full lips, and dark green eyes, ok, perfect!), the only thing I wanted to say was "Fuck the lunch, fuck me now!". But I managed to make my hormones shut up and explained him instead that I would have greatly appreciated it, but was leaving the next morning.

After a bit of embarrassment from both parts, we finally decided to go for lunch now and then.
Lunch, then coffee, then martinis in his hotel lobby, and then, of course, back to his room. Awww... encore!



So yes, thanks, I did enjoy my holiday.

List of the (dull) pulling lines served on the beach

-What are you reading? The fact that I'm reading means I am not willing to talk to you.

-Do you have the time? No, I don't have a watch, don't have a phone with me, do you wish to remind me that my holidays will end eventually?

-Do you have a light/cigarette? Dull, dull dull.

-Do you come here often? No comment.

The more original: -Excuse me, but I've been asked to take a picture of the most beautiful girl on the beach, and that can only be you... No one takes a picture of me with that much skin on display while sweating like a pig, thanks!

The worse: -I'm sorry I kicked you in the head with my football, but your beauty distracted me. Go back play with your balls you moron!

And the more interesting offer so far: -I can help you find Jesus if you want, he'll help you break free from the dangers of sex and drugs. How the hell do you know me?

Where beautiful people go to do dirty things...

You would agree that after a holiday which felt like everything but a holiday, the last thing I could do was refusing a free (!) eight days in Cannes.

I'm visiting my best friend A. He payed for my plane tickets since it was his turn to come and visit me.
Eight days in a flat with balcony in the sun, a five minutes walk from the beaches and the bars, and illimited access to hash, I really can't complain, can I? Ok, I am litteraly jumping up and down out of excitement and spent the last three days unable to think about anything else.


My programme?
Day: BEACH. On my own with a good book and my new bikini. I am loving the idea. I am confident it will be a great opportunity to make new friends. Especially, hot, tanned, male friends looking for a bit of fun...

Night: PARTIES. From weed parties on the beach with a couple of friends and a guitar to electro parties on the beach, with, in between, a few cocktails in one of the hot bars I visited in January, and a few clubs.

(Life is so hard, isn't it?)


In my suitcase?
-bikini, bikini, bikini
-sun-screen
-Nivea tanning lotion (because if it's ok to rock the white'n red look in London, I'm guessing that on the riviera, I'm more likely to be seen as a cross between a polar bear and a lobster, aka: not. sexy.)
-water-proof make-up
-camera
-little nothing dresses
-heels
-flip-flops
-A's favourite digestives he can't find in France
-condoms
Done!


I'm going to take a nap now, go to That Bar at 8pm, come back home before 3am to grab my bag and head to the airport. Yes, my flight is unfortunately at 6am tomorrow, but I do think it's a small price to pay!

I've just spent not such a great week on a windy island with parents who now work full time for the How To Destroy What's Left Of Your Daughter's Self Esteem company. And I got sunburnt. Not that walking around red enough to make a well-cooked lobster blush was a problem in itself, because probably no more than eight persons had the great opportunity to admire my redness, on that island. Five of them were at least eighty years old, and the rest were fishermen. My idea of a perfect break. Riiiigh.

Of course, feeling somewhat cast away, I spent my long nights of insomnia on Facebook, it being for some random reason the only website I can access from my phone.
And as Facebook should be renamed Foolsbook, what did I do?
Flirt outrageously with G (he started it first!!!), and check French Guys's page.
Foolsbook indeed.
It gave me the perfect opportunity to feel even worse about myself:
French Guy is no longer listed as single. Enough said.
Or maybe not.
What about pictures of him and a surgically enhanced blonde kissing in a jacuzzi on holidays in Capri?
And what about the comment one of his dickhead friends left about said pictures?
Oh... So, that's the famous Lilith... Well done mate! Keep it up! (HAHAHA!)

Fucking brilliant if you ask.
I then swore I would never ever check his page ever again, but that's a lie. I keep doing it twice a day.

Anger will fade away. Eventually. But when???


Obviously, yesterday afternoon, my flight back was delayed (Oh I sooo love travelling in the summer), and I went straight from the airport, to the pub with my suitcase, to meet with the Usual Suspects. I am a class act all the way!

They all welcomed me with apologetic faces, but as I already knew this wasn't meant to be the best week of my life, I asked what was wrong.
Not that much actually, but they somehow got the date of my return to London wrong and had booked tickets for a concert and its after party today without me. Oh well.

I am pondering whether or not I am going to go out tonight. The Usual Suspects are busy, obviously. I haven't heard back from Stella, whom I know is working until late, but whom I suspect might be slightly irritated by G and I's constant Facebook chatter. And everyone else is away in the sun.

I am going to order a curry, watch some more Peep Show, and see who calls...
Wow. That's exciting.

Underwear

Great. That is just brilliant.
It's been three days now. I can't leave the house anymore without having five men in bright yellow jackets yelling obscene things at me.

Why? Just because my underwear, probably trying to recover its freedom, managed to escape my balcony where, hidden from the rest of the world, it was drying. With a little help from the wind, that traitor, all my panties did a magnificent gliding and landed in the middle of the construction site down my road.

I had to go and pick them up, and even if I had the presence of mind to put sunglasses and a hat on, the builders now recognise me. And now they know all about my passion for lacy things and don't miss an opportunity to comment on it, I can't even go out during day time to buy clothes pegs.
That is just brilliant.

Hopefully, they'll forget about it sooner or later. Especially since I'm leaving London tomorrow to visit the family for a few days.

Not before a major night out tonight, that is.
At the risk of sounding somewhat desperate, I really hope there will be something in store for me. It's been a whole six weeks since I last got any proper action. (Well there was the foot thingy with Mark, but that SO doesn't count as proper action, does it?)
And yes, I am about to lose my mind. I even caught myself checking out the builders. Of course, with my luck, they're all old, fat and bald.

I am just looking for someone not old, no fat, not bald, to see my underwear in a more normal environment (eg. on a bedroom floor).
Is that really too much to ask?

Live!

As usual, (and I am probably having some serious anger management issue here) when I stop being angry at myself, I start hating the whole human specie instead.

It doesn't last long, just a few days, but then it's exactly like nicotine withdrawal.

-Feeling like everyone around you is trying their best to be hurtful/stupid/selfish? Check
-Feeling unable to say absolutely anything positive about anything? Check
-Being anable to relax in the presence of others? Check
-Irritability to the point you want to kick everything that speaks? Check
-Desire to be yourself hurtful/stupid/selfish? Check


Check check check check.
Needless to say my week-end wasn't exactly spent socialising... (Bring on Peep Show!)

On Sunday, though, some of the Usual Suspects dragged me to the East Finchley music festival. But my being annoyed with everyone and the so-so quality of the music there quickly -ahem- annoyed me, so I pretented I had to be somewhere else and left.

I called Stella to see if she was up for cocktails and shisha at Momo's, an old time favourite North African place next to Regent's Street.
She was. But of course, when we got there, the tea room had been booked for a private party. (Grrr)

We decided to meet up with Andy in case he had any other plans. He had, but of course, all of them involved G.A.Y late. (Grrr)

Gay clubbing, as much fun as it can be when you're in the right mood, did not appeal to me then and there, so I made my apologies, said I was going home, and went for a power walk around Soho to calm myself down.

I was turning the corner of Wardour Street, when a girl stopped me for a light. We chatted a bit and she asked me if I knew where the Black Gardenia was.
"Blimey, at last, someone with a good idea!! Are you meeting anyone in there?"
Turned out she was just in London for a few days, staying with friends who didn't want to go out, shared my passion for intimate bars with atmosphere and quality live music, had randomly heard of the place, and was about to walk in on her own.
She didn't mind my coming along, so we went!

Pathological impulsiveness, what else can I say?

The Black Gardenia is that very small live jazz venue where time stopped somewhere in the 50s. I used to go there on a weekly basis last year, until TimeOut made a (deserved) fuss about it and sort of ruined it by bringing in too many loud people in suits who'd treat the place as any other Soho after-work boozing corner.
But on a Sunday it was far from crowded and really nice, even if unfortunately, no band was playing.
At midnight, they did like in the good ol' days; closed the front door, declared it was a "private party", ashtrays magically appeared on the tables, and the place was filled with cigarette smoke in three minutes. Awww... Gotta love it, really! My new friend loved it too!

When we eventually left, I took Visiting Girl's number, and promised I would take her to another bar favourite of mine the following evening.

That's where I got myself into trouble.


It's another tiny live music place I discovered through French Guy. Let's call it That Bar, since by now I'm known by pretty much all the staff, regulars and musicians and I really want to be able to come back.
Over the past few months Stella and I made it a habit to be there every single Monday, supposedly the best night.
And it was loads of fun. I made good friends there, especially G, one of the musicians.
G is a really really cool nice bloke. And exactly on the same level of sarcasm as I am. We got on perfectly.
So, as I was at the beginning of my happily-ever-after relashionship with French Guy, and Stella sort of fancied him, it was only natural I gave them a helping hand. A successful one, needless to say. (By the way, I should put pimping on my CV too...)

Successful that is, until Stella decided she didn't fancy G that much actually,and prefered leaving things where they were. Understand she stopped returning his calls, and refused to set a foot in That Bar ever again. Bravo. But who am I to judge?

That left me with a big dilemma: I knew I couldn't convince her to go back there since she was too embarrassed to face him, and I couldn't go back there because she prefered me not to have an explanation for her. In the mean time I was missing out on my favourite Monday nights out and felt really bad for G.
I am such a good friend, really.



So yesterday, before confirming the night at That Bar with Visiting Girl, I gave Stella a call and explained her the situation. And, come on, even if she wouldn't have given her "approval", I would have gone anyway. Water has passed under the bridge since.
But she laughed and made me promise to tell her all about my night the next day.


So, Visiting Girl and I walked in at exactly 9:30.
Of course I bumped first thing into G, and we got straight back into the jokes-cracking routine. He did ask how Stella was, and as the great diplomat I am (ahem), I told him I hadn't seen much of her recently either, you know, she's been real busy with work, and blah blah blah...

In between G, too much red wine, the music, and the dancing/cheering, I had a bit forgotten about Visiting Girl, to be honest, but I realised I didn't need to worry too much when I later discovered her all over one of the guitarists in the corner. Good girl!

When she eventually she came up for air, I congratulated her, and she the only thing she found to say with a wink-wink-nudge-nudge in G's direction, was that she now understood why I was so eager to come back to That Bar: "He's so obviously hitting on you, isn't he?
-WHAT???? Nooooo... We're friends, and I told you he used to go out with my best friend.
-Yes, but believe me, he likes you...
-You sure? Shit-shiy-shit-shit-shit-shit!"

I mean, shit!
Then I spent the rest of the night feeling guilty and drowning my guilt in red wine.
Well done Lilith, really, well done! That was so obviously the best way to deal with things wasn't it?

Especially since I don't remember much after that. I don't remember leaving That Bar. I don't remember saying bye to Visiting Girl either (apparently I did, from the facebook messages she left me this morning).
And I surely don't remember how I ended up in a cab with G. Or why he was in my living room this morning.

We checked, the friendship line hasn't been crossed. A big PHEW for that!

But I was supposed to go to the cinema with Stella tonight, and, bizarrely, she's not returning my calls. I think it's got to do with the fact that facebook told her all about G and I's exchange of private jokes which took place whole day long.

This is ridiculous. Why are people so complicated?
I'm going to stop drinking soon, it might make things slightly less complicated, at least on my side...

Nerves

Yesterday night, I had the first nervous breakdown in ages. It doesn't happen very often. Usually with a few cigarettes I manage to keep it at bay. But when it does happen it's not nice.

And usually ends by me throwing up, being unable to breathe and finally calming myself down by crawling under a cold shower.

Yesterday, I did all the above. What can I say? Sometimes it's better to aknowledge you're not feeling good, than britishly pretend that everything is "fine", then drink through it.
And I'm not feeling good. But it's good to let it out sometimes, so there you go:
I fucking miss fucking French Guy, my family is a fucking nightmare, and my professional life is fucking shit at the moment.

Call me an emo, but the only thing making me feel good is my friends.

The big problem is, when I'm in that state, the one thing I can't cope with, probably for some sort of twisted psychological reason, is any sort of compassion.
I don't cry often, but tell me everything is going to be fine, tell me you're sorry, or give me a hug, and you can be sure you're going to start the waterworks again.

That's the thing, DO NOT be nice to me! (The best thing you could possibly do would be switching on the TV for a Peep Show marathon, and bitch about the neighbour.)

Thankfully, my closest friends like the Usual Suspects are amazing and know that.
But the corner shop lady (we're not exactly best friends, but she's lovely, we're on first name terms, share the same opinion about random things like music and politics, and she is probably the only person on earth with whom I have a 3 minutes conversation every single day when I buy my fags) didn't know that.

She's genuinely nice, and when she saw my post-breakdown red swollen face, did everything wrong (hugs, etc...) until I was crouched down behind the counter, finishing her stock of tissues.
What a good look!

Now I feel sorry for her...

And very angry at myself for not being able to fucking M.O.V.E. O.N !!!

Aaaaargh! OG is stalking me again on Facebook!

He got really upset and we had our last argument two months ago when I told him all about French Guy, and I thought that would be it. "It" as, you know, o-v-e-r!
Apparently he doesn't think so. SHIT.


I honestly can't reply right now. I think I'm going to join Pusc at the pub instead and hide my laptop before I go to avoid any kind of horny drunken facebooking when I'm back tonight.

Yup, that will do.

Bizarre

So, on Friday, I went to Liz and the Schmoking Creek's flat to watch the football and keep her company as her boyfriend was leaving London that night to go to a festival with Mark (,the ex).

So we watched the football, drank a little, got a little stoned (as you do), and Liz's boyfriend left us at around 11pm to go and catch his coatch.

At this point, so much weed had been consumed that Liz and I were litteraly rolling on the floor from laugher at yet another of my stupid jokes.

An hour later, the boyfriend called. Obviously, he had fallen asleep on the tube and had missed his coach, so was coming back to the flat with Mark and a random friend who both had had the patience to wait for him at the coach station.

Now Mark. We had an on-off relashionship for months a year and a half ago and ended it, both of us agreeing that we were much better off as friends.
And we are (erm, were...). We get along great (well, it's difficult not to since we haven't seen eachother in a state other than stoned since), and any kind of ambiguity is (erm, was) out of the way.
We both crashed on the sofas (each on his personal sofa) of that living room many many times since our break-up, and, even if I admit it did cross my mind, nothing had never happened. Moreover, as fucked up as it sounds, he knew everything about my relashionship with French Guy, as I asked him advice a few times.
Now I'm thinking about it, maybe I shouldn't have ranted about my break-up last time we saw eachother. Well done Lilith!

Anyway, back to the night.
Soon, Liz and I both passed out, her in her bedroom, me on one of the sofas.

I vaguely recall getting up to open the door when the guys arrived, mumbling something along the lines of "Humpf" and crashing back on my sofa, not giving a shit about who was going to sleep where.

I woke up some time later to see Random Friend on the other couch, and Mark on the floor. I think I said something to Mark about RF's snoring and went back to sleep.

An certain amount of time later, I was woken up again by a bizarre yet very nice feeling. I opened my one functional eye to realise that Mark had managed to make himself enough room on "my" sofa (he's 6ft 3) and was (very nicely) massaging my feet.

My thoughts at that moment, in that order:
1) Hmmmmmmm...
2) What the F?
3) Oh, that's nice...
4) But my feet are clearly in the top 50 of the ugliest feet in the world population!
5) Oh shit I'm horny.
6) Yeah, that's normal, it's been a bloody month Lilith, and your ex is massaging your feet in a dark room...
7) But seriously, what is he doing? He didn't use to have a thing for feet before?
8) Fuck it, it's driving me crazy, let's just go with the flow!
9) But RF is less than a meter away!
10) Let's just pretend I'm asleep... for the time being!

Now, the most bizarre about it all was that he kept massaging my feet until long after dawn, meaning more than a few hours... I stayed "asleep", even if I could feel his hard on all this time under my carves.
If you ask me, I was so confused I didn't know what to do.

So, at 7am, I "woke up" and went to the loo. When I came back he was smiling this smile of his which used to make me feel weak at the knees, and apparently still does.
Because I smiled back, settled back in position, and whispered a "yes please..."

He put my feet back around his crotch area, and moved his hands further up my legs, further, further.
Until I came in his hands... And woke up RF! (Oh-dear-oh-dear-oh-dear-oh-dear)

Who thankfully didn't appear to understand why I had made such a noise.
Mark and I got up and shared a cigarette on the balcony. We talked about the-weather-in-London-this-summer as if nothing had happened.
I still wonder if I'd rather not get myself quickly into reality-denial mode and tell myself nothing really happened.

Luck

Friday the 13th...

With my usual lack of luck and perpetual propensity to get myself in the depths of the weirdest situations, I knew-I-knew-I knew I shouldn't have left The House on that fateful day.

What I couldn't imagine, though, was that it was all going to end by "ex-sex"and my discovering all about my ex Mark's foot fetish...

Oh dear... I'm such a disaster!

I'll tell it all in the next post. In the mean time, I'm getting ready to go out, and swear I will try not to misbehave too much that time.

News update: It's not a jungle out there, it's worse, it's a farm!
But sometimes it's good to view relashionships from a culinary point of view.

Doux-amer

London is back to its normal rainy self, and I think I'm back to my almost normal tears-free self.
Picnics in Hyde Park season might be already over, but at least so is the time when I'd start crying within two seconds of waking-up.
That's an improvement, but it took quite an unpleasant episode to get there...

Last Thursday, as I was walking through Sloane Square on the way to visit Liz at the hospital, I saw, a hundred meters away, an all-too-familiar figure: French Guy.
I have to precise that the rat-bastard broke up with me on the phone and then screened my following calls and text messages in which I was asking him to meet up for a proper chat. Needless to say that the fact that I was never going to see him again and couldn't have my say was more than hard to swallow...

Call me a stalker, but I was still distraught and what else could I do but start to walk towards him and try to have that "closure-chat"?

But he saw me, and believe it or not, he started running!
Anger like I probably never felt before took hold of me, (anger? What am I saying? RAGE would me more like it) and I ran after him, armed with my chicken salad, well decided to pour the content of it down his Lacoste shirt.
Unfortunately for me -and probably fortunately for him- he's much taller and much faster than I am, and managed to jump on the 137 bus which left before I reached the bus stop.

Shaking with anger and disbelief, I sent the following text:
"Espece de lache sodomite sans couilles, j'espere que tu as vire ta cuti et que tu as moins de mal a lever tes 3cm maintenant"
(Try to work out what it means if you want, I'm not going to translate it, its content is just too rude.)

I arrived at the hospital in a state very close to pathological hystery, only to hear Liz ask me: "What's wrong with your eye?"

Maybe it was hayfever, or the aftershock, or all the crying I had inflicted to my poor contacts-wearing eyes in the past days, or all the pot I had been smoking, but my left eye was bright red.

And it started hurting that same night. A lot. Too much to let me ponder over French Guy's cowardice.
By Friday morning I was completely blind on the left side, couldn't stand the light, was holding my head in both hands, and eventually had to call a mini-cab to the closest NHS walk-in clinic.
There, I copiously insulted the ophtalmolgist who had a weakness for torturing his patients, and then drugged on the painkillers he had injected me, I wandered in search of the hospital pharmacy, eyes closed and hands in front of me, for a whole hour and a half, asking directions to brainy people who told me to "follow the signs", bumped into enough wheelchairs and people in crunches to give me a lifetime of injury bad karma, etc...
From now on, all my sympathy goes to the blind.


I know I sound really bitter, but I've spent the whole week-end in, unable to watch TV, read, look at a computer screen, or even enjoy the sun, smoke or drink... Frustrating doesn't even start to cover it.

On the bright side, the really good thing about physical pain (not than I am such a fan), is that, when it reaches a certain point, it completely overwhelms emotional pain. What I mean is that, you can be distracted from true emotional pain by true physical pain, but the reverse is just not possible.


Don't get me wrong, I still think (a LOT) about French Guy, and miss him every day, but I just don't want to keep nursing the depression.
Yes, I still think (a LOT) about the great times we had together, but I just have to accept the fact that I can't get rid of the memories, and that they will stay with me for probably more than a little while; as dramatic as it sounds, it makes me who I am, and life doesn't stop there.
I'm officially back on the scene tomorrow night, Pusc is taking me for some straight clubbing. That doesn't mean I'll be throwing myself in the arms of the first cute guy I meet, I think it's still too early for that, it would feel too wrong, I think.

I'm slightly worried about the psychological effects of going off sex for much longer though, it's been a w-h-o-l-e m-o-n-t-h now. On the other hand, the last time I had had my heart that broken, I went off the scene altogether for no less than eight months if you can believe it! (But I was too young to know better, if you ask me now, it was a silly waste of time.) In the mean time, Sainsbury's battery sales are reaching a historical high...