Where our heroine has just been making a lasagne. For one.
Ok, children. I'm making a pact with myself.
I'm not drinking again for a long time. When I'm drunk, I'm honest. "You're dangerous, cos you're honest", says Bono. And there are some truths which don't need to be made public.
And, when I'm drunk, I end up yelling at people, because they have boyfriends and I don't (long story). And then I get paranoid, because I think everyone's mad at me. And, 9 times out of 10, I'll cry. I swear I've shed more tears in the last few months than I did all through high school. And, while alcohol may take the edge off at first, people are actually *more* infuriating while I'm under the influence, not less.
I feel horrible. I'm not a good friend. I am devoid of compassion. I want so desperately to be needed by others. And, yet, when they do need me, I treat them like shit. Why is that? Just when I swear I'm going to be patient, I'm going to be gentle, I'm going to turn over a new leaf and not fly off the handle, everything falls apart and I'm straight back where I started.
My eyes hurt.
I don't know. I've realised I can manage not having a boyfriend. Like Kate Nash says, "I can be alone...I can watch a sunset on my own". Having my own special Boy Thing would be fantastic. There's companionship. And laughter. And tenderness. And spontaneity. And cuddles. And more than cuddles. But, the Universe and God don't owe me any of that. Self-denial is the name of the game, friends. I have my friends, I have my family, and, if all else fails, there's always electronics.
But. BUT.
I want to be seen. If you see what I'm saying. And...well, men don't really see me. Not like that.
It's weird. I have a lot of female friends. If I want to blow my own penny whistle, I'd say it almost seems like I'm a girl magnet. My girl friends, and even strangers, have no qualms telling me how lovely and sexy and hot and adorable and how much like Lilly Allen I look. But, it seems like there's some kind of Shield Charm between myself and the men in this city. Bad Harry Potter reference, FTW.
Basically, I've not been asked out on a date in...well, I think the only person who has ever really "asked me out" was my first and only boyfriend, back when I was 15. I don't really catch men staring at me. The last guy to tell me I was beautiful was a feller from Featherston who was probably at least my Dad's age, who I met at the launch of a book I had a short story published in. He wrote me a few letters, actually.
It's not often that I'll go to a party and have guys queing up to escort me to the nearest bathroom for a quick fumble in the dark. I have had too many unreciprocated than I care to name. And, well...in almost 24 years, I've kissed 3 guys. One of whom was gay, the other two would probably tell you they were drunk, and it was all a big mistake. Beer goggles. Works every time. And, while my flattie's boyfriend (the one I used to fancy) can't stop going on about how awesome and funny and confident I am and how I'm a "never-ending hurricane of personality", I can't get past the fact he's dating her, not me. But hey. She's thin. She has curves in the right places. She has beautiful skin, beautiful hair and a beautiful smile. She is beautiful. Bah.
I walked home from the train station after Pip's party last night, in the rain. And I stopped and sat in a bus shelter, and cried for about half an hour. Because, well....yes, I know I'm sounding like a broken record here, but I do feel undesirable. I feel like a hologram, or a smoke-screen. All the guys I meet are, like Liz Phair says, X-Ray Men. "You're an X-ray man. You've got an X-rated mind. You're not satisfied looking at me. You're always checking out the girl behind.". I feel like I did at school- the girl with the chubby cheeks, and the greasy skin, and the bowl cut, and the gap in the front teeth, who hid in the library at lunchtime, dripping tears into her cheese sandwiches. Invisible.
Yeah, I know. Emo emo emo. Pull up your socks, Ezza. Wear some eyeliner. Get rid of those eye bags. Whiten your teeth. Drench yourself in perfume. Clean your nails. Got back on roaccutane. Cut out the cheese. Cut out the bread. Cut out the coffee and the chocolate. You too can be pretty. You too can have a boy. You too can turn heads. You too can be seen.
I dunno, guys. It could be the lack of confidence that's putting them off. But...I'm not sure. I manage to trick people I meet for the first time into believing I have scary amounts of confidence. I met one of anord's friends yesterday, and she was genuinely shocked I was a virgin. Simply because I have, quote, "so much energy and charisma and confidence". Even my flatmate's boyfriend thinks so.
Is it that I'm too much, guys? Too much energy? Too much sass and spunk? Too theatrical? Too zaney? Too big and gestural and Jackson Pollock-like? Too loud a laugh? Too colourful? Too creative? Too professional and successful? Probably.
Am I beautiful?
Ok. I'm stopping this now. This is so stupid. So, so, so stupid. But, well...I'm sick of it. I'm sick to the back teeth of just being the friend. Just being fun to be around. Just being a nice person, a sweet girl, a good laugh. Just being, as I said last time, a cool chick. This time, I want to be the girlfriend. And, well...yeah. Yeah.
Again, I'm sorry. I'm blogging about music next time. In the meantime, I'm going to go home, make some toasties for dinner, christen our new vacuum cleaner, swipe my flatmate's copy of David Bowie's 1960s recordings, and tuck myself up in bed with Suite Francaise. I will not cry again. I will not cut. I will not text Michael or Jay. I will not make a fake ransom note and stick in on my flatmate's door, just for the lulz. I have good coping resources, and I will use them.
In better news- Josh the student songwriter finally wrote me back on NZDating.
I've finished Ilyssa's blanket. And, I has a laptop. And, we get Friday off this week. It's not all bad.
I might go and stay at my Dad's for a few days. I miss him.
I'm not drinking again for a long time. When I'm drunk, I'm honest. "You're dangerous, cos you're honest", says Bono. And there are some truths which don't need to be made public.
And, when I'm drunk, I end up yelling at people, because they have boyfriends and I don't (long story). And then I get paranoid, because I think everyone's mad at me. And, 9 times out of 10, I'll cry. I swear I've shed more tears in the last few months than I did all through high school. And, while alcohol may take the edge off at first, people are actually *more* infuriating while I'm under the influence, not less.
I feel horrible. I'm not a good friend. I am devoid of compassion. I want so desperately to be needed by others. And, yet, when they do need me, I treat them like shit. Why is that? Just when I swear I'm going to be patient, I'm going to be gentle, I'm going to turn over a new leaf and not fly off the handle, everything falls apart and I'm straight back where I started.
My eyes hurt.
I don't know. I've realised I can manage not having a boyfriend. Like Kate Nash says, "I can be alone...I can watch a sunset on my own". Having my own special Boy Thing would be fantastic. There's companionship. And laughter. And tenderness. And spontaneity. And cuddles. And more than cuddles. But, the Universe and God don't owe me any of that. Self-denial is the name of the game, friends. I have my friends, I have my family, and, if all else fails, there's always electronics.
But. BUT.
I want to be seen. If you see what I'm saying. And...well, men don't really see me. Not like that.
It's weird. I have a lot of female friends. If I want to blow my own penny whistle, I'd say it almost seems like I'm a girl magnet. My girl friends, and even strangers, have no qualms telling me how lovely and sexy and hot and adorable and how much like Lilly Allen I look. But, it seems like there's some kind of Shield Charm between myself and the men in this city. Bad Harry Potter reference, FTW.
Basically, I've not been asked out on a date in...well, I think the only person who has ever really "asked me out" was my first and only boyfriend, back when I was 15. I don't really catch men staring at me. The last guy to tell me I was beautiful was a feller from Featherston who was probably at least my Dad's age, who I met at the launch of a book I had a short story published in. He wrote me a few letters, actually.
It's not often that I'll go to a party and have guys queing up to escort me to the nearest bathroom for a quick fumble in the dark. I have had too many unreciprocated than I care to name. And, well...in almost 24 years, I've kissed 3 guys. One of whom was gay, the other two would probably tell you they were drunk, and it was all a big mistake. Beer goggles. Works every time. And, while my flattie's boyfriend (the one I used to fancy) can't stop going on about how awesome and funny and confident I am and how I'm a "never-ending hurricane of personality", I can't get past the fact he's dating her, not me. But hey. She's thin. She has curves in the right places. She has beautiful skin, beautiful hair and a beautiful smile. She is beautiful. Bah.
I walked home from the train station after Pip's party last night, in the rain. And I stopped and sat in a bus shelter, and cried for about half an hour. Because, well....yes, I know I'm sounding like a broken record here, but I do feel undesirable. I feel like a hologram, or a smoke-screen. All the guys I meet are, like Liz Phair says, X-Ray Men. "You're an X-ray man. You've got an X-rated mind. You're not satisfied looking at me. You're always checking out the girl behind.". I feel like I did at school- the girl with the chubby cheeks, and the greasy skin, and the bowl cut, and the gap in the front teeth, who hid in the library at lunchtime, dripping tears into her cheese sandwiches. Invisible.
Yeah, I know. Emo emo emo. Pull up your socks, Ezza. Wear some eyeliner. Get rid of those eye bags. Whiten your teeth. Drench yourself in perfume. Clean your nails. Got back on roaccutane. Cut out the cheese. Cut out the bread. Cut out the coffee and the chocolate. You too can be pretty. You too can have a boy. You too can turn heads. You too can be seen.
I dunno, guys. It could be the lack of confidence that's putting them off. But...I'm not sure. I manage to trick people I meet for the first time into believing I have scary amounts of confidence. I met one of anord's friends yesterday, and she was genuinely shocked I was a virgin. Simply because I have, quote, "so much energy and charisma and confidence". Even my flatmate's boyfriend thinks so.
Is it that I'm too much, guys? Too much energy? Too much sass and spunk? Too theatrical? Too zaney? Too big and gestural and Jackson Pollock-like? Too loud a laugh? Too colourful? Too creative? Too professional and successful? Probably.
Am I beautiful?
Ok. I'm stopping this now. This is so stupid. So, so, so stupid. But, well...I'm sick of it. I'm sick to the back teeth of just being the friend. Just being fun to be around. Just being a nice person, a sweet girl, a good laugh. Just being, as I said last time, a cool chick. This time, I want to be the girlfriend. And, well...yeah. Yeah.
Again, I'm sorry. I'm blogging about music next time. In the meantime, I'm going to go home, make some toasties for dinner, christen our new vacuum cleaner, swipe my flatmate's copy of David Bowie's 1960s recordings, and tuck myself up in bed with Suite Francaise. I will not cry again. I will not cut. I will not text Michael or Jay. I will not make a fake ransom note and stick in on my flatmate's door, just for the lulz. I have good coping resources, and I will use them.
In better news- Josh the student songwriter finally wrote me back on NZDating.
I've finished Ilyssa's blanket. And, I has a laptop. And, we get Friday off this week. It's not all bad.
I might go and stay at my Dad's for a few days. I miss him.