Machinations of a middle-minded muppet.

A London girl trying to figure out how to get what she wants in life, and have some fun getting it.

Still got it.

Just got this email:

Last night Mark and I were talking about my break up and stress and stuff, and Mark was like “Why don’t you just sleep with that crazy barmaid to get her off Paul’s back?” to which the obvious response was that I was not in the mood for crazy Portuguese right now. So Mark said (this is word for word):

“Well you’ve got to sleep with someone. I know – who’s that really pretty friend of Paul’s who’s been here a couple of times?”

“Er, Nicole?”

“No no, dark hair”

“Rachel?”

“no no, the one who’s like really acerbic and witty.”

“Wait, you mean [ME!]?”

“Her! Yeah, that’s it. You should definitely go for her.”

I’M WITTY AND ACERBIC MOTHERFUCKERS!

Me, mise, agus Me!

(That’s Gaelic by the way)

Having managed to avoid most songs that make me think of the boy for the past three weeks, I was doubly punished this morning on my way into work when the song he wrote about me in October came on full blast on my iphone.

"Ah fuck," I thought. "Not now, I only just made it past his birthday without cracking up & calling him". But, being a glutton for punishment, and having a perverse curiosity of how far I can push myself before I break, I turned it up and listened to the whole thing.

My God, I don’t know how I didn’t see it before- he is obsessed with himself. When I first heard the song he’d written about me last year I nearly cried. It was one of his last-ditch attempts to win me back and, fittingly, the lyrics seemed to express a regret for him not treating me better. But, listening to them again I can see that I was totally fucking wrong. That song wasn’t about me, it was about him. Because everything is always about him.

What I took for feeling a sense of loss was actually just his self-pity. What I thought was remorse was just his (perpetual) feeling of being hard-done-by getting yet another musical airing. After one particularly myopic line the words left my mouth before I’d even thought them: “Fuck You.”

Fuck you, sweetheart, you weren’t the poor lamb to the slaughter here. You had the control, always. You pissed it away, you ruined it with your fear and selfishness. Me, myself and I. It describes you perfectly.

There was never any room for anyone else.

Things I Wanted To Say To Men I Dated But Never Did

madwomenandmuses:

image

I am not your Blanche DuBois.

I am not the crazy ex-girlfriend you laugh about after too many beers, whose thighs and wet lips you reminisce over, remember your hands over. But whose passion you continue to confuse with simple mania or obsession.

I liked the way you always existed in a…

A piece of (wedding) cake.

Today has been a real hard day for me. It’s been 7 days since the man I met 5 years ago finally reduced my heart to pulp- again. The details aren’t any more relevant than they predictable so I’ll not go into them. I was doing really well, though, I was SUPER proud of myself for holding it all together (drama queen that I am) all this week at work. Having a charity art bake sale and organizing a pub quiz for Friday kept me on point and my mad ranting was focused that on that.

Then, there was today. One of my old uni friends is getting married and I came down to try on my maid of honour dress and talk wedding. For me the hardest part of the weekend was going to be biting my tongue when her fiancée childishly put her down or argued with her (a whole other post) but, boy, was I wrong.

It started out quietly enough; asking if I was seeing anyone, having not been made aware of my short-lived reunion, and something niggled at me when I told her I wasn’t. Then came the tiny little details of the wedding- hog roast (his wedding snack of choice) old-style champagne glasses (my glasswear of choice) and the niggle became a scratch, which soon turned into a full-on smack in the face when she told me the wedding plan; which was a carbon copy of the one I had meticulously described as the wedding I would like to have with the boy. That’s when it really started to hurt. Big time. I went to bed watching Bridget Jones, which I would never recommend when you’re feeling like the washed-up spinster that is the protagonist, especially when you know you aren’t getting the happy ending.

It was horrible, I plastered a smile on my face as I tried on bridesmaid dresses and gushed over her own bridal gown whilst my insides gnawed at me. It was a great feeling of loss that I felt, of missed happy memories and the finality of never having all that I’d worked towards. Still, though, I haven’t let it consume me and have pushed it far, far back in my mind to be fully felt when I have some god-damn time for it! Instead, I called Clara and like the awesome best friend that she is she offered me her bed and Gin. Luckily, this train stops at Clapham Junction & I’m jumping the fuck off for hugs and true friendship.

Another broken heart, and I just want to be home, with him.

A blast from the past

Last night I went to meet up with an old friend, when I say old friend I mean someone I hadn’t seen since pre-puberty. That’s 14 years. He dropped me a line on Facebook a few months ago and suggested we meet up. I must admit I was a little unsure. I thought I’d start reconnecting with childhood friends when I’d hit 35, was bored of my husband and hated my own kids. But I’m really glad I said yes. It’s a funny thing walking into a room to see someone who, since you last saw them, has grown two feet, come out the other side of puberty and has already started showing little wrinkles around the side of their (startlingly recognisable) eyes. I wasn’t sure how well we’d get on, how awkward the evening would be and whether we’d sit there drinking copiously to make up for the fact that we had absolutely nothing to say to each other. I needn’t have worried.

The best thing about seeing an old friend is the memories. The ones you’d forgotten, the little things that were so important to you as children and seemed to be the world. Most made me blush, as the memory of my naiveté came to the fore. He was my first (puppy) love. We were very young back then; but talking about the school we spent the majority of our days, playground we played kiss-chase in, corridors we’d run thorough and our favourite and worst teachers it felt (cliché alert!) like yesterday. His memory was incredible! Dates, people, incidents in our little dramatic 12 year old worlds. He reminded me of the first time he stole a kiss in the playground, running up to me and darting away screaming ‘football!!!!’  to try and balance out the boyishness with the obvious crush. We talked about treasure hunts in the Ilford exchange, birthday parties where I twirled around in my white embroidered dress, desperate to emulate Baby Spice and womanhood, hide and seek in our mutual best friends brother’s bedroom, where- despite my protestations- he convinced me to hold his hand and give him another peck. Then there were the memories of the cheeky bugger two-timing me and my best friend, Ella, (for about two days I think it was) and us both finding out at the same time and giving him a good hard smack in the face in the middle of the west staircase and turning it red. Mine turned too remembering it, what a naughty little girl I was.

When ‘horse-face’ turned up at the school our perfectly balanced ecosystem was thrown out of whack by her also fancying him and him being excited by the newness of her and going out with her for three weeks! When all three of us would walk to school in the last years of primary, feeling incredibly grown up and buying a few blackjacks (for him) and fruit salads (for me) for first lesson. Our first proper kiss, on Ella’s green bedspread, sunlight filtering in and it being rushed and sweet as she’d popped to the loo and we had to not let her catch us. Of course our red faces when she rushed back into the room said it all. Us getting ‘married’ in the east playground, under a dark brick arch, Haribo sweets on our fingers and Ella as a witness. We had to do it twice I recall, due to the horse-face debacle. We were friends for six years, and, from the day I went to another secondary school to all the others and had to move at the same time- I never spoke to him again. That makes me sad. He and Ella went to secondary school but things turned sour with burgeoning puberty and school politics. I’ve encouraged him to get in contact with her, as they were probably even closer than we were and to have us all on good terms would be lovely.

The ease with which we caught up on our lives and reminisced on our old lives was comforting, and I really enjoyed reconnecting with someone who I feel I already know so much about (obviously, I don’t) and we’ve agreed to stay in touch and try and build a friendship again. It might work, it might not- but either way I’m very happy I didn’t shy away from meeting up with someone who knew me when I still wore pigtails.

Anonymous asked: What happened to all the filth? I'm disappointed in the lack of filth.

I’m sorry about the whole lack of filth recently; what with it being the time of the baby Jesus I thought I’d take some time off from my imaginary (and yours) sex life.

Tell me the lies I want to hear

Trickle sweet nothings into my ear

Blindfold my eyes, talk of the skies

And stars that twinkle so near