Sticky

"I think I know how to operate a stamp", said J, peeling one off its self-adhesive back and licking it before sticking it onto a postcard.
We're hoping that he will win this LEGO competition and that, when they hand over his prize (a StarTrek space ship) they won't comment on the obvious age discrepancy; below his name and address he added : age : 8.

Young people are just silly


I remember once, I must have been 15, wishing that I would hurt.
I remember wishing that I would, too, be heartbroken, cry over some unrequited love, and torture myself with old letters.
I wondered what it felt like.
I thought it would teach me something.

Well, it's teaching me fuck all. That's it.

Limbo

Still no trace of the Fairy Godmother.
Maybe she stopped in Turin first. I hope so.

Just as well I still have alcohol, drugs and masturbation.

And shopping.

Dear Fairy Godmother,

I know you’ve been very busy recently hovering benignantly over other fellow sufferers, but I was wondering if I could book an appointment with you some time soon. I believe that a check up is in order.
I’d like to be all dramatic and say that I’m a mess; it makes readers picture a dishevelled, haggard, underfed creature with bad skin; the truth is, I’m not quite crumbled up yet, and I still have a tan. But I do have a few wishes:
First of all, I would very much need a prescription for Self-Esteem Restorer in 40mg tablets; it’s been heavily crumpled, you see. A month’s supply should do the trick, after that I’ll take care of it myself. A no side-effect formula, please. We don’t want me to go all crazy with it. It’s a fine line as it is.

Then I would like a supply of Generosity Gelcaps. They might help with the emerging anger; they might help alleviate the urge to count points, settle scores that, maybe, don’t need to be settled. Ever.

Finally, I’d be grateful for a large jar of 50mg Hubris pills, to last me for a few months at least. You see, at some point I need to go out there, don’t I, and start all over again.

You might, O mighty Fairy Godmother, want to sit me down and give me a stern lecture on falling in love with people six thousand miles away.

Oh, and, if I may, I would be so grateful if after sorting me out, you would accept to go and look after a dear friend of mine over there in Turin. I believe her need to be just as great as mine.

I apologise if I am sounding awfully demanding; it’s just that all this grown-up business of always to have to sort out everything by myself feels rather overwhelming right now. I thought of asking Dame Edna, but she is still in California ministering over other unfortunates.
I look forward to your appearing in a purple glittery haze. Any time of day or night is fine by me.

Yours faithfully,
Your ever-grateful goddaughter.

Insomnia

The good things about being awake every morning between three and four is that, on week days, I won't be late for work.
I can sit on the step outside and watch the sun rise.

I have dreams about her, of course.

We're walking down a hill, in a neighbourhood I don't know. She is holding a magazine, ticking boxes in a quiz about 'your ideal partner'. It seems very engrossing; I tag along. She shows me the results with a glance of contempt and starts running to catch a bus; I have the choice to run too and catch up or be left behind, catch the next bus, find my own way home. I run too, while rummaging in my jeans pocket for the necessary one dollar twenty five cents. The end.


I wonder if explosive diarrhea is an improvement on uncontrollable fits of crying.

Rien n’y fait

I’ve been trying to appeal to my basest instincts.

First, I’ve counted, added, multiplied: the amount I’ve shelled out on plane tickets over the past 18 months. Scary, and yet I don’t care; and I would do it again in a heartbeat.

Then, I have tried to compile lists:

She doesn’t like French pop. I mean, come on!
She says ‘I have needs’.
She laughs at her own jokes.
She takes ages in the shower.
She has a propensity to be condescending.
With trainers and short trousers, she won’t roll down her socks and it looks geeky.
She likes small dogs. The yappy Lapsang Souchong kind. She’d like four of them, and put bows in their hair. I wouldn’t even have them on a skewer.

This is just not working very well.

The Many, dissenting, Voices of Me

A- Never again, the out of range relationship thing. Let’s keep things in the same city, at least.
B- Yeah, that’s what you said last time. Then you met her.
C- All the cash I’ll be saving now! No more return tickets to the West Coast five times a year..
B- I’ll miss flying out to be with her. I remember every minute of every time after landing; the expectation, the beating heart, the sweaty palms…
C- You mean, her sweaty palms.
B- I hope she's ok. I really do.
E- she d-u-m-p-e-d your ass, try to feel at least a bit mad!
D- I am free. I am free!
B- It’s so incredibly sad being me right now.
C- I hope she’s crying at least as much as I have been.
B- I hope she’s doing ok. I hope she’s got company. I hope she bought some more tissues.
B- I’ll call a friend, I’ll feel better.
E- Don’t even think about boring your friends with such crap.
B- This is the most horrible thing that’s ever happened to me.
E- Most horrible, you’re kidding. Do you want dates? Examples? Comparisons?
G- Let’s log onto gaydar right now and entertain ourselves. It’ll pass time..
A- They’re all trolls.
C- Come on, am I so esoteric as to believe that she was The One For Me?
E- Get a grip.
B- There can’t be anyone else. Ever.
E- Oh shut up.
B- We were doing so well!
E- Transatlantic romance cannot work.. you knew that years ago, stupid.


Etc, etc.

Dear colleagues, Welcome back

The first thing I used to do in the morning when I'd get to work was to cross out the day in my diary - one less day before I'd take off to see my lover.

The first thing I did this morning when I got to work was to adjust my watch according to the clock in the meeting room.

One has to be accurate.

And I sat, and made the necessary gestures.
I nodded through the agenda, made perfunctory notes, asked questions. I got organised, I was efficient.

I also listened to woeful tales of bereaved families - holiday car crashes, terminal illnesses; I thought : how dare I feel sorry for myself?

But this is the way we are.

Jetlag is so overrated

Here I am, trying to convince myself that going to work after two hours' sleep might be fun.
I've run out of tricks to fall asleep. I've tossed and turned enough, I give up, time for a full breakfast,complete with coffee strong enough to raise the dead.
If I hadn't sat on my sunglasses and broken them, I would have worn them throughout today's meetings.

I'm off to sit in the garden and watch the sun rise, and ponder over where I'm going from here.

Back in London after a whole month of relative idleness.
So what did I do with all that time?
Well...
I saw Dame Edna at the Curran Theatre.
I burnt my bum on Baker Beach.
I ate a lot.
I read more than I ate.
I had fights with my lover.
She thought they were my fault, I thought they were hers. It's usually the way it goes.
I watched the fog roll in.
I discovered cable tv.
I tried to not count the days.

And now I'm back home.

It's that dreaded time of the year : when the cycle starts all over again. Normal adult people have it in January; mine comes with September. Back for another ride. This time it might be even worse, being newly dumped.
There are many new books to be read, work to be done, that'll keep me thinking about something else.