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?
Friday, 27 June 2008
Tuesday, 24 June 2008
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...
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...
Thursday, 19 June 2008
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 !!!
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 !!!
Tuesday, 17 June 2008
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.
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.
Monday, 16 June 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, 14 June 2008
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.
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.
Friday, 13 June 2008
Thursday, 12 June 2008
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...
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...
Tuesday, 3 June 2008
Surprise
Last night I had a pleasant -or unpleasant, I'm still not sure- surprise. In an attempt to definitively kick out the depressing dressing gown lifestyle, I suggested going for a pint with the inhabitants of The House. Unfortunately, they were still recovering from the week-end, and declined. I pondered for a while about going on my own, but thinking it would sign my official descent into alcoholism, decided against it.
I already wasn't in the greatest mood, and retreated to my room, considering banging my head against the wall just a few times to send me to sleep, when my phone rang.
It was Stella:
Lilith, I'm so so so so sorry, but I've just been out with that really good friend of mine and his friend who are just back from touring in China, and they were supposed to stay at a friend's but he can't have them over anymore because of his landlord and I wondered, well, I thought...
-Ok, cut it, what time are they gonna be here? Because I'm in bed...
-Half an hour! Thank you so, so, so, so...
-It's fine, see you in half an hour.
Now, being the control freak that I am, I absolutely HATE HATE HATE HATE it when people, as good friends as they can be, don't leave me a choice. And nothing pisses me right off more than feeling that things are being forced upon me.
So, half an hour later, when the doorbell rang, I made a great show of appearing as grumpy as I could, with what I thought was the right combination for convincing grumpiness, just picture it:
-dressing gown
-no make up
-hair sticking up in every direction
-my 90s geek glasses which haven't been updated to my decaying sight in a decade (I wear contacts every day)
-hairy legs (nothing to do with behaving grumpy, they just happened to be there, and hey, that's what you're supposed to do post break-up: let your hair grow!)
-and my monthly spots (which just happened to be there too, since my periods are here just to make me feel better -sense the irony.)
So, I opened the door (grumpy face and all), and Stella jumped on me:
Oh Lilith, you're a star!
-Yeah, whatever, just come in and unfold the sofa bed in the living room if you can.
That's when one of the "friends" came in:
Oh my God! LILITH!!! How the devil are you???
-Eh? (screwing up my eyes while trying to see who the devil he was)
-It's me!!!
-Ooooh.... Hi! (then looking down at my "sexy outfit") Ooooh... Fuck! I mean, come in guys, make yourselves comfortable, here's the bathroom, let me help you with the bed, I'm going to get you blankets...
As pissed off I was with Stella right at that moment, she sensed something was wrong and dragged me out on the balcony "for a quick cigarette".
As soon as the door closed behind us, I was laughing my head off under the rain, unable to answer her "who-is-he-who-is-he-who-is-he".
I eventually managed to blurt it out.
We'd met three years ago during a three weeks summer course abroad where, during our free hours, he taught me how to talk dirty in English, while I taught him how to do so in my own language. With all the corresponding actions of course.
That is, only during day light, since at night, he shared a room with his long-term girlfriend...
Back then, I didn't care, in my incredibly selfish mind I had a very clear distinction in between sex and relashionships. It was just sex. And it was brilliant.
We were both a bit sad when the course ended - after all, he had given me my first big O!- but when we said our good byes at the airport, decided against keeping in touch for his girlfriend's sake and I flew back to London, and he flew back to Birmingham.
I was over him when the stewardess told me to put my bag under the seat in front of me.
I bumped into Summer Fling at a party in London six months later where booze, drugs, and sexed up couples were flowing.
I would lie if I said I didn't feel anything then, and my first question was if he was still with his girlfriend.
He nodded and suddenly burst into tears, telling me how he had been thinking about me all the time, and I told him how I couldn't/didn't allow myself to, for the only reason that he was taken, and that would just have been a waste of time and effort and pain.
(Wow, how cold-hearted was I back then? It made life so much simpler.)
So we spent the whole night sat in a corridor of the flat, hugging eachother, while everyone was going wild around us. It made the whole moment somehow more intimate than anything we shared before.
And we left it at that. We became "friends" on Facebook about a year ago, and that was it until last night.
So imagine my surprise when I realised he was on my doorstep... Six degrees of separation? I'd make it three degrees!
As much as I wanted to stay in the living room for a chat, I was too conscious of my appearance, and couldn't see anything anyway, so I excused myself upstairs.
Why I changed overnight into a nice morning person with make up on, making coffee at 7 for everyone, don't ask...
His friend (Stella's friend) being present, we had a nice chat about life, without mentionning the girlfriend. But I know for a fact that she's now moved to Norway, so... I gave him my number when he asked for it before leaving, I'm just curious.
Still it was a nice diversion from seeing Facebook pictures of French Guy and his brand new fucking mammouth bitch of a wrinkled girlfriend walking their hideous rat-like dogs together in Hyde Park.
I already wasn't in the greatest mood, and retreated to my room, considering banging my head against the wall just a few times to send me to sleep, when my phone rang.
It was Stella:
Lilith, I'm so so so so sorry, but I've just been out with that really good friend of mine and his friend who are just back from touring in China, and they were supposed to stay at a friend's but he can't have them over anymore because of his landlord and I wondered, well, I thought...
-Ok, cut it, what time are they gonna be here? Because I'm in bed...
-Half an hour! Thank you so, so, so, so...
-It's fine, see you in half an hour.
Now, being the control freak that I am, I absolutely HATE HATE HATE HATE it when people, as good friends as they can be, don't leave me a choice. And nothing pisses me right off more than feeling that things are being forced upon me.
So, half an hour later, when the doorbell rang, I made a great show of appearing as grumpy as I could, with what I thought was the right combination for convincing grumpiness, just picture it:
-dressing gown
-no make up
-hair sticking up in every direction
-my 90s geek glasses which haven't been updated to my decaying sight in a decade (I wear contacts every day)
-hairy legs (nothing to do with behaving grumpy, they just happened to be there, and hey, that's what you're supposed to do post break-up: let your hair grow!)
-and my monthly spots (which just happened to be there too, since my periods are here just to make me feel better -sense the irony.)
So, I opened the door (grumpy face and all), and Stella jumped on me:
Oh Lilith, you're a star!
-Yeah, whatever, just come in and unfold the sofa bed in the living room if you can.
That's when one of the "friends" came in:
Oh my God! LILITH!!! How the devil are you???
-Eh? (screwing up my eyes while trying to see who the devil he was)
-It's me!!!
-Ooooh.... Hi! (then looking down at my "sexy outfit") Ooooh... Fuck! I mean, come in guys, make yourselves comfortable, here's the bathroom, let me help you with the bed, I'm going to get you blankets...
As pissed off I was with Stella right at that moment, she sensed something was wrong and dragged me out on the balcony "for a quick cigarette".
As soon as the door closed behind us, I was laughing my head off under the rain, unable to answer her "who-is-he-who-is-he-who-is-he".
I eventually managed to blurt it out.
We'd met three years ago during a three weeks summer course abroad where, during our free hours, he taught me how to talk dirty in English, while I taught him how to do so in my own language. With all the corresponding actions of course.
That is, only during day light, since at night, he shared a room with his long-term girlfriend...
Back then, I didn't care, in my incredibly selfish mind I had a very clear distinction in between sex and relashionships. It was just sex. And it was brilliant.
We were both a bit sad when the course ended - after all, he had given me my first big O!- but when we said our good byes at the airport, decided against keeping in touch for his girlfriend's sake and I flew back to London, and he flew back to Birmingham.
I was over him when the stewardess told me to put my bag under the seat in front of me.
I bumped into Summer Fling at a party in London six months later where booze, drugs, and sexed up couples were flowing.
I would lie if I said I didn't feel anything then, and my first question was if he was still with his girlfriend.
He nodded and suddenly burst into tears, telling me how he had been thinking about me all the time, and I told him how I couldn't/didn't allow myself to, for the only reason that he was taken, and that would just have been a waste of time and effort and pain.
(Wow, how cold-hearted was I back then? It made life so much simpler.)
So we spent the whole night sat in a corridor of the flat, hugging eachother, while everyone was going wild around us. It made the whole moment somehow more intimate than anything we shared before.
And we left it at that. We became "friends" on Facebook about a year ago, and that was it until last night.
So imagine my surprise when I realised he was on my doorstep... Six degrees of separation? I'd make it three degrees!
As much as I wanted to stay in the living room for a chat, I was too conscious of my appearance, and couldn't see anything anyway, so I excused myself upstairs.
Why I changed overnight into a nice morning person with make up on, making coffee at 7 for everyone, don't ask...
His friend (Stella's friend) being present, we had a nice chat about life, without mentionning the girlfriend. But I know for a fact that she's now moved to Norway, so... I gave him my number when he asked for it before leaving, I'm just curious.
Still it was a nice diversion from seeing Facebook pictures of French Guy and his brand new fucking mammouth bitch of a wrinkled girlfriend walking their hideous rat-like dogs together in Hyde Park.
Back here... and on the market
I know, I know, I know that I've just commited the worst offence in blogging by not up-dating in erm... three months.
It's unforgivable. But what can I say, I mainly used to write here to help me overcome the whole dating drama and analyse my feelings (ok, and rant about my funny/or not-so-funny nights out). And what happened is that I fell so in love with French Guy and felt so fulfilled that the need to blog completely faded away. (I even dichted OG, if you can imagine what that meant...)
I had the best time of my life with him, until two weeks ago, when he said that he loved me, but didn't think I was the one and needed to get on with his life (cringe), then I had the worst time of my life.
You know when you keep pushing the time you're going to bed, because the prospect of having the hard reality downing on you as you leave unconsciousness the next morning is simply unbearable? That.
Fortunately, on Wednesday, the Usual Suspects managed to drag me out of my room and my dressing gown where I had been hiding away from civilisation for a whole week, and since I wouldn't eat, stuck cigarettes in my mouth (I gave up those with great trouble for French Guy about two months ago), forced trunkloads of liquid goods down my throat and led me to all sorts of shameless behaviours which somehow make me feel a bit more human. That's what you call friends!
Shameless behaviours including:
-insulting "Big" out loud during a Sex And The City late viewing (in my defence, Stella had dragged me to a wine bar where we made good use of the pinot noir before the cinema).
-getting drunker than the landord of my local pub by drinking faster than my housemates, which is probably unheard of in West London history.
-smoking weed in the middle of Sloane Square (yes, the actual square in front of the station) with the Schmooking Creek before visiting my friend Liz who's at the moment staying in a hospital nearby because of a big operation.
-smuggling beers in said hospital and making a little party of our own in Liz's room to cheer us both up. (just so you know, we didn't let her drink)
-being so f*cked on the way back from the hospital in the middle of the night, that I actually found myself agreeing to go on a bagel date with a drunken Irish man I had just met at the bus stop.
-very rudely running away from the bagel shop for dear life after said bagel sobered me up.
-making a scene in a Pret-a-manger by having a nervous breakdown in my tomato and bacon soup until Andy, who, for the past two hours, had been listening to the what-a-bastard-French-Guy-is-but-I-still-looooooooooooooooooove-him song, eventually dragged me out of the place straight to Harrods where he actually bought me Dior make up. Awww...sweet retail therapy!
-since I couldn't cope with any kind of straightness, celebrating my 22nd in true fag hag tradition, by inviting all my gay friends to a (actually very nice) bar in Soho, pimping away -I think I made three matches- and eventually sticking my head down the toilet.
My liver is going to collapse very soon, but at least, the hangovers give me another reason to feel like shit in the morning, and, on the bright side, I haven't cried or banged my head against the wall in almost 48 hours, which is, believe me, a great improvement.
It's unforgivable. But what can I say, I mainly used to write here to help me overcome the whole dating drama and analyse my feelings (ok, and rant about my funny/or not-so-funny nights out). And what happened is that I fell so in love with French Guy and felt so fulfilled that the need to blog completely faded away. (I even dichted OG, if you can imagine what that meant...)
I had the best time of my life with him, until two weeks ago, when he said that he loved me, but didn't think I was the one and needed to get on with his life (cringe), then I had the worst time of my life.
You know when you keep pushing the time you're going to bed, because the prospect of having the hard reality downing on you as you leave unconsciousness the next morning is simply unbearable? That.
Fortunately, on Wednesday, the Usual Suspects managed to drag me out of my room and my dressing gown where I had been hiding away from civilisation for a whole week, and since I wouldn't eat, stuck cigarettes in my mouth (I gave up those with great trouble for French Guy about two months ago), forced trunkloads of liquid goods down my throat and led me to all sorts of shameless behaviours which somehow make me feel a bit more human. That's what you call friends!
Shameless behaviours including:
-insulting "Big" out loud during a Sex And The City late viewing (in my defence, Stella had dragged me to a wine bar where we made good use of the pinot noir before the cinema).
-getting drunker than the landord of my local pub by drinking faster than my housemates, which is probably unheard of in West London history.
-smoking weed in the middle of Sloane Square (yes, the actual square in front of the station) with the Schmooking Creek before visiting my friend Liz who's at the moment staying in a hospital nearby because of a big operation.
-smuggling beers in said hospital and making a little party of our own in Liz's room to cheer us both up. (just so you know, we didn't let her drink)
-being so f*cked on the way back from the hospital in the middle of the night, that I actually found myself agreeing to go on a bagel date with a drunken Irish man I had just met at the bus stop.
-very rudely running away from the bagel shop for dear life after said bagel sobered me up.
-making a scene in a Pret-a-manger by having a nervous breakdown in my tomato and bacon soup until Andy, who, for the past two hours, had been listening to the what-a-bastard-French-Guy-is-but-I-still-looooooooooooooooooove-him song, eventually dragged me out of the place straight to Harrods where he actually bought me Dior make up. Awww...sweet retail therapy!
-since I couldn't cope with any kind of straightness, celebrating my 22nd in true fag hag tradition, by inviting all my gay friends to a (actually very nice) bar in Soho, pimping away -I think I made three matches- and eventually sticking my head down the toilet.
My liver is going to collapse very soon, but at least, the hangovers give me another reason to feel like shit in the morning, and, on the bright side, I haven't cried or banged my head against the wall in almost 48 hours, which is, believe me, a great improvement.
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