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.