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.
Thursday, 31 July 2008
Tuesday, 29 July 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, 23 July 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, 22 July 2008
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...
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.
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.
Friday, 11 July 2008
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?
-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?
Monday, 7 July 2008
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'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!
Saturday, 5 July 2008
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.
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.
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