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...